The Man died, needless to say. It took me years to discover why He had allowed it, just as it took me years to realize the purpose of my encounter with that Man: He taught me far more than I had ever thought possible. The Man, I suppose, knew much more than He could ever be bothered to say. Sometimes, I think He knew all. Sometimes, I think He was God, just as on the day when I met Him. I realize now that I might have known this sooner, if only I had truly listened. I find this to be a flaw in common of all humans: we fail to hear others in their greatest times of need, and yet we do not cease to believe that our own voices are heard. If we could only be more like this Man - the Unnamed Martyr is what I shall call Him - a saint in all rights, one who listened yet was not heard, one who gave my life back to me, and yet could not be bothered to save His own.
I never knew His name, though somehow He knew mine all too well. But now I am realizing: His name was but of no importance. It was the life that He had led. It had been nowhere near glorious, yet it had been lived far past its supposed potential; and it had been short, but then again, no man who ever deserved it was allotted quite enough time.
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The Unnamed Martyr
General FictionWhat do you call a saint without a name? The Unnamed Martyr. Born and abandoned by a homeless, dejected teenage girl on the streets of Manhattan, he had no knowledge of his family of where he came from. Years later, a seemingly unimportant encounter...
