Years 11 to 13 Highly Commended

‘Martirio’

By Zachary Vassallo

Flat mattress patterns are etched onto my skin, swollen stamps indicative of time spent. I find comfort in the regularity of the ticking clock, a metronome-esque machine matched to my heartbeat; it's reliable when things aren't. My know-how of each rigid 'tick' doesn't fade-rather, I await each and every one with glee. Surprises aren't fun anymore. One too many led me to calling this temple my cocoon, my budding area with human grease perspiring and painting Martirio's room into a fetid stench.

My arms are paralyzed with the memory of holding him-his outside was adorably brittle. I still remember such tears when he came out. He didn't know where to look and would rather scream and stare at his mummy. When she looked back, he didn't and decided to stare at the nurse. But the nurse didn't want to see him; he was doing his job, and I wanted to see him. I wanted to see Martirio.

Every night in my sanctuary, the door is knocked on by someone. It can't be Martirio's mother because she's still in his birthplace. I don't know who is knocking, but they're rather bothersome. They don't commit to a full-strengthened knock that may rouse me. Instead, they offer puny taps to the door, as if their hands weren't mechanically operative enough to open it. Some insolent creature they must be, disturbing my time in Martirio's playpen. Disturbing my time organizing his schedule. He has to go to school tomorrow.

His mother is still at his birthplace, so she can't take him. I must take him, but it truly does challenge me-Martirio is heavy, and I can't hold him the entire walk there.
Martirio's items were heavy too. His buggy, his baby food, his dummy, his thoughts. Did Martirio have any of those? I don't really know. He never looked at me. He looked away. Those crystalline eyes-typical fresh, waterfall azure-twisting to ogle behind himself, urging to crawl back in. Why did you go back, Martirio? The bed is very comfortable, there's a space right here, right in-between DADDY'S arms.

There's still milk coming out but no one to give it to.
Martirio was taken away. DEMONS IN DRESSES, BRANDISHING CULTISH MASKS, took him away. BOAR-HEADED, INCOMPETENT, SAVAGES. Do I want a burial? Or does he go in the yellow bin bag? Organ donation! The butchers have asked me a multitude of times, but he's not dead. The balding man is a liar. He lied to my mother and told her that I need more joy-capsules (I don't think he knows). He lied to Martirio's father, pushed him over the edge-the distanced man, keep him away from my son.
Bless, I do miss him.

They have Martirio LOCKED, BEHIND THEIR RANCID BARS. MY SWEETNESS, ripped away from me. My flesh and blood. Mine. My baby.

Someone-an ignorant cleaner from yesterday-didn't obey my command. She pranced and danced in my spotless paper castle. Pricks in my pipes, pumping juice to extremities of which I don't know. Albeit, an attempt to pause her was made. She didn't concede to my grasp and fell upon her neck, shattered her windpipe.

What a shriek! I hope it was enough to alarm Martirio.

Gosh. His little toes were poking out of the door last night. BLISS, TRUTH IN THEIR SIGHT, BUT THEY DON'T KNOW ANY BETTER. He knows where to step and how to knock. He's so mature, he's mine and takes that from me. I did such a good job as a mother.

Martirio's father didn't do his part. Some punch to the bag when Martirio was still picking his genes. Some crimson splatter and he fell, rather flat.

Mama and Papa of Martirio. They owed dirty green paper. Not to the suited men, the ones who sold to the suited men.

Sold what?

Little day-time patches, a patch per day kept the neurosis away-or apparently so. Some said the problems stayed, festering in an ever-increasing sack of gore.

When Mama and Papa of Martirio were thirsty, they drank. They became creative and decided to make Martirio when thirsty. Third time's a charm! The first two saw a wardrobe, or so they say, apparently. Quenching their thirst only strengthened this ever-growing sack of gore.

The bag of bits and flesh-Mama and Papa's creative project-began to form, conception of the gestation period. Or so they said. No officials, no masked men or robed figures, ever approached the bag.

Under some cardboard cutout of a home, the parents of Martirio caught each other's nerves. Quarrels and combat, striking to the lobes, to the legs, scratches and bites, scars and anguish built the welcoming atmosphere for Martirio. One strike-and Martirio never came to be.

An illusive formation, his first breaths only a concept in the minds of a shattered few.

Judge’s Comments:

‘Martirio’ revolves around an unreliable narrator to tell the harrowing story of a lost baby. The narrator seems to be suffering from an acute episode of mental ill-health; her recounting of events is warped and yet has some moments of painful clarity in lines such as the repetitive ‘I wanted to see him. I wanted to see Martirio.’ The story raises questions - who is the mother that the narrator refers to? Where is the baby’s father? Where does the narrator find themselves now? What actually happened to this baby? The questions strengthen the narrative and add an edge of mystery and suspense to the story.