This is a gray place, a sketch in pencil smudged with a licked thumb.
It is a cavern of flickering darkness and weak firelight made into an ethereal, shapeless space by the wraiths of smoke that drift up from the candles, which have burned down to the base.
It is a place that smells of man and earth, of pig and plant, as though hot animal fat has been poured onto fresh-cut lilies.
There is a figure at the center of this smear of smoke and dust. Naked and corpulent, a scarred mess of jellied flesh. He calls himself the Penitent, and were he presented with an image of how he appears at this time and in this place, he would not recognize the figure who stands in front of the perfect white altar cloth and holds the short bone-handled knife in his right hand.
The Penitent stands upon the sacred ground and allows himself the faintest moment of idle human thought. He considers his feet, and enjoys them.
The Penitent wonders whether his face is as pale and fleshy as his toes. They are the part of himself he considers most often. His hands, though clean and unlined, have always felt like sinful things so he has never truly examined them for fear he will see his suspicions confirmed and be forced into an act of atonement. His toes, however, are sinless things. He has never utilized them as implements of his own debasement or pleasure. They are tools. They are beneficial to his work. They are entirely without sin.
Here, now, he finds himself questioning the goodness of his feet for the first time. In studying them, he is allowing himself to open the door to vanity. The Penitent does not know what he looks like. He does not allow himself the luxury of a reflection. He is aware of his appearance only in the way others respond to it. He is not repulsive enough to warrant a second glance, but he has never been looked at in a way that suggests he is attractive. The parts of himself that he can see are pinkish and plump, as though he is made up of uncooked meatloaf. There is a curious mottling around his hips. The blemishes are the only ones on his skin that were not put there by a human hand, though he does not truly believe them to be God’s work. He presumes they are a sign of advancing age. He has never seen the naked form of a man of his own years, so would not be able to say with any certainty whether he looks as he should.
There are moments, sinful moments, when he would like to consider himself in the clear liquid loveliness of a full-length mirror. He would like to strip himself of all clothing and ornament and consider himself in his entirety. He feels like a painter who has spent years completing a masterpiece, only to have his eyes put out before being able to see it completed. To blind the artist would be no sin. The Penitent would have no regrets in sliding needles into Michelangelo’s eyes before ever allowing him to marvel at his own creations. The works should be for the glory of God and not for human vanity. He sees his own work in the same way. He has transformed his appearance into something that rejoices in celebration of the Creator. To step back and look upon it would be to give in to pride, and he knows this sin to be almost irredeemable.
Naked, he stands upon the earth and feels cold brown soil tickle the bare soles of his feet. In the light of the candles he sees his own shadow cast upon the far wall. It is a bulbous, misshapen thing. He turns away from the shadow before it can look back at him. Watches the flame dance on the mosaic of brass leaves. They form the shape of a tree. Each leaf carries a name. Each name represents a life taken and a soul transformed. They flow outward from a carving of a rose; a simple engraving of a perfect bloom, folding in upon itself; white lines against gold.
He has begun cutting himself before he realizes it. Only the warm trickle of blood running over his penis to puddle upon his perfect fleshy toes alerts him to the damage he is doing to his skin.
The man leans down and takes a pinch of ash from the urn that stands upon the altar cloth laid out on the mound of earth. He opens the inch-long wound he has carved into his breastbone and places the ash inside as if he were seasoning meat. The pain is a sharp, precise thing, and he allows himself a hiss of ecstatic agony. He reaches out and takes the fat church candle from the altar cloth and drips hot wax onto the lesion. When healed, the nugget of scar tissue will blend seamlessly with the concentric circles of similarly blackened skin that spin outward from the center of his sternum to cover much of his torso and his upper arms. He would like to continue the work on his back, but he knows that the skin there is already too abraded to serve as a canvas for such an offering.
Unsteadily, the Penitent reaches forward and takes the clay chalice in his right hand. He pours its contents upon his skin, washing away the blood and dirt and allowing the blessed water to trickle down over his skin to pool with the sacred earth beneath his toes.
Only when he has finished his ritual does he pick up the leather-bound book that sits upon the altar cloth. He opens its pages at random and begins to read aloud.
“. . . I know what I do is wrong. You are more innocent than I am. You have committed fewer sins and broken no covenants. But my soul will burn forevermore if I do not empty myself of sin, and through these acts I am washed clean. You will find glory for your part in this atonement. You will be praised for your sacrifice and exalted among the angels for helping this sinner through the gates of heaven . . .”
The Penitent closes the book and caresses the soft leather as if it were flesh.
It has not always been thus. The Penitent was once a sinner. He desired flesh other than his own. Such desires cost him his dreams but brought him the peace and absolution he dared not think he deserved. Through his crimes, he met the priest. And the priest became his friend. He guided him. Gave him a chance to become a good man. Absolved him of all sin, past and future, and allowed him to pass on such blessings to others.
Only when the thudding dizziness ceases does he sink to his knees, and from there he slithers forward until his naked body is touching the carpet of dirt and ash, water and blood.
He presses his face into the ground.
He only stops digging when his lips touch the familiar cold kiss of fragmented bone.