There is a pleasing sterility to the room in which the Penitent now stands. It is a space of white sheets and straight lines—the air marbled with the smells of antiseptic and fresh paint. Were it not for the milky foulness of his own suppurating skin, he would be pleased to stand here and take deep, cleansing breaths. Such pleasure is denied him. He is never free of his own odor. It has grown stronger these past days. He reminds himself of out-of-date food. He is cloaked in an intrusive, cloying stench that serves, as God wills it, to remind him of his own advancing mortality.
The smell has grown worse since his talisman was taken. For a long time, the Penitent believed his sin was in keeping the idol—a pagan, superstitious act that cheapened him in the eyes of his God. Now he believes that the true sin was in allowing it to be taken. He was right to venerate the token. It was a thing of purity, a relic to be cherished. And he gave it away as if it were a trinket.
The Penitent allows himself a moment’s contemplation. He would like to open the curtains and consider the city beyond the window, but to do so would be to risk seeing his own reflection and such vanity is not permitted. Instead, he puts his plump, pink hands upon the crisp white sheets and adjusts his posture so that, for a blessed moment, his shirt no longer sticks to the bloodied ruin of his back. He makes the sign of the cross as he does so, thanking the Lord for allowing him this one small act of mercy.
He prays, his lips moving soundlessly, words tumbling over one another in his head.
“Behold me at thy feet, O Jesus of Nazareth, behold the most wretched of creatures, who comes into thy presence humbled and penitent! Have mercy on me, O Lord, according to thy great mercy! I have sinned and my sins are always before thee. Yet my soul belongs to thee, for thou hast created it, and redeemed it with thy precious blood.”
It is a favorite prayer, taught to him parrot-fashion by his mother. It was she who showed him the loving God with whom he has been enraptured for so many years. His father’s God was a stern, unpleasable patriarch, unquenchable in his thirst for praise and unyielding in his commandments. His father’s God was created in his father’s likeness. The Penitent’s father was a brutal, joyless stoic who did not even seem to take any pleasure in the beatings he rained upon his son. He beat the Penitent so he would become a better man. Only through his mother’s God did he find love. Only through his mother’s God did he find a deity to adore instead of fear.
The Penitent straightens and feels the cloth of his shirt touch the open wounds upon his skin. The hiss of pain causes him to cough, and the cough becomes a wet and ghastly succession of retches and gasps. Blood sprays upon his chin. He knows his insides are bleeding. But he has so much to atone for and he does not know if it is God’s will that he should be healed by the medicine of man, or to place his fate in his savior’s almighty hands.
The Penitent is aware of the lightness at his sternum, the absence of a familiar weight. For many years, a small leather pouch hung there, made of the same dark substance as the surface of his Bible. Inside the pouch was his talisman. He took it from the faceless child, the miracle infant. And he kept it on his person throughout his own transformation from sinner to redeemer. He feels the absence of the talisman the way others would experience the loss of a loved one. Everything has begun to unravel since it was taken away. He believed the act to be a kind one, a noble and decent thing. But he was deceived. The Penitent allowed himself to stray from the path. He betrayed the guidance of his intercessor. He made a terrible, terrible mistake. He acted more as man than angel and invited a demon into his home. And there is not enough holy water or blessed earth to undo his foolishness.
The Penitent knows himself to be a sinner. He also knows himself to be absolved. He will not burn for his indiscretions. And yet his sins weigh upon him like a cross. The Penitent has two lives that should never have bled together. He is skilled in presenting the correct face to the correct witness.
Here, now, he feels as though the two sides of his nature are mixing, like different-colored candle wax squashed together in a fleshy hand. His mistake has undone a miracle. His humanity is a fissure in the earth into which good men have tumbled.
Limping slightly, taking his weight upon his better leg, the Penitent leaves the pristine sanctuary of the white-painted room.
He walks gently down the corridor and returns to the bedside.
He leans over Brishen Ayres, and waits for the miracle to awake.
The Penitent wants to see how the man’s eyes look when he pulls himself out of hell.