The sun was just beginning to rise as Bishop Esposito traversed the narrow side street and headed back towards his parish. It was a strange thing but, for the life of him, he had no idea where he had just been or how he had got here, but he felt no panic despite the fact that his recent memory seemed patchy at best. His mind felt numb as if it were wrapped in cotton wool, and this same sensation was now spreading into his chest and throughout his entire body. The feeling was surreal, like being in a dream even though he knew that he was still awake.
Off to his left, a local tradesman was in the process of rolling up the metal security shutters of his small coffee shop, and Esposito raised his arm and politely waved to him but the gesture was met with a grimace and the shutters fell back to the floor.
How rude, the bishop thought, and then he noticed his hand was filthy black and the tips of his fingers covered in small, bloody cuts.
Had he been involved in an accident? Is this why he couldn’t remember anything?
Despite the damage to his hands, he continued on along the picturesque winding streets of a village whose name he should have known but which now escaped him. He was definitely in Italy, somewhere near Rome, that much he was certain of… Or was he? For some reason it didn’t seem to be that important.
Esposito continued until he reached the small town square and then, as if on autopilot, he crossed over to the other side and came to a stop outside a small stone church. The modest building was splendid in its rustic beauty and, since it was so early and the streets were deserted, he found himself revelling in the sounds of birds cooing in the distance.
So peaceful, Esposito thought, turning his attention back to the church entrance. He was glad to have now reached his destination, although why it was his destination he couldn’t really say. Because he was a bishop? Or was he really a bishop?
These questions seemed insignificant and they melted away with a soothing numbness as he pushed open the small wooden door and then headed inside with a real sense of peace and tranquillity in his heart. What a wonderful day to be alive.
The church was dark but not gloomy and the sun’s first offering of light shone through the stained-glass windows above the altar, casting a wondrous multitude of colours onto the red stone tiling of the knave. The colours had a particular glow to them this morning, an almost golden tint to their edges, and Esposito stood in awe, enjoying them – until, at the other end of the building, he spotted a young man kneeling in prayer. The familiar black and white vestments of a priest were unmistakable; the cleric was surely offering his morning thanks. Esposito raised his arm and called out to him, but no words came out. He tried once more but still nothing… Strange.
Unconcerned as yet, Esposito glided down the aisle with the unique sensation of walking on air, enjoying this so much that he stopped, turned around and did another tour up and down the nave before joining the still-kneeling priest.
He then reached down to place his hand lightly on the young man’s shoulder, and the contact made the priest jerk backwards. He jumped to his feet and spun around quickly, clearly caught off guard by the interruption to his prayers.
Esposito attempted to offer him a friendly greeting, but again nothing came out. However it was not this that concerned him; it was the wide-eyed expression of abject terror on the priest’s face as he raised a hand to his mouth and stumbled backwards before collapsing on the floor at the base of the altar.
Esposito looked on in confusion as the priest stood up and headed back to the vestry doorway until he was out of sight.
What the devil? he thought, and was just about to pursue the grief-stricken man when he caught a reflection in one of the shiny silver plates displayed upon the altar. The face he saw there made him jerk back in utter terror as he took in the disgusting image of a man – and, when he realized this was his own reflection, he almost threw up. The top portion of the face was entirely devoid of skin, revealing the dark-red lines of muscle beneath, and one of his eyes was completely missing, leaving nothing but a gaping black socket. What skin there was left hung from the skull like an ill-fitting jumper, and it drooped from his cheek so as to warp the shape of his single remaining eye on the other side of his face. Such gory features paled into insignificance, though, compared to the lower half of his face, and it became clear now why the priest had not heard him call out upon first entering the church. The entire lower jawbone was missing, exposing the back of his throat and the white bone of his larynx, while an oversized tongue hung downwards where the muscles had stretched apart.
Esposito prodded tentatively at each of the blood-filled clots that had formed into dark black nodules where the skin had been tugged away, and he began to feel faint. He toppled forward and collapsed before the altar, tears flowing from his one remaining eye stinging his exposed facial muscles, and his whole body began to spasm. The previous numbness was now replaced with complete and unmitigated pain, which surged over him like a burning flame and singed every one of his nerve endings with crippling agony.
Esposito clawed his way up the side of the stone altar and then threw himself on top of it as the pain intensified. He stared up at the crucifix and into the eyes of the sculpted image of Jesus.
‘My Lord, why have you forsaken me?’