Chalk dust and frankincensefilled my nostrils as I arranged the final place setting. The scent transported me instantly to childhood confessionals, to whispered sins and harsh penance. I inhaled deeply, letting memory sharpen my resolve.
Everything was almost ready.
The moth sat on the sideboard. I stroked its velvet wing with my maimed hand, drawing comfort from its familiar texture. The stump of my missing finger joint ached, a reminder of my covenant with Daddy.
"Soon," I whispered to the moth. "Soon he'll see how much I've learned."
I stepped back to take in the scene. The chandelier's light struck the silver, creating stark highlights on black place settings. The white candles stood in black iron holders, theirflames casting long shadows across pristine linen. Red wine in a clear crystal decanter caught the light like liquid rubies. Blood waiting to be transubstantiated.
The entire setting was a study in contrast. Purity and corruption. Salvation and damnation. Light and shadow. A physical manifestation of the war that had raged within me since childhood, now externalized into an artistic statement.
I wish Daddy were here, I thought and sucked gently on my finger. It was a poor substitute for what I really wanted, what I knew I would need after tonight’s ritual.
The doorbell chimed.
I paused before opening the door, straightening my sweater. My pulse thudded steadily in my ears, not anxiety but anticipation. It was time to become.
I opened the door. "Reverend Morris! Thank you for accepting my invitation."
"Micah," he nodded, handing me a bottle of non-alcoholic sparkling cider. "I remembered your grandmother mentioned you never acquired a taste for alcohol. I thought this might be an appropriate alternative."
The bottle gleamed in my hands, a polite gesture masking judgment. I turned it slowly, watching light slide across its surface like oil on water. The presumption. The casual mention of my grandmother. The assumption I was still the cowering child he once tormented. Each stoked the shadow inside me. It stretched languidly, recognizing its prey had arrived willingly.
"How thoughtful," I replied through clenched teeth. "Please come in."
He stepped into my apartment and took in the scene. The religious artwork on my walls, carefully selected reproductions of Renaissance masters depicting martyrs in their suffering. The modest furnishings suggesting humble means. The bookshelf containing theological texts prominently displayed.
All stage dressing. All lies.
Light from recessed fixtures cast his face in sharp relief, hollowing his cheeks and deepening the lines around his mouth. The illumination transformed him momentarily into one of the skeletal saints from medieval paintings, death already claiming him though he didn't yet know it. His silver cross caught the light, flashing across the walls like divine Morse code.
"You've made a lovely home," he offered, following me toward the dining room. "Your grandmother would be pleased to see you living so... respectably."
That pause implied respectability had been uncertain for someone like me. Someone broken. Someone requiring spiritual intervention.
"I hope to make her proud," I lied. "Please have a seat. Dinner is nearly ready."
As he moved past the sideboard, his gaze caught on my moth. "What an ugly little creature,” he mused.
My fists clenched, released. "A gift," I replied, the stump of my finger throbbing with phantom pain. "From an old friend."
“I’ve been meaning to ask you. What happened to your finger?” Reverend Morris settled at the table, arranging his napkin across his lap.
I instinctively reached to touch the healed wound, tracing the absence where flesh once existed. “We had…artistic differences. I was more committed to the final composition. It was too attached to the process.”
Confusion flickered across his features before he dismissed it with a slight shake of his head. Another sin to add to my ledger.
I moved into to the kitchen. "I've been reconsidering many things lately. Especially my spiritual path."
His posture straightened. The prospect of reclaiming a lost soul always excited him. Especially one he had personally attempted to save through exorcism.
"That's why I wanted to speak with you," I continued, removing the roast from the oven. "After seeing you at Professor Bishop's exhibition, I've been troubled. Questioning my choices."
He watched as I carved the meat. "The Lord works in mysterious ways. Sometimes He leads us down unexpected paths to find our way back to Him."
I arranged the slices on Reverend Morris's plate, rare meat bleeding crimson onto white porcelain. My missing finger joint made the task awkward, forcing me to adjust my grip on the knife. The adaptation came easily now, my body learning new ways to function under Ezra's patient guidance. Daddy's voice echoed in my memory: "Your wounds become strengths when properly utilized."
"Your professor's work was technically impressive," he continued as I placed the plate before him. "But lacking a proper spiritual foundation. Shall we say grace?"
