I retrieved my moth from the sideboard, its glow intensifying as I held it close. The comfort of its soft body against my chest steadied my racing heart, centered me in the sacred moment unfolding. How many nights had I clutched this gift from Ezra while dreaming of this very scenario? How many hours had I spent nursing at Daddy's chest, drawing strength for this inevitable confrontation?
I reached for the light switch, dimming the overhead chandelier while leaving the candles burning. The room plunged into partial darkness, the candle flames now the dominant light source. Their illumination created dramatic shadows across his features, highlighting the terror. The perfect lighting to observe the transition from spiritual authority to helpless material.
He tried to speak again but found his lips growing numb, words slurring into incomprehensibility.
"Don't worry about speaking," I said, kneeling in front of him. "I've heard enough of your voice to last several lifetimes. Tonight, you're going to listen.” My hands moved to his clerical collar, unfastening it. The white strip came away in my fingers. I tucked it into my pocket. “You were right about one thing, Reverend. Pain does transform. Not in the way you meant, but transformation nonetheless. I'm going to transform you into something honest. Into art."
His breathing accelerated, the only bodily function still under his partial control. His eyes darted frantically around the room, seeking escape, help, divine intervention.
I stood, retrieving the case I had prepared from the sideboard drawer. Opening it revealed my tools for the evening. The light caught on polished metal surfaces as I brought them out one by one.
My stump throbbed, the ghost of my sacrificed finger joint a constant reminder of my commitment to Ezra's vision. To our shared art. How gentle Daddy had been afterward, letting me nurse at his chest until the pain subsided, until the raw wound of sacrifice became bearable. I positioned the moth on the table where it could witness everything and selected a scalpel, watching light play across its edge. For the first time, I allowed the excitement to flow freely, embracing the connection between violence and desire that had always existed within me. My shadow unfurled completely, no longer confined to the dark corners of my psyche.
I reached beneath the case, pulling out a leather bound surgical textbook. The reverence I felt in handling it mirrored how church elders had once handled scripture. I placed it on the table, opening to a carefully marked page showing detailed anatomical diagrams of the human eye. My fingers traced the illustrations of the levator palpebrae superioris muscle, the precise incision points for removing the eyelid while preserving the ocular structure.
I imagined Ezra's reaction when I showed him my work. Would he praise my technique? Would he suggest improvements? The thought of his approval sent another wave of arousal through me. Later, I would rest against his chest, his nipple between my lips, his fingers stroking my hair as I told him every detail of tonight's transformation.
A strange question surfaced in my mind, unbidden and unwelcome: Was I doing this for Daddy, or finally for myself? The thought was a splinter, tiny but sharp. I pushed it away. Of course this was for us both—my gift to him, his gift to me. The perfect communion.
"You always said the eyes were windows to the soul," I told Reverend Morris. "Yet you never truly saw me. Tonight, you’ll finally see. This will be a sacred moment of sorts.”
I moved behind him again, one hand gently tilting his increasingly unresistant head. The paralytic had progressed to his neck muscles now, leaving him unable to maintain position without assistance.
The candlelight created a halo effect around his silver hair, rendering him momentarily saintlike in appearance. The irony pleased me, this man of God now illuminated like a martyr in a Renaissance painting. Saint Sebastian awaiting arrows. Saint Lawrence approaching his gridiron. Divine light revealing him at the moment of his transformation.
"You once told my grandmother I was possessed," I murmured, tracing the blade along the contour of his jaw without cutting. "You were right, though not in the way you meant. There is something inside me, something that recognizes beauty in dissolution. Something that finds transcendence in transformation."
A strangled sound emerged from his throat. His pulse raced visibly beneath the paper-thin skin of his neck, blue veins throbbing rapidly with animal panic.
The shadow inside me responded to his fear with a purr. Heat spread through my limbs, arousal tightening my groin as I pressed the scalpel gently against his cheek, not breaking skin but promising what would come.
"I want you to know that, despite our differences, this isn’t personal,” I said, then paused. “Well, it is. All art is personal.But I’m not doing this because I hate you, Reverend. Exactly the opposite. If not for you, I never would have pursued art with such passion. I never would have met Ezra. In a way, tonight is the culmination of what began in the church basement years ago. Then, you prayed to meet your God. Tonight, I give you that gift.”
Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, tracking down withered cheeks in glistening paths. Not tears of repentance or spiritual ecstasy as he had demanded from me, but of pure animal terror.
I positioned the small metal clamp that would hold his eyelid while I worked. The first drop of blood appeared at the corner of his eye, a crimson tear tracking down his weathered cheek. The blood mingled with his real tears, creating a diluted pink trail that disappeared into the collar of his shirt.
"Amen," I whispered, and began.
Ezra
I surveyed the studioonce more, appreciating how each element contributed to the tableau I'd created for Micah's first independent project. The polished concrete floor gleamed under specialized lighting. Plastic sheeting covered strategic areas, arranged to contain the mess while preserving aesthetic integrity. My tools—cleaned, sharpened, and organized by purpose—awaited.
And in the center of it all, Daniel Harlow lay secured to the reinforced medical table, consciousness slowly returning as the sedatives wore off.
I checked my watch. Micah would arrive with Reverend Morris in about twenty minutes, assuming he followed the schedule we'd established. My boy valued punctuality, another quality I'd carefully cultivated in him.
My fingertips traced the edge of the tray holding specialized cutting implements. Each represented a different possibility for Micah's artistic expression. Would he choose the delicate paring knife for precision work? The larger blade for bold strokes? His selection would reveal so much about his development.
Daniel's eyes fluttered open and darted around the room.
"Welcome back," I said, moving into his field of vision. "Your timing is impeccable."
He struggled against his restraints. His mouth worked soundlessly behind the gag, eyes wide with animal panic.
"Don't exert yourself," I advised, checking the restraints at his wrists. "You're merely early for your appointment with my protégé."
His eyes widened.
