His shoulders relaxed. He stepped forward and planted a gentle kiss on my cheek. “You just did. But if youinsiston making it up to me later…” He ran his fingertips lightly over my nipples. “I’d never stop you.”
I caught his hands and brought them to my lips, kissing his wrists one at a time. “Of course, sweet boy. I’m here to take care of you. I’ll maintain better contact with you in the future if plans change.”
Micah sighed and closed his eyes, tilting his head slightly to the side. “Thank you, Daddy.”
He approached the table, examining the photographer. "What has he discovered about the materials?"
"He recognized bone ash components," I explained, moving to stand beside Micah. "Nothing conclusive, but his curiosity was becoming problematic."
Micah nodded, fingers hovering just above Daniel's terrified face without touching. "His bone structure is interesting. Strong zygomatic arches, pronounced supraorbital ridge. Thank you, Daddy. I’ll put him to good use."
I was surprised at the pride that blossomed in my chest. My boy was developing opinions, boundaries, expectations. Not rebellion exactly, but evolution beyond my careful design.
"I thought we'd work with him together," I suggested. "After you complete your planned project with Reverend Morris."
Micah glanced toward the wheelchair, where the clergyman remained slumped. "I have extensive plans for him beyond what I've already done." He carefully placed his moth on the shelf space I had cleared for him and retrieved a small Styrofoam cooler from the pocket in the back of the wheelchair. Opening it revealed two glass containers carefully packed in ice. Inside each floated a human eye, preserved in a clear solution.
"I harvested these," Micah explained, pride evident in his voice.
“How did the paralytic I gave you work?”
“Beautifully,” he beamed.
"Very impressive. And the reverend remained conscious during the procedure?"
"Completely aware," Micah confirmed, a slight flush coloring his cheeks. His thumb unconsciously stroked the stump of his amputated finger against the moth's velvet wing. "I wanted him to experience the transformation fully, as you taught me."
“You’ve done an excellent job of extracting your chosen materials.”
His smile was practically radiant. “Thank you, Daddy.”
He placed the containers carefully on the worktable, arranging them precisely. "I've designed a triptych incorporating his eyes as central elements. They'll be embedded in a mixed-media piece exploring religious hypocrisy and spiritual blindness." He moved to the slumped figure in the wheelchair, checking the reverend’s pulse. "The sedative is wearing off according to schedule. He'll be fully conscious but still immobilized in about fifteen minutes."
"And the eyes are just the beginning?" I asked, gesturing toward the floating specimens.
"Phase one," Micah confirmed. "Tonight I'll harvest bone and cartilage from his facial structure."
He continued explaining his artistic vision, describing a complex, multi-stage transformation that would culminate in a triptych that demonstrated sophistication I hadn't expected for years.
"What about Daniel?" I asked, indicating the terrified photographer still strapped to the other table.
Micah glanced toward him thoughtfully. "I hadn't planned on two subjects simultaneously. But his perspective as a photographer could be incorporated thematically. Eyes that observe, versus eyes that judge." He turned to me, expression serious. "Would you help me with him while I complete the next phase with Reverend Morris?"
I smiled. "Of course."
Daniel's muffled whimpers drew my attention back to him. The photographer's eyes pleaded desperately, shifting between Micah and me as understanding of his fate solidified.
"He truly believed he was protecting me," I told Micah, removing the gag from Daniel's mouth. "His concern seemed genuine, if misguided."
"Please," Daniel gasped immediately. "This isn't you, Micah. He's manipulating you. You don't have to do this."
Micah paused, turning toward the photographer. The moth's glow flared against his chest as he approached Daniel slowly, expression unreadable.
"You don't know me," he said quietly. "You never did. You saw what everyone sees: the careful mask I constructed to survive. Professor Bishop didn't create what I am. Hefreedme to be who I always was."
His hand rose, fingers hovering above Daniel's terrified face without touching. "You followed me. Invaded my privacy. Dug into my past without permission." He leaned closer, voice dropping to an intimate whisper. "I've wanted to create art from human materials since I was eight years old, watching my mother's body transform over three days. Long before I met Professor Bishop."
I could almost see the memory playing behind his eyes—those three days spent watching his mother's suspended body, the blue-gray patina of her skin, the subtle shift in coloration as blood settled, the tightening of features as tissues dried. The boy who had documented every detail, fascinated not by death but by transformation. The truth had always been there, waiting for recognition.
