The Messiah Secret

‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,’ he began. ‘I need Your guidance and Your help and Your strength to complete the sacred task You have set for me.’

Ten minutes later, Killian emerged from his chapel, bowed once towards the altar, then closed the door behind him. Then, removing his black shirt and clerical collar, he assembled the materials he would need for what he now knew he had to do.

In his bathroom, he again stared at his reflection for a few seconds, then plugged the electric soldering iron into the shaver socket and tested the tip with his finger to ensure that it was getting hot. Taking a small piece of cotton cloth, he folded it until it fitted over his entire mouth. He used one hand to hold the cloth there while he wrapped duct tape around his head to hold the material firmly in place, as a simple but efficient gag. Finally, he made sure that the scissors were close to hand.

His preparations complete, Killian unwrapped the bandage around his head and removed the pad from his ear. Once again, blood started to flow from the open wound.

Picking up the scissors, he opened the blades and positioned them over the thin band of tissue that connected the two sections of his ear. As the steel of the scissors touched his flesh, Killian jumped involuntarily, then steadied himself. He took a deep breath through his nose, and squeezed the blades together.

The pain was instant and startling as the twin blades closed together, cutting deep, and despite the gag, he screamed, the sound emerging as a muffled howl. Tears streamed down his face. For several seconds he couldn’t even see his image in the mirror, then he blinked furiously and rubbed his eyes.

The loose flap of flesh was still attached, still hanging from the rest of his ear. He knew he’d have to do it again. He took several deep breaths, then positioned the scissors once more. This time, he closed his eyes before he applied pressure to the handles.

He heard a distinct ‘crunch’ as the scissors sliced through the remaining flesh, then a faint wet slap as the top of his ear landed in the sink in front of him. He didn’t look down as he was trying very hard not to scream again, and his eyes had once more filled with tears. But, he thought, as his vision slowly cleared, at least the worst of it was over. Or perhaps not. He glanced down at the soldering iron, its tip smoking ominously.

His ear was bleeding copiously, the amputation of the remaining flap of tissue having cut through several blood vessels. Killian dabbed at it with a piece of cotton cloth, which was instantly soaked with blood, turning a deep red. His hand trembled slightly as he picked up the soldering iron. As he lifted it past his face he could feel the radiant heat on his cheek. He hesitated for barely a second, then touched the tip of the implement to the top of his ear closest to his head, where the blood flow was most pronounced.

This pain was different, even worse than before, a searing, burning agony that seemed unbearable. The smell of roasting flesh filled the air. Suddenly Killian felt he couldn’t breathe. He reached up and tore the rough gag from his mouth, gulped in a lungful of air and screamed. After a few seconds, the pain faded and he felt more in control. He looked in the mirror again. The treatment, such as it was, did seem to be working. The blood flow had clearly diminished, at least around the fresh, straight cut he’d made with the scissors.

Gritting his teeth, Killian lifted the soldering iron again and pressed it once more to the top of his ear. And once more he screamed.

Fifteen agonizing minutes later, he’d managed to stop all the bleeding, though the side of his head felt as if it was on fire. The wound to the top of his ear looked appalling, a rough crust of red and black burnt flesh, where the tip of the soldering iron had done its work. He hoped it would now start to heal.

Gingerly, taking infinite care, he applied a salve to the injury. That cooled the burning sensation, at least a little, but did nothing for the pain. He took a clean cotton pad, rested it gently against his ear and cautiously wrapped a bandage around his head to hold it in place, grimacing as the pressure increased. Finally he swallowed half a dozen painkillers – three times the recommended dose, but he needed something to reduce the agony.

He walked out of the bathroom – he’d clean up the mess in the sink later, when he felt better – and stumbled down the corridor to the lounge, grabbing a bottle of whisky and a glass. He slumped into a recliner near the window, poured a generous two fingers into the glass and downed it in a couple of gulps. The fiery liquid seared his throat as he swallowed it, then settled warmly, comfortingly in his stomach. He eased backwards, turning his head to avoid his torn ear touching the fabric of the chair, and lay there, glad his ordeal was over.