III.

Several years ago, at sundown on Easter Sunday, Holden Cross stood on a beach shore, ready to give God His final chance. Wisps of water had splashed up from the waves, stinging Holden’s face. This he felt, but nothing more. It was then that he committed himself to his cause.

He drove home in the dark, listening to ZEDA, the local rock station. It was halfway through a Black Sabbath song that Holden realized how commercialized, how innocuous, the supposed Satanism of rock bands was. There was no conviction there, no true submission to the Enemy. Deep down, they all still wanted to be thought of as good. Holden shook his head, disgusted, and turned the radio off.

At home, he went up into his attic. He sifted through old boxes, brushing away the cobwebs and swatting at spiders when necessary, until he came upon the one he’d been looking for. Written atop its crumpled cardboard flaps in black Sharpe ink was the name of his father: Wilton Cross. After a moment’s meditative reverence, he tore the flaps open. He burrowed passed old shirts, old slacks, sports jackets and ties (he remembered how sharp, how imposing and commanding and impressive, his father had looked in these), searching for the outfit he wished to now be his. Toward the bottom, he found it. It was his father’s old Minister’s attire.

He took it down the stairs with him, folded still and cradled in his arms. He went into the bathroom and laid it upon the lid of the toilet, then stripped from it the clerical collar. He moved over to the mirror where, confronted, he was forced to stare at his reflection. His every feature was haunted by his father’s genes, the sort of trick a sinister God would play. He bypassed his reverie by, with purposeful intention, swinging open the mirror and exposing the medicine cabinet. He drew from it some black fabric dye, which he set upon the sink counter, then filled the sink with water, as hot as he could get it. The water he subsumed with the dye, turning it dark as a Bible’s leather binding. He then plunged the collar, along with his own hands, deep into the concoction.

The scalding hurt only at first. Quickly, the nerve endings died and gave way to shock. With gritted teeth, Holden bore this process. It was almost pleasurable.

Eventually, he lifted his hands, dripping skin and fluids, back out of the water. He studied his palms, which were now red and raw, trembling like some smallish creature cornered by a carnivore, and marveled at how delicate, how weak, how poorly constructed, we as humans were. It was reason enough to drive one to Darwinism, but Holden knew better than that.

He waited then for the dye to do its work. For an hour he stood in his bathroom, quiet and patient, his hands cooling till they burned cold. Once the hour ended, he dug the collar out from the inky pool and held it up to the light. Black drizzled off it, spilling in beads, like a crisscross of veins, down Holden’s arm. Still, it seemed the treatment took.

He laid the now-black collar on the bathroom sink by the dye bottle and proceeded to strip down to his undergarments. He crumpled his old clothes into a heap, balled them up tight, and tossed them in a hamper, never to be worn again. Then, he turned his attention to his new clothes.

With care, he unfolded first the slacks, ignoring the irritation in his palms. The slacks he slipped passed his feet and up his legs. When he reached his waist, he was, to his embarrassment, forced to suck in his belly to get the pants to close. This was something he’d have to remedy. Next, he picked up the button-up and unfolded it as well. He tucked his arms into the sleeves, settling into their tight confines with some effort, then stretched the two ends of the shirt’s front over his chest and belly. After buttoning it, he pushed the shirt down into the pants, wanting the full, dignified look.

Now all that remained was the collar.

He went under his sink to retrieve a hair dryer. He hooked it to an electric socket and let it loose. Under the hum of the dryer’s heat, the collar dried quickly. Holden flicked off the dryer and laid it aside. Then, delight pulsating from his glowing cheeks, he took up the collar and slid it into his neck piece.

He closed the medicine cabinet so he could once more see himself in the mirror. This time, the resemblance to his father brought him joy. All the work his dad had done for God…it would now be undone by a man with his exact appearance. This sort of irony, even a sinister God had to appreciate.