He kept at it.
Again!
Again!
Again!
With each stinging, successive blow, his knees became weaker, his resolve began to dilute, and he cried out.
At nineteen, he stumbled. Nearly passed out. Braced himself.
Again!
The cat-o’-nine-tails whirled above him and then flayed his bleeding flesh. “Twenty,” he croaked, the pain radiating. Still, he forced an agonized grin. He’d met his goal, but he wouldn’t gloat, wouldn’t revel in it; otherwise, he would have to mete out more punishment. He let his faltering smile of triumph fade, and he dropped to his knees to pray again.
His back was on fire.
Yet still he prayed.
Only when he was completely humble once more did he rise and step under the cold shower to rinse away the blood and sin. Afterward, he awkwardly applied some salve to his shoulders and back as best he could, then dressed again.
“Not good enough,” his mother’s voice mocked.
But he ignored her, set his jaw, and resumed his work.
He felt sufficiently obedient and humbled once more. Able to concentrate.
He rifled through his carefully catalogued vinyl records. Now that his rebellious, prideful fire had been smothered, he flipped past the heavy metal albums of the seventies and eighties. No Black Sabbath or Megadeth—they wouldn’t do. Not tonight. Nor would Metallica.
He kept searching until he found a choral arrangement of folk songs. Not his usual cup of tea, but appropriate for his mood.
With gentle fingers, he lowered the LP onto the turntable of the old Pioneer and switched it on.
A few scratches sounded as the record spun, and then the blended voices and intricate harmonies filled the room. For a second, he pretended to be leading the ensemble, his imaginary baton sweeping in rhythm, his head moving as the music swelled. Once the music filled him, he sat at the stool near his workbench and reached into his pocket for the small vial of blood he’d prepared earlier. Painstakingly, he applied the blood to the smooth stone with a thin brush, meticulously tracing the number 1.
The music stopped, and he was forced to get up and flip the record over before the calming harmonies filled the space again.
Patiently, he waited for the blood to soak into the etching, then, satisfied, even a little proud, despite pride being a sin, he repeatedthe process, so he had two similar, if not identical stones. Satisfied, his back still burning, he left one of the finished stones on his workbench, then, with the other in his hand, walked to the closet with the secret back panel. His fingers found the niche in the wall to slide the panel aside. Beyond, there was just enough space for a small stool and a corner curio cabinet. Once settled onto the stool, he placed the newly finished stone next to the first two already gleaming in the cabinet under a strand of battery-powered lights.
Now there were three.
Though, of course, he was jumping the gun just a bit as the third sinner had yet to meet her maker.
But he planned to remedy that soon.
Very soon.
And these three polished rocks were just the beginning.
When his work was finished, there would be a collection of ten perfect tiny headstones. All inscribed. A perfect set.
“The only perfection is God,” his mother reminded him unkindly before he picked up the knife again. “To think otherwise is a sin.”
At four in the morning, the house was quiet, though the high-ceilinged foyer still blazed with lights from that oversize monstrosity of a chandelier. But all the techs were long gone, and the husband was on Tybee Island. Sol knew. She’d checked.
Now, with the deep blue of night still clinging to the town, she slipped through the wide front door, locked it behind her, and clicked off the lights. The foyer instantly darkened; there was only a minimal glow from the kitchen, where the oven’s clock gave off a weak blue illumination. She was lucky the house was down a long, twisting drive bordered by thick trees and shrubbery; no one should notice the house had suddenly gone dark.
Pulling a towel from her backpack, she quickly shed her clothes. Who knew how much time she had? Patrols had increased in the area, and she’d timed her visit carefully. Still, she didn’t want to be interrupted.