Finding the Truth Inside the Lie

That evening, after a dinner of microwaved macaroni and cheese, Webb sat on his living room floor, his back up against the wheezy sofa. His shag carpet was original, Mrs. Leevy told him. She said it like she was proud as she gave him the tour, so Webb didn't offer an opinion.

He liked the apartment, how tidy it was. The walls were all white, which reminded him of church, and Webb refused to hang any pictures, even though he kept several framed paintings of God in his closet. Webb painted them. They leaned against each other, face to face so they could keep each other company in the dark. Webb selected one to come out each Saturday night, to participate in the sermon.

Tonight, one of the larger portraits leaned against the sofa with Webb.

Oranges and yellows lay in thick, mad clumping strokes, and toward the bottom of the canvas, reds; all swirling in a maelstrom of passion and vigor and longing, a bright white center glowing out from the weave of the cloth.

The Voice came from that spot, when it spoke.

It didn't always, but when it did Webb was always almost finished with that night's work, and near to passing out. The voice of God praised Webb's constant faith, his far sight and true heart.

Webb assembled his altar, the wide clay dish he'd fired in art class at the center. The box of wooden matches. The stained towel. The butter knife. Webb removed his gloves, the fabric sticking to the scabs, tearing at them as he tugged harder.

He looked at his hands. The scars, furious reds and redemptive pinks swirled across his fingers and palms, mirrors to the painting next to them. Lines swooped in an intricate design, the grooves repeating across his skin, the colors adding depth and texture to the appearance of flames upon his flesh.

He picked up the lighter and flicked it on, holding it steady against the side of his other palm. He sucked in his breath as the heat sank into his hand, sharpened to a pinpoint stabbing as the layers of his skin scorched and then melted. Lights danced before his eyes. Before the side of his hand liquefied and dribbled from his tendons and bones, Webb set the lighter down and picked up the knife. He pressed the metal into his hand, guiding the bubbling wound with careful strokes. He spread his mortified skin like butter. Blood seeped through where his skin tore open, and he tapped the towel against it, allowing a moment for absorption before continuing.

He smiled as he worked, marveling at his control, at the gifts God had given him. He had used to scream when he worshipped.