My breath came in sharp gasps, barely getting air out before I was drawing it back in again. With the fingers on my left hand splashing the flow of water from the faucet, I struggled to wash the gash. This only made me bite back another yell.
“Stop, stop!” I hissed. The blood washed away and I saw the blackened skin of my birthmark again, now looking like it was singed and dead, like plastic wrap over a bone. The water continued to burn against the raw skin so I pulled my hand back out, fire shooting through every nerve.
My birthmark was raised even higher than the day before, looking like it was about to pop, fresh blood emerging from the skin that had peeled from around it. Edges of more skin were lifted up beside it and itching, bits of the bandage’s adhesive still stuck.
I carefully reached to pull it free. The layer of skin peeled further. Blood was coming from the open wound. I knew if I stopped now it might only close up again, so I pulled more, closing my eyes and gritting my teeth.
Pain throbbed from the gash as air hit. To my horror, I saw that I had peeled away my own skin. Now between my two shaking fingers, I held a thick strip of black. It hung loose like a dead flower petal.
But what terrified me most—and what burned throughout my mind even more intensely than the pain—was what had emerged from hiding beneath my now-absent birthmark.
It was a silver ring on my finger.
8
Silver And Red
More blood, more gnashing my teeth to contain the torture. The water from the faucet fell clear from the spout but hit the sink as red.
Something kicked in and my finger soon became numb, until the awful burning actually started to recede. It didn’t feel right for the pain to go away so quickly, but it wasn’t like I was going to complain about that. The blood began to slow as well, and within seconds all that was left was the clean, silver ring that had, by all appearances, come from nowhere.
The metal was very smooth and polished to a shine as the water washed over it. It was strangely pure: thin with rounded edges, a gleam to its surface, three simple lines cut into its top. I never wore jewelry. But it looked expensive and I might have liked it, if it hadn’t come out from under my own skin.
When I tried to pull it off though, the ring would not budge the slightest of an inch. Even though it didn’t feel tight or painful anymore, the ring felt like it was attached to bone.
I wasn’t about to spiral down into questions, asking how any of this could have happened, because I was too far past asking things I knew had no answer. Seeing the ring made me remember Father Lonnie’s reaction when he’d noticed my birthmark: had he known? Of course he’d known. He’d been looking for the ring all along, even when it was still hidden.
The bleeding had stopped entirely and the redness had receded. No need to wrap my finger in gauze anymore. So I scrambled back to my room in a daze, locking the door, pulling the bloodied sheets off of my bed and balling them up on the floor. Such a tedious thing to busy myself with in an attempt to forget the ring, though its weight on my finger refused to be ignored.
I hid the sheets in my closet behind some old laundry. But now I had nothing to sleep on.
I laughed. Sleep? Did I expect to ever sleep again?
Is that enough concrete proof for you? I thought. Something supernatural? I could handle that now. A conspiracy? I might even believe that. They wanted me dead? I could deal with that too. As long as I got answers. I needed the truth.
I was out of bed again as soon as the sun poked up, pulling the same church clothes from my closet, struggling to get them on. By then, my finger appeared entirely healed. Even bending it felt natural, though the band of the unusual metal felt like a weight. I shoved my hands into my pockets as I walked downstairs, my family still asleep.
I got onto my bike and started toward the church. Even the way the ring pressed against the handlebar was jarring.
I pedaled quickly even though being late for mass wouldn’t have hurt, since I was only interested in grabbing the priest after he finished. I guess some part of me hoped that if I went fast and down streets that no one frequented, I could avoid the attention of any of those people the priest had said were watching for me—Guardians.
Anytime I heard a car door open or brakes squealing, I had to glance over just to make sure no one was taking aim at me as I rode. Would there even be enough time for all my questions before the next mass? I had so many now. My anticipation only grew as I turned the corner for the church’s street.
From afar, I could see a crowd gathered outside the church, people again dressed up in their best shirts and dresses. Was church already finished? I knew I’d checked the schedule so I couldn’t possibly be that late. But everyone was outside, walking away from the church instead of toward it, covering their mouths, pulling their children by the arm frantically.
Finally I was close enough to see panic-filled faces and tears dripping from their eyes, to hear confused weeping as they stumbled in the direction opposite me. I glanced over the flashing lights that were further down the street, and saw police cars and ambulances, yellow tape around the front of the church blocking the parishioners from going inside. Traffic on the street was lined up as an officer tried to manage the chaos of people standing around, looking toward the sky, and pointing in disbelief. I skidded my bike to a stop and looked up, all the way up past the church door and then the circular stained glass window, to the pointed steeple above the bell tower.
I squinted because the sun was behind it, nearly blinding me. But in the outline, far at the top, I could see something that should not have been there. All in an instant, I realized what they were looking at.
Father Lonnie.
The morning rays of the sun streamed around his silhouette, his body bent backwards with arms extended, legs the opposite way, mouth and eyes open as if in a scream. The spire poked out of his chest, his corpse spiked through the middle like a nail through paper. He looked at us upside down, his body facing the sky but his eyes facing us with their lids open: skin white, a line of blood already dried from running down the steeple and onto the roof of his church.
My bike dropped from under me and crashed to the sidewalk. Every ounce of energy inside me felt like it was sucked away by a vacuum, I couldn’t even stand, falling onto my knees in the grass as I stared up, unable to tear my eyes from the horrible sight. I could hear the sounds: the crying of the people, the frenzied questions, the police officers ordering everyone to leave. A fire truck with a long ladder had finally arrived and they were extending the arm out, doing their best to reach Father Lonnie and at least take the ghastly site down as more people began to gather. I could only go on kneeling, staring up at the man I’d spoken to not many hours before: the man who’d told me he’d die if I lived.
The bloodstained roof of the church was a message to me.
“Please go home,” I could hear the police say over a megaphone. “Please let us do our jobs. Take your children and go home.”
I managed to get to my feet, forcing myself to walk closer. Even when I looked away I was unable to get the horrible image out of my head, seeing the outline of the priest in the corner of my eye, feeling like I would vomit if my own body had enough strength to. The crying got louder as I came closer, the grass trampled flat from high-heels and dress shoes, car horns honking as they tried to avoid pedestrians hurrying back to their vehicles.