Tabula Rasa

Saul had just finished his morning rosary when the clock hands passed noon and a pile of mail squeezed through the door’s thin metal slot. The edges of the folded paper lightly brushed the ceramic tile as they landed, sending a light wind to tickle his freshly washed feet. Saul gathered the scattered post and noticed a sepia toned photograph of rustic buildings that surrounded the calm Po river in Venice- identical to the view that lay underneath the windows of his fifth-floor apartment. As he wrapped his white robe tightly against his chest, Saul flipped the photograph, and immediately recognized the cramped, cursive lettering that was squashed into the 4x6 postcard.  “Dear Saul, Father and I hope that you are accomplishing the Lord’s desire on your religious journey. Things are fine in Oklahoma, and we keep ourselves busy with the church. Are you meeting those of the faith who are spiritually uplifting? Please keep your faith strong and never forget that you are a weapon of God. You must make sacrifices on a daily basis to please the Almighty! Satan will only attack those who are wavering and weak in spirituality. ‘Don’t be afraid of them! For the Lord, your God will be with you. He will neither fail you nor forsake you’ (Deut. 31:6) Love, Mother.

Saul tenderly pinned the letter up on the cork board that hung exactly forty inches from the linoleum floor, and reached for the black rosary beads that were trapped underneath his open leather bible. He squeezed the hard ceramic balls between his forefinger and thumb, creating a large round divot in his soft fingertips. God, he prayed,  Please allow the things I do to bring glory to your name. Amen. Walking into the barren, unlit living room, Saul gazed out of his sublet apartment and watched the human masses walk along the filthy Po river.

God hates those who are evil. That’s what mother had told him. He had found that evil had infiltrated the streets of Italy. It lurked between tall industrial buildings, half-naked  and diseased, defiling the clean form given by the Lord. He had discovered the sweaty form of evil hovering over bowls of peanuts and glasses full of Sambuca, blaming The Lord for their inability to succeed. Evil even disguised itself behind the sweet faces of innocence, rolling tobacco between torn pages of the holy Scriptures and burning divine words with every inhalation. The Almighty has lost faith in us, Saul lamented, walking away from the windows and placing the rosary beads beside the gold dusted pages of the Holy Bible. His bare feet slapped against the glossy wooden floors as he approached his bedroom door. Those who curse God, who disobey his name and laws, will be punished. They must be sacrificed to the Lord above, so that their filthy sins will not defile the rest of humanity.

Wrapping his fingers around the cold metal door knob, Saul fought with the expanded wooden frame and forcibly pushed the bedroom door open . A trail of rectangular light framed a naked man on Saul’s bed, his ankles and wrists both wrapped with a sturdy amount of duct tape and rope. The man squinted towards the doorway, and began to wiggle against the sleek satin sheets as he groaned.  Black fleece blankets were stapled precisely around the window frame, the dimension of the window sills pushing against the rough fabric. Twenty brass candelabras cradled half-melted candlesticks and the hot wax dripped methodically on the tabletops and wooden floor.  Swirls of patterned smoke rose above the flames that danced lightly upon the blackened wicks and dissipated into the dim air. Saul shut the door, preventing the harsh light from entering the sacrificial room, and examined his knife collection which lay on the bureau, organized by length and blade size. All fifteen shiny, steel instruments projected hazy pinpoints of light, reflections of the orange flames arranged throughout the room. Picking up the small paring knife, Saul ran the newly sharpened blade lightly across his fingertip and peeled a thin callus of skin away from his flesh like firm butter. Perfect,  he thought, placing the knife down in the neat row, God will be pleased.

Saul began to recite the words of magnificent Isaiah, and walked to the foot of the bed.. The words his mother sang to him late at night, when Satan dodged between the moving shadows.

“Fear not, for I have redeemed you. I have called your name....”

“No, no signor. Per favore.” the man groaned. As he spoke, his dry lips separated like an accordion, exposing moist flesh.

“...you are mine.”

“Sono sposata e ho due bambini,” the Italian said,  his jet black hair shaking with every movement and his firm body attempting to break free from the duct tape wound tightly against his limbs, “Bellissimi Bambini.”  

Bambini slid languidly through Saul’s ears as he attempted to recall what the term meant. Turning away from his sacrifice, Saul opened a worn oak dresser, reached under a mound of neatly folded wool sweaters, and pulled out a brown paper bag. Carefully he ripped apart the glued seal and roughly emptied a few dozen latex gloves beside the sharpened knives. “Bambini means child!” Saul realized, snapping a pair of blue, latex gloves over his fat fingers, “He must have children.” Beside angels, children are the most pure and innocent creatures in the mortal and immortal worlds. All true followers of Christianity know that. God desires them to be his and wants full devotion at an early age. Mother had said that when a baby is born its heart is a Tabula Rasa: a blank slate the parent must engrave with God’s will and moral standards. That is why she had planted the seed of Christ deep in his heart from an early age, having Saul endlessly recite scriptures in the biblical languages until his voice grew raw from his breath. Father had decided not to take part in raising him: “Children are Women’s work!”, and he would watch with a smirk painted on his face while Saul would get beaten with a wooden spoon by his emotionless mother. He had deserved it, as he would constantly go against God and sin. He had sat in a used, wooden desk mother had found at Goodwill, seven days a week crying to God to forgive the sins of humans, and to accept him as a loyal servant. The Lord had granted his desire on one condition.

The bag crinkled as Saul reached inside and pulled out his father’s navy blue tie which depicted a sledding scene with Bugs Bunny and other members of the Looney Toons. He examined the fabric, and brushed his hands over the two reddish-brown fingerprints that contrasted against the fictional snow. Only two? He thought God needs more blood than that. Folding it so it was the size of a deck of cards, Saul placed the tie underneath the knives.

“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you,” Saul continued, “and through the rivers they shall not overflow you.”

“Per favore, per favore!” the man pleaded.“Faro qualsiasi cosa!” Saul reached deep into his robe pocket and removed a tiny, orange detergent bottle filled with lukewarm holy water he had blessed the day before. Pouring the liquid into his cupped palm, he sprinkled the holy water around the perimeter of the bed and it quickly disappeared into the blue satin sheets. Stopping for a moment, Saul completely soaked his right hand, dropped the bottle on the wood floor and stood at the foot of the bed.

“When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned,” Saul proclaimed, sharply thrusting his wet hand towards the man, “nor shall the flame scorch you.” Through the dim, flickering candlelight, Saul watched the young man’s face. Tiny drops of liquid splattered against the Italian’s cheeks, blending with the tears which continued to trickle from the corner of his blood-shot eyes.

“Per favore non uccidermi...” the man weakly muttered, turning his face away from Saul. Saul jumped on the bed, and reached for the rope which hung from both sides of a thick wooden beam that adorned the celling. The man did not struggle as Saul lassoed the rough, fraying rope below his untrimmed beard, and fitted it snugly around the middle of his neck. A desk creaked in response to Saul’s weight as he climbed on it, and grasped the brown rope that led to the Italian man. He tugged on it as a test, and the Italian man gagged as his head was forced upwards. Jumping off the desk and forcibly pulling the rope towards the ground, Saul recited the last words from Isaiah.

“For I am the Lord your God, the Holy one of Israel, your savior,” Saul’s voice bounced against the tall vaulted ceiling.  The Man’s tongue snaked out of his open mouth and fought with the air that was thick with candle smoke. Repetitive gags and coughs fought with the biblical echo as his feet desperately attempted to find the ground. The man’s spine slowly crackled as the membranous discs dislocated from his bony spine. The body swung lifelessly from the ceiling, rotating like a paper lantern swaying in the evening breeze. Saul bowed his head in prayer, and released the rope, ignoring the unsettling thud as flesh and bones bounced against the matress’ rusty springs. A few of the flames flickered and died, leaving ashen smoke curling from the blackened wicks.

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et spiritus sancti.” Saul sang in Latin, his right hand traveling the familiar path where the father, son and holy spirit resided within his chest. “Amen.” The limp, supple body was beautiful. It had collapsed unnaturally and contradictory to human form: sharp peaks of bone vertically imposing on gravity and deep divots of weak muscle had fallen carelessly on the bed. His head lay face-down and burrowed into the sheets, and the neck was bent upwards, shaped like the letter U. Yet, in it’s state of sin, Saul could not help but feel attached to its awkward form.  It resembled the innocence of a newly birthed infant: meek, mild and ignorant.

He rearranged the knives and tie on the bed, and began cleansing the body. Closing the man’s puffed up eyes, Saul selectively chose the small paring knife, and carved four vertical slits on each eyelid. The thin lines produced tiny beads of scarlet blood that trickled towards the man’s dampened hair. Saul firmly pressed his index finger against the mutilated eye, popping the soft ball inward, and driving his sharp fingernails deep within the concave sockets. Lifting his dripping wet finger Saul placed his fingerprint on the tie, precisely in the middle of the soft snow in which Bugs Bunny was sledding. The vibrant red fingerprint was nestled between two other crusted brown ones that crunched with the movement of the fabric. There it was: his identity, his proof that he was a loyal weapon for God.

Adjusting the tie around his neck, Saul walked over to the floor length mirror, and glanced at his image in the dim candlelight. His bright, blond hair and white robe were speckled with tiny beads of scarlet blood and a few drops had landed on his forehead, staining his skin.

“I was painting,” he reassured himself, tightening the Bugs Bunny tie around his neck. “After all, I am an artist of God.”

Mother would be proud.