Open XVII

The stone cell smelled of old candles and iron. Shadows rippled along bare walls as a single flame danced in the draft.

He knelt, robe pooling at his feet. Fingers traced beads along a worn rosary, lips whispering words carved into him since childhood.

His breath came ragged, chest rising and falling with practiced fervor. In his other hand, a thin cord looped around his thigh. Each pull bit deeper. Each sting burned devotion into flesh.

Visions swirled behind closed eyes: saints suffering, kingdoms rising, sinners burning. His world reduced to penance and promise.

Somewhere above, church bells tolled midnight. He welcomed the sound as absolution and prison both.

What cages stronger than myths we make holy?