permetanoia

[permetanoia]

Pale twilight glows a faint icy shine against the velvet curtains and he wakes awash in its hue.

The bell rings the blue hour in the snowy distance and with nothing but routine dictating him, he pulls himself from the weighted sheets. The frigid air bites at what measure of skin it can find and the sensation brings him closer to the lucid chill of reality than the lurid flames of his dreams.

His hand passes over his bare chest to feel his heart and the faint beat reminds him that yes, he is alive.

His shadow shifts against the dawn light, the movements in the dark room foretold only by the susurration of shuffling cloth. In time he finds himself reaching for the cassock, which stares back at him with a stranger's gaze locked in its hanger for a head.

He avoids its scrutiny as he pulls the sleeves from the metal arms to his own. The inner silk is ice upon his reddened back and its valleys ripple across the sweltering blisters. It is stiff on his arms and the soft creases lightly dig into his elbows as he raises his hands. He counts the full thirty-nine buttons on this cassock and before his mind wanders again to the ashen place where his old one remains, he ties the cincture around his waist with hands deft of habit.

The alb is next, standing like a faded specter next to the empty hanger. The wool has the opposite effect, dragging across both silk and skin like pulled cotton. The stench of iron and fire is embedded upon its dull white grain, haunted by faces he will never see again.

From the corner of his eye, he catches a glint of red and turns to face his ghost in the smudged mirror. The faded burgundy of his stole yawns between the galloons and golden embroidery while the capelet droops over his shoulders too widely. He watches his reflection pull a rosary over his neck and when it clasps a hand over the star sapphire, the stone and glass seem to burn his skin.

A man of the cloth, they call him. Revered for what he dons more than what he has failed to become, the weight of the vestments suffocates him. A disguise for the devoutless. A gaol for the godless. A prison for the prayerless.

His hand travels to his heart, now caged behind liturgical cloth.

Of course, he cannot feel its beat and he supposes he never has.

Two sharp raps upon the wooden door strike him out of his thoughts.

"Are you ready?" The door is nudged ajar and a sliver of light cuts through the darkness. "It is time."

The priest wearing his skin looks back at him beyond the mirror, as if prompting him to respond. "Yes," he says as the word tumbles out of his dry mouth.

The seeping chill of the outside world frosts his breath. He clutches the worn, frayed klobuk and finally, after a long moment, puts it over his head.

"Let us depart."