Sowing on the Mountain

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Mary didn't love anyone right then, not even herself. She shut the door and sat in the dark for a while, hoping to feel sleepy, but she didn't. She lit a candle and stared at the flame, until it reached the holder, turned blue, and winked out. She wondered what time it was, then decided she didn't care. Gris got up and nudged her and licked her hand. "Good dog," she said. "Wanna go out?" He wagged and she opened the door.

She flipped on one of the battery lights, that looked cold after the candle. Something on the shelf caught her eye, a steel tin labeled ALTOIDS: Curiously Strong Peppermints. She picked it up and set it on the table and opened the lid. It was full of sewing pins. She unzipped her sweatshirt and slid it down so her shoulder was bare. She took a pin and stuck it through the skin, not deep, and then moved it and pushed so it came out again. A drop of blood formed at each puncture and rolled down her left arm. It'll get infected, she thought.

She picked up another pin and repeated the process. It hurt, but it also felt good, almost holy. Offer it up, she remembered her mom saying after she'd fallen off her bike and gouged her forearm. She thought about Saint Sebastian, eyes rolled up in ecstasy with arrows piercing his naked flesh. She picked up another pin. Again.

Another. Again.

She remembered a priest urging devotion to the Five Holy Wounds. Two to go.

Another. Again.

Another. Again. No, that was ten.

Five pins, ten wounds. The pins didn't hurt so much as sting. The blood was flowing a little stream down her sleeve. Gris nosed the door open and came in and sniffed, then looked at her with alarm. He laid his head in her lap and whined. Good boy. Not your fault.

That should be enough, she thought, and sat there a while feeling cleansed by the slight, sharp pain. Offer it up. I'll fucking offer it up, bitch. To the poor, poisoned dogs of this sinful world.