Chapter Fourteen
Soon after this, at the foot of the shrine, as the candle flung the trembling shadow of the pillar of Pluck-associated artefacts across the floor and up a wall, the coronel, once again, thought fit to manipulate his member towards (anti)climax—his mind did not prompt him, his body did not urge him, but his soul inspired him to enact this ritual, not for the incitement of, but rather as a reproof to, his flesh, and, ultimately, out of devotion to his saint—and, in medias res, it fell off—again.
He got down on all fours—yes, like a fucking dog—and searched the floor for it. Gingerly, so as not to provoke an avalanche about his head, he untucked from the pile Pluck’s hallowed magnifying glass, and, after scouring every inch of the floor, found it where it lay, surrendering itself, in the dust. When he prodded it, with a loving fingertip, it crumbled into miniscule motes of meaningless flesh.
He nodded. He understood.
Weeping, whilst reciting under his breath garbled, bastardised, half-remembered prayers from his youth, he served up the fragments, burning them in a teaspoon over the candle, a humble offering to Whoever might be listening, an apology, and a plea for peace to come to him soon.