.5.

Matthew 4:18-19;

"And Jesus, walking by the sea of Galilee, saw two brethren, Simon called Peter, and Andrew his brother, casting a net into the sea: for they were fishermen. And he said unto them, 'Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men'... "

Knees on hard wood began to ache from kneeling too long but the owner didn't stand. Didn't try to soothe the pain. He pretended to like it. Pretended to ignore it.

Jesus hadn't liked it either but he'd gone through it. For the world. For sin. A man knew sin well. A man knew he had been deep in it. Before he found Jesus. Before Jesus found him.

The old brown bible stained with coffee lay next the man. The rough tired edges brushing his knees.

His head was bent, the small vertebrates adorning the spinal cord at his neck sticking out, held at bay by skin. He was bald. Deep holed injuries were all around the crown of his head. They looked like different large needles were used to pierce his scalp deeply. He was naked. Flesh protruded at his belly, his back, his legs. Flaps, one would call them.

He liked to be naked. To be as he was created. Naked. Alone. Jesus had found him and he'd learned. But not before he had paid for his sins.

His skin was pale and grotesque. Marks laced the sickly looking surface like tattoos. He'd cut himself. He'd watched the blood drain and felt a sense of satisfaction. Watched the sin flow out of him. He'd purged himself. Purged himself of his sins.

Mark after mark after mark... He'd purged and purged and purged.

A part of him knew he could die but he made the marks deeper leaving them unwashed and unstitched afterwards. They smelled... Rotted. He was slowly dying.

But God had shown him Matthew. Fisher of Men... He knew he had to do God's work. Knew he had to purge the sinners. He stitched the wounds, welcoming the sharp prick of needles with ease. Getting to work, he carved a Crown of Thorns. Just like the one Jesus had. He wore it everyday, digging it deeper as he bled out. Sometimes he'd get dizzy from the amount of blood he was loosing but he didn't care.

He found his sinners soon after. He knew everything about them. Where they worked, where they lived, the places they went to and the time they left. The Lord had shown him. Instructed him on how to do his work.

He stood up from the floor and headed towards the lone figure lying on a table at the far end of the room. The crucifixes and Jesus pictures hanging on the wall made the room look like a chapel. The lighting in the room, produced by candles situated in various corners of the medium-sized space. Sometimes he burned himself with the candles.

Reaching the table, he began to murmur. The room was graveyard silent but his lips were moving. The body on the table barely moved. The pupils of the human so dilated she could barely see a thing. She couldn't move, couldn't speak, but she saw, she felt and she cried.

She cried. Lone tears that slipped from the sides of her eyes and disappeared into her hair. She was screaming inside. A man knew. Even as he ran a hand smoothly over her naked breast and stomach in a lover's caress. He knew she screamed mentally but physically she was as dead as a corpse. Dead but alive.

Her legs were straight but apart. Her hands stretched out by her sides. Like Leonardo Da Vinci's Vitruvian Man.

Her name was Lena. Lena Hidridge. She worked at a local newspaper firm. She began work at 7 and closed by 3. She shared an apartment with her coworker. The Lord had shown him.

She frequented the club a stone throw from her place, everyday from work. She'd leave the club early in the morning. Drunk and barely able to say her name. The Lord had shown him.

She'd sinned. She was a sinner. She had to be purged. Cleansed. Made whole again. The Lord had told him.

His hand still caressing Lena, a whisper filled his head. Like something coming to life. And a voice began to chant.

Fisher of men. Fisher of men. Fisher of men...

He'd waited for her

4AM.

She'd come stumbling out of the building

Fisher of men. Fisher of men. Fisher of men...

She was drowsy. She was drunk. She was weak. She reeked of sin.

Sin.

Sin.

Sin.

Fisher of men. Fisher of men. Fisher of men...

He'd wrapped a white handkerchief to her nose and she'd caved. Too weak to put up a fight. Too drenched in sin.

Fisher of men. Fisher of men. Fisher of men.

He'd brought her here and he injected her every few hours. He'd shaved her clean. Washed her down with bleach. And he'd waited on God. For the right moment to do his will..

And The Lord had answered.

Now was the time.

Fisher of Men...

Situating himself at the far end of the table, he adjusted Lena so that her legs hung off the wood and her butt graced the edge. He spread her wide.

His cock was beginning to harden and more tears slipped from Lena. Her eyes were unblinking, her body lifeless. Dead but alive. More tears.

He thrust inside her. Hard. Too hard. She was dry and it hurt. Her brain screamed but her body was dead. Her eyes cried. He thrust again. Grunting.

Purge. Purge. Purge. Cleanse.

He kept thrusting roughly, his breathing laboured.

Throwing his head back mid thrust, he thought of Sreya and her sins. Thought of her inward screams. Her outward tears.

He thrust. And thrust. And thrust. Lena bled. And bled. And bled. Till she found peace in death.

Fisher of men. Fisher of men. Fisher of men...

The voice chanted on.

He wore his Crown of Thorns and burned his flesh.