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long dark nights, and a reminder that not everything in the world was bad.
    All gone now.
    Edsel's body was screaming again as he crept around to the back of the house. He wondered when the scabbing over of the tattoos would reach its peak. Although pain was still blinding in its intensity, it was beginning to itch more and more now as the skin tightened and scabs really began to form in earnest.
    As they had been giving him The Ink the two tattooists, each beginning on one foot each, had gone through in morbid detail exactly what he could expect from his new markings.
    It had sounded worse than the actual pain of having every part of your body covered in Ink — until it started. There was simply no describing the pain involved with having the areas between your toes injected with Ink by a needle. Then they did the soles of his feet and he blacked out. When he came-to they were still working on his feet. He was made to watch, his head strapped to the table, eyes held open with some kind of clamps. Every so often they would put drops in just so they didn't dry out — most considerate.
    Then they started on the ankles; he blacked out again. The skin covered bone was by far the worst, until they got up to his groin and peeled back his foreskin and even tattooed the inside. It was explained that every single piece of flesh that could be seen in any way would be red — this was how they gave themselves to the religion completely. He would thank them for it, they had told him, they were doing him a favor.
    Some bloody favor.
    His ordeal tormented him, and he knew it would for as long as he lived. Some things were best forgotten but they were always the things that stayed with you forever. Not that he could ever get rid of the memory of what had been done to him however hard he tried — it was there, every time he looked at his body. The only question was how long he'd actually have left to live.
    At some point, after countless hours so filled with pain he didn't know if it had been half a day or half a lifetime, they flipped him over and he had to watch them start at his lower legs again before moving on up to his backside. A thousand needles penetrating the skin around your anus is not something you ever want to contemplate happening, but it did, and they just kept on going — like two sadistic butchers teasing their meat before they finally put it out of its misery.
    Through it all was a constant monologue of what would happen to him. Either the tattooists would regale him with morbid tales, or on occasion Bishop would come in to check on progress and give even more detail about what he could expect over the next few days and weeks.
    They would keep him tied down — for his own safety, he was assured. The last thing you wanted to do was to disturb the scabs that would form. First there would be a milky substance extruded by his body, a sort of coating called lymph that was the body's first defense. They would apply a special ointment to keep his skin hydrated as this would lessen the scabbing. It was important that The Ink was respected, never allowed to dry out, and under no circumstance was he to be allowed clothes. The material would rub on the scabs that formed by the second day, and if the scabs were ripped off then The Ink would not take as well, meaning the color would be less than perfect. It would be patchy, and that was a mockery of the gift bestowed on him.
    He was to remain still, no movement; the skin must heal sufficiently first. The skin was to be hydrated but not too wet, as that way The Ink wouldn't penetrate deep beneath. Sweat would ruin The Ink. Sweat would stop it from sinking through to the lower layers that made sure it was permanent, and even moving around much could cause the scabs to split and his Ink to be ruined.
    So he would remain isolated, strapped down, maybe allowed up only if he showed that he understood the great gift bestowed on him, and proved that he respected The Ink and how it must be