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With the bread cupped gingerly in the palm of its hand, Nikolai asks Nathaniel, “At what point does eating flesh become kissing it?”
—
Nikolai knows about God, though oftentimes, it wishes it didn’t. It grew up hearing the stories, having the Lord’s presence carved into its skin, being told This is unquestionable truth. But when Nikolai stuck a knife into its own eye, there was no god who came to save it, and when it doused the church in its hometown with gasoline, no supernatural being prevented the building from going up in flames.
When Nikolai begged for a Savior, no one answered.
So, if there is a god, he abandoned Nikolai long before Nikolai abandoned him.
Nathaniel looks at it in pity when it says this; insists that cannot be true and Nikolai’s perceived loneliness was merely a test of its faith. Nikolai does not believe him. It listens to his words anyway. It hangs off each syllable like a serpent on a vine, waiting for the right moment to pounce — to sink its teeth into Nathaniel’s skin and taste the blood beneath.
—
“You believe in transubstantiation,” Nikolai continues. It was one thing Nathaniel and Fyodor agreed upon—that during Eucharist, the bread and wine become the flesh and blood of Jesus. “So, if this is the body of your God…” It holds the bread up to the light. “Is consumption of flesh truly any different than lathering affection with your lips?”
—
In order to use his ability, Nathaniel must cut himself open.
Nikolai watches, entranced, as a blade pierces the skin of his palm. Blood beads bright red at the point of incision, even before the knife is extracted. In Nikolai’s mind, it presses its tongue to the wound. In Nikolai’s mind, its teeth were the reason for the puncture in the first place.
It wonders if this is a holy experience for Nathaniel; reminiscent of his God nailed to a wooden cross, stakes driven through His hands.
It wonders what Nathaniel would say if it interrupted, tainting a moment of righteousness with its sinful desires.
—
“You shouldn’t speak of the Lord in that way,” Nathaniel says.
A grin splits Nikolai’s face. “Would you rather I devour you instead?”
—
“Communion is a closed practice,” Nathaniel tells Nikolai, when it asks about his plans for Easter and then asks to join in. It knew this, of course. It has partaken before—a long time ago, in a building now reduced to ash.
“I was baptized as an infant,” it replies. “Is that enough?”
—
Nikolai places the bread on its tongue. Chews, swallows, does not feel any holiness enter into its body. This is not reminiscent of flesh beneath teeth.
It sips from the same cup as Nathaniel, and the wine does not go down like blood either. It stares at Nathaniel’s lips, stained red. It does not care to consume God when something far more enticing stands within reach.
—
The following spring, Nikolai tears into its own body alone.