Michael could say all this, but he only says two words. Two words. He is eager to be done here. Let me walk the dark hall, he thinks. “Start talking,” David Lundy says, “or I’ll saw your fucking head off myself.” The remnants, the remnants, the hand, the voice, the eye. Use them all at once and here comes the seepage, the devil stepping forth, the grand and yawing darkness. It has been Michael’s purpose to witness this. To see. He says two words only. Saint Michael smiles with blood on his teeth. He says, “It’s begun.”
