DISCLAIMER: Carnivale and its canon characters are the property of HBO and the show's producers; no copyright infringement is intended.
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Crack! Crack! Crack!
Justin Crowe gave a low moan...of pain, and satisfaction.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Alone in his bedroom, kneeling on the floor with his eyes closed, he was pleased at how easily he'd been able to slip back into the routine of self-flagellation. Reaching behind his right shoulder to lash himself on his bare back...passing the whip from his right hand to his left...reaching behind the left shoulder to lash himself on that side...taking the whip back in his right hand and repeating the process, rhythmically, over and over.
Why do I seek to punish myself? he wondered.
He told himself he wasn't really doing that - not now, in these waning days of 1935. He was merely finding comfort in the familiarity of an old practice, long neglected.
Of course, it wasn't exactly the same.
In the old days, the only pain he'd felt had been in his back. He'd raised welts, but never drawn blood. Now the worst pain was in his chest, as his arm movements pulled at the muscles and aggravated the wound that had never completely healed. And he felt a steady trickle of blood - hot, burning blood - from the fork of his tree tattoo.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Face it. I do deserve punishment, for my failure in battle with that carny boy!
Crack! Crack! Crack!
It's understandable that I tore open my cassock when I was in agony. That I ripped off the buttons. But even without buttons, I could have used my powers to close the garment when I'd gotten off the Ferris wheel. Instead, I gloried in displaying my tattoo, showing off what I am - at the cost of giving the boy a clear view of the spot he had to strike.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
And as if that wasn't bad enough, my vanity led me into another error when I was poised to kill him. I took my eyes off him, and looked up to the heavens to gloat. Left myself wide open, completely vulnerable.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Folly, sheer mindless folly! The same hubris I've condemned in Iris!
Crack! Crack! CRACK!
He felt a wave of faintness, and realized he'd gone far enough - too far - with the self-abuse. He'd lost a significant amount of blood - undoubtedly had his back bleeding now, as well as his chest.
He opened his eyes just as his left hand was reaching, automatically, to take the whip from his right.
Dropping the whip, he stared at that left hand. There was something about it...
And then, suddenly, he remembered.
I was flat on my back in the cornfield...wounded...the dagger blade sticking out of my chest. Ben leaned over me, gripped the blade. He seemed to be on the verge of passing out himself.
He remembered groping with his left hand for the youth's right arm. Remembered the hand creeping up that arm, trying feebly to clutch it...
He sat back on his haunches, stunned.
I wasn't trying to push him away, he realized.
And I wasn't trying to reach his throat and choke him.
For some unfathomable reason, I was trying to help him drive the blade in!
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The End