Mira Corpora. Jeff Jackson

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       I BEGIN

       There’s an empty notebook in the bottom drawer of my desk. I place it on a flat surface. I fold it open to the third page. I tap my pen against the paper three times. Then I draw the picture of a door and beneath it write the word “open.”

       The floor beneath me begins to shift. I keep my eyes fixed on the page, where the door is now ajar to reveal a staircase. I enter the page and walk down the steps. In pitch dark, I feel the way with my hands, running my fingertips along the walls. I move slow and breathe deep.

       There is a bottom and my feet experience the relief of flat ground. I stand still and let my eyes adjust. A pinpoint of light beckons in the distance. I follow its faint glow as I move down the corridor. Soon I enter a round room with no windows. Torches encircle the rough stone walls. A wooden altar stands at the center of the space.

       I look closer. A boy with alabaster skin—always alabaster—is tied to the altar with twine. He’s bare except for a modest loincloth and I can see the blue veins beneath his pale skin. A delicate specimen. His body briefly spasms in a struggle against his bonds, but it’s just a twinge of animal instinct without much conviction.

       I’m careful to prepare this sacrament correctly. I start by plucking the stray hairs from the boy’s otherwise smooth chest. Soon his skin appears as blank as a page. A steel dagger lies next to the body. I grip it tightly. As I approach the empty surface, the blade feels as sharp as a quill. I’m ready to begin.