2 am on deserted streets with my hand in my pocket, clicking stones strung together on a string made to resemble a pearl necklace. They're wrapped between my fingers like a rosary. I'm thinking about the Mask of Zorro, the yellow circle of light on concrete, and the gun, the gun.
With one end of the string held against my eye and the other pointed at the moon, the pearls become a glowing pathway. After weeks of meditation, they've become a tether connecting me to something deep and old. The necklace is the circle broken forever. It is the veil torn away. Divine hymen.
St. Thomas and St. Martha, the masculine and feminine, struck down by the bullet, leaving little Bruce alone and stripped to the bone. It's the part of initiations they don't talk about in the Golden Dawn handbook: the bone-rattling fear and the ache in a corner of your heart "that cannot be pointed to".
St. Thomas: W-What is this?
Joe Chill: A stickup, buddy! I'll take that necklace you're wearin', lady!
The scene plays out as an anxiety dream with a million angles. The pearls and the pool of blood always waiting at the end.
And look: who's eyes are reflected in that pool?
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