- St. Francis of Assisi
If God can work through me, He can work through anyone
"Saint Francis was kind of obsessed with the suffering of Christ," you said, eyes scanning the pages of your notebook. "He was really into mortification of the flesh as a form of penance — like, physically manifesting repentance. The idea was that the pain brought him closer to what Christ went through."
Frank tilted his head, turning that over. "I mean, I don’t have anything against Jesus or whatever, but I’m not exactly dying to walk in His sandals either. So... did he have what I have? The... whipping?"
"Not exactly," you murmured. "He received what’s called the Five Wounds — the nail marks in both hands and feet, and the one from the spear in His side."
Frank stared up at the ceiling. "A spear. Awesome."
You paused, a bit hesitant now, then gently set your notebook aside. "Could I… see your back?"
Without a word, Frank shifted, turning so he sat sideways on the bed, back facing you. The soft rustle of the hospital gown filled the room as you untied it slowly, your fingers brushing lightly against his skin as you pushed the fabric aside.
"Nice tattoos," you said, your voice close to his ear now. The bed dipped as you leaned in without thinking.
"They used to be," Frank replied, voice low as if the contact brought him some kind of fragile comfort. "Got all fucked up, as you can see."
Your fingers hovered over the ink on the back of his neck. "This says 'Keep the Faith,' right?"
"Bon Jovi," Frank said, and despite everything, a smile tugged at his lips. "Not the Bible."
You let out a short, soft scoff. "I know that. You think I listen to hymns in my car?"
Frank laughed quietly, looking down at his lap. "You don’t?"
"No. I listen to eighties hair rock like everyone else."
Your hand lingered between his shoulder blades, and your voice softened. "Why the pumpkin?"
"My birthday’s Halloween," Frank said simply.