The Wounds of Jonas Clark

By Gene Masters

Jonas Clark, A 33-year-old investment banker, is jolted awake one Friday morning by his girlfriend, in bed next to him, screaming and covered in blood.  When he discovers the blood is his, and that he's bleeding from painful puncture wounds in both his hands and his feet, he becomes even more alarmed.  He has no memory of how they got there, or who made them.

In the ensuing weeks, Jonas struggles to come to terms with the wounds—and the pain—as they appear, then disappear, every Friday thereafter.  Is he subconsciously inflicting the wounds himself, as the doctors claim, or is there something more surreal going on?  Join Jonas on his journey of discovery as he searches for answers, finally finding them—in  the last place he thought to look.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Escarpment Press
• Release date: Sep 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393496441

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The Wounds

Of

Jonas Clark

By

Gene Masters

The Wounds of Jonas Clark

Copyright © Gene Masters August 15, 2020

FIRST EDITION

10 9 8  7 6 5 4 3 2 1

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

This book is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property.

This book may not be reproduced in print, electronically, or in any other format, without the express written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts for publicity purposes.

Cover artwork by GoneWithTheWind

Detail of statue with hand with the stigmata

Copyright © Shutterstock.com/Image #596327012

Published in the United States of America by

Escarpment Press, Indian Land, SC

Table of Contents

1 - Stigmata

2 - The ER

3 - Finding a Good Shrink

4 -  Dr. Abraham

5 – Dr. Abraham, In Desperation

6 – Dr. Lightbearer

7 – Diagnosis

8 – St. Francis

9 – Father Stephen

10 – A Life Story

11 – Father Luke

12 – Cardinal Moore

13 – Magdalena

14 – Reconciliation

15 – Turning to Rome

16 – Father Torkia

17 – Confrontation

18 – In Conference

19 – Revelation

20 – Capitulation

21- Forgiveness

22 – Other Arrangements

23 – Happenings

24 – End Game

About the Author

For my daughters, Giannine and Ann

—Gene Masters

Nothing is so fatal to religion as indifference.

—Edmund Burke

Son of man, you live in the midst of a rebellious house; they have eyes to see but do not see, and ears to hear but do not hear, for they are a rebellious house.

—Ez. 12:1

1

Stigmata

Sunlight flooded the room.  Magdalena awoke with the hazy awareness that it was morning and a workday, but that she had the day off, and didn’t have to get up unless she wanted to. It was a good feeling. She was naked, as was the man sleeping next to her. They had gone to bed that way, making strenuous love several times before finally dozing off, sated.  Magdalena remembered the passion, the pleasure, of the night before.  She was sure that if she awakened him, he would be more than willing to start in again, the luscious man whose arm lay across her chest, his hand resting on her breast.

Slowly she became aware of a wetness, a stickiness, there, where his hand rested. She pulled down the sheet to look, and her breast was bright red, covered in blood.  His blood, coming from a hole in his hand.  And she screamed.

Still screaming, and gripped with sudden panic, Magdalena scrambled out from under the covers, away from him, away from the bloodstained sheets, and sat down on the floor against the far wall, hugging her knees, sobbing, desperately sucking in air, trying to catch her breath between screams.

And that was how Jonas Clark awoke that morning—to Magdalena screaming bloody murder.  Dazed, confused, and still groggy from sleep, he instinctively moved to touch her, hold her, calm her, comfort her.  But she was not there in the bed next to him, and the hand that he had extended to her was bleeding.  He looked at his hand.  His palm was pierced through and through.  And then, he saw, so was his other palm.  He realized suddenly that he was in pain, his hands and his feet were throbbing. Finally, panic and fear gripped him, too, and he lost it.

Jonas could not have told you how long he sat there on the bed, gasping, and fighting off the hysteria that threatened to freeze his brain. When he finally got hold of himself, and assessed the damage that had somehow been inflicted upon his body during the night, he discovered that, somehow, both his hands and feet had been pierced through and were oozing blood.  And there was lots of blood; the bedclothes were soaked.  And his wounds hurt like hell.  But he also realized that, aside from the pain, he felt okay, not weak, nor dizzy, nor anything.  Somehow, he just knew he wasn’t going to die.  Not that morning, anyway.

Meanwhile, Magdalena’s screaming had stopped, apparently caught in her throat. And the normally cool and collected Magdalena sat slumped against the far wall, making a peculiar gasping, gulping sound, as if struggling to catch her breath.

To his credit, Jonas forgot about himself for once, and thought about Magdalena. They had been a couple for a few months now—was it four?—and while the sex was beyond fantastic, he had also come to really like her.

Calm down, he said, padding over to where she sat, and sitting down next to her.  Take it easy, Maddie.  I think it’s me that’s hurt, not you.  He wasn’t at all sure about that, but he hoped he was right.  Then he showed her his hand, blood seeping from a puncture wound, his palm pierced all the way through.  But that only made her sob louder and gulp faster.  Jonas moved to put his other arm around her, and then remembered that it, too, was wounded, so he pulled it back. 

Come on, Maddie, he said, I need you to take it easy.  Try and calm down now.  Everything’s gonna be just fine.  Take it easy.  You’ll see.  And he hoped to God he was right about that.  Magdalena was smart and perceptive, drop-dead gorgeous, and, like Jonas, enjoyed the finer things in life.  Jonas had only recently given her a key to his apartment, something he had never, ever, done for another woman, and of late she had been sleeping over pretty regularly.  He had thought they might have a chance for a real relationship. And now this shit happened.

Soon, he could see that she was struggling to control herself, forcing herself to be calm, her breathing still ragged, but slowing.  That’s it . . . Just breathe, he reassured her.   You’re okay, and you’ll be just fine.  Are you hurt?  Are you cut anywhere?  Magdalena struggled to gain control, but could not answer him.

I don’t think you’re hurt, Jonas said, but if you can stand up, I’ll check you out.  He stood up, reaching out to help her stand as well, but she just looked at the bloody hand he offered, shuddered, and shied away.  At least she had stopped the godawful gasping, he noted.  Please, Maddie, stand up and let me look at you, he cajoled.  And eventually she did.

Jonas looked over her entire body.  Despite the blood—his blood—she was unmarked, and looked as stunning and alluring as ever.  Feeling slightly ashamed at his now visible reaction to her charms, he said, Good. I don’t know exactly what happened, but I’m going into the bathroom now to clean up.  You just stay here for a bit and keep breathing.  Slow, deep breaths.  Magdalena nodded her assent, and Jonas headed for the bathroom.  When you’re up to it, he called over his shoulder, Call 911.  I’m hurting and I’m going to need some help here.

Her eyes followed him as he padded through the bedroom to the bathroom, his feet leaving bloodstained footprints on the beige carpet. 

Once in the bathroom, Jonas first washed his feet in the bidet, wrapping each foot in a hand towel, before washing his hands in the sink.  As he did so, Magdalena, calmer now, passed behind him, went into the shower, and turned on the water.  She emerged several minutes later, wet body glistening, her skin smooth and unbroken. You were right, she said, cowed, but in control,  none of the blood is mine.

I told you, Jonas said, feeling somewhat vindicated,  Did you call 911?  Are the EMTs on their way?

No.  I didn’t call them.

Why not? he asked, a bit testy now.

Because I don’t want them to find me here like this, and asking me all kinds of questions, she replied, even testier, and more defiant.  "Besides, I have no idea what happened here last night after I fell asleep. The only thing I know for sure is that I didn’t put those holes in you.  I don’t know who did—maybe you even did that shit to yourself, for all I know.  But what I do know is that all of this is beyond weird!   She stopped for a breath.  And that’s why I didn’t call 911! Besides, you’re obviously not dying.  And you can walk.  I watched you.  St. Luke’s is just two blocks away.  Or call 911 yourself, if you want.  I’m getting dressed and I’m getting the hell out of here."

You do that, he said, now angry.

And she did.  And when she left, she left her key to his apartment on the hall table, which just upset Jonas all the more.  Magdalena had just left in a tizzy, and given him back his key, and he knew all of a sudden that he had really cared about her.

Back to TOC

2

The ER

Jonas endured three painful hours waiting in the Emergency Room at St. Luke’s before anyone would see him.  And Jonas Clark wasn’t used to waiting, not for anything, not in any of his thirty-three years.  An only child, a child of privilege, raised and educated in one of the trendiest sections of Long Island, he graduated at the top of his class at Cornell, where he had majored in economics, with a minor in math. 

Jonas was tall, a shade over six feet, three inches, and had the broad shoulders and lean physique of the