Testimony by Zaqary Fekete

Every morning after breakfast, Dad would retreat into his study, the door clicking shut behind him. I could hear him moving about inside, the faint scratch of pen on paper. But I never knew what he was doing in there. Sometimes, I knocked, just to check, but he’d ask for privacy, his voice sharp, urgent. I accepted it as his ritual, some kind of strange practice. But recently there had been something in his eyes, something different, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

He always emerged in the afternoon, carrying a stack of papers, his sleeves rolled up and his eyes too bright. Each paper bore his testimony. His story of salvation, how he came to Christ. It was a simple, short tale, just enough to fit on a slip of paper. And it was this same story, year after year, he handing out to anyone who’d listen. Strangers, neighbors, the person behind the counter at the deli. They all received a copy of the paper, and they all gave him the same polite smile, but I sometimes saw the discomfort in their eyes, the way they’d fumble with the paper or nod and tuck it away in a pocket, unsure of what to do with it.

He was no longer young, and his increasing frailty became harder to ignore. His hands would shake when he handed out the papers. His voice, once loud and sure, grew quieter…thinner, as if the words were becoming harder to say. He had a dullness in his eyes, and he was losing weight. His clothes hung loosely from his frame. But he never slowed down. He kept giving out the papers day after day. And I kept pretending it didn’t bother me.

“Are you alright, Dad?” I asked one evening, watching him tremble as he stacked another pile of papers.

He nodded with a strange smile. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just doing the work.”

My eyes lingered on him. Then I looked more closely at his arms. The skin seemed stretched tight, like tissue paper. He saw me looking, and quickly turned away, pulling down his sleeves. I wanted to ask more, to press him, but something in his face, something in the way he avoided looking directly at me, held me back. A dread settled deep in my chest.

The next morning, after he went to his study, I couldn’t stand the tension any longer. I had to see for myself. I crept quietly toward the door, my heart thudding. The door was ajar. I pushed it open.

What I saw stopped me cold.

The papers were scattered across the desk, crumpled and soaked through with ink. But something was different. I approached the table. I took a slip of paper and passed my finger across the still-wet ink. No. Not right. It was thick somehow. Blotchy. Clotted. And then I noticed the smell. Something curdled. Like milk left out too long. The ink was dark, almost black, but there were streaks of red in it, veins of crimson winding through.

I backed away slowly, my stomach twisted. There was something wrong, wrong in a way I couldn’t put into words. I turned to leave, but then I heard it—my father’s voice, weak and strained, drifting from the bedroom next door.

He was quoting scripture. His voice warbled, high and eerie, “Share in…suffering…as a good soldier. We carry in our body…Christ’s death.”

My heart pounded as I rushed toward the bedroom. I burst through the door, and the sight that met me stole my breath.

Dad was lying on the floor, his hands clutching at his neck. His chest was covered in blood. It soaked his shirt, and rivulets of it flowed onto the floor. His face was pale, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and clarity. He knew he had reached too deep. He had in his hand the dripping pen.

“Dad!” I screamed, rushing to his side, but he barely moved. His lips parted in a ragged gasp.

“People need to know,” he wheezed, his voice barely a breath. “They need to… be saved.” His chest heaved, his breaths shallow and labored. 

I pressed my hands to his neck, trying to stem the blood, but it was no use. The life was slipping from him, faster than I could grasp it.

“Dad, please,” I begged, tears streaming down my face.

But his gaze fluttered, distant. His eyes were glazing over.

“They need to know,” he repeated, more faintly now. “I… I have more to give.”

I held his body in my arms, slowly feeling his blood run down around us. It only took him a few more minutes to die, but I don’t know how long I sat there, cradling his grey head. Finally, I laid it down on the floor. 

Then I looked up and gasped. The room was full of papers. Stacked to the ceiling. Enough for months more. And then I noticed, by his feet, a larger piece of paper, bigger than the others. I fumbled for it.

It said, “Daughter, when I am gone. Please continue my work.”

***

It’s been six months since that night. My days have fallen into a rhythm. It is not as difficult as I thought. I read a bit of the Bible in the morning, and then I leave the house each day, my pockets filled with papers. When I meet people, I don’t pause to think. I hand them out. I don’t wait for reactions. I just keep going.

I am a little worried though. I checked last night. There are only a few stacks left. And when I saw that I felt a little itch on my arm. I scratched at it, but the itch felt deeper. Like it was something beneath the skin.