Joseph's hands hidden in his robe trembled slightly. He didn't know why he was like this. Reason roared madly in his mind, "Speak! Speak! Say you support the Bishop. Otherwise what! Like you did before! Even if you want to betray later, you must support on the surface!"
But he opened his mouth wide yet couldn't speak, only showing an expression uglier than crying.
"I won't force you, Joseph." Cyren said, "If anyone ostracizes you because of this, you can tell ."
"No... it's not that... I..." He answered half-crying, half-laughing, his right hand trembling epileptically.
Cyren's eyes focused, knowing this was somatization of ntal problems. Although unclear what exactly happened to Joseph, once it involved actual pain he couldn't ignore it. So he gripped the cross and recited loudly—
"Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted." (Matthew 5:4)
This was [Soothing of Suffering], a low-level divine art that ordinary priests could master. After the light fell on Joseph, he seed sowhat better, but the entire person still stood there dumbly.
Cyren walked over and grasped his shoulder, "Look at , Joseph. You can confess to . Before God, don't conceal anything."
He gestured for the others to leave. So Aldridge carried Sam and ran to the second floor. Six people began conversing quietly in the room.
"Ten minutes." Aldridge said quietly, fumbling four pennies from his pocket.
"Seven minutes." Fafnir pulled out a gold pound. The gleaming gold attracted people's gazes.
"Five minutes." Kyle also pulled out a gold pound, then thought about it and changed to five silver pennies.
Sam looked at them blankly, "What are you talking about? What minutes?"
"Betting on the ti Joseph gets convinced." Fafnir spread his hands.
"Huh?"
"He could convince even stones to beco believers." Aldridge said with certainty.
"Three minutes. I bet three minutes." Matilda gritted her teeth and pulled out a gold pound.
"Why?" Fafnir was startled, "Even the devil wouldn't be that fast!"
"The devil certainly couldn't, but Cyren can." Matilda said.
"Isn't this sowhat disrespectful..." Logan, who always had a straight face, helplessly protested, "Plus, sacred confession is happening below..."
"So are you betting or not?"
"Betting!" Logan imdiately pulled out three pennies, "Five minutes."
Kyle beside him punched him.
…
At this ti in the dining room, Joseph barely recovered consciousness. He looked at Cyren. He looked at that young bishop's clear eyes. Curly black hair slightly covered his eyebrows. He was concernedly supporting his shoulder. Behind him seed to shine light, carrying the halo of saints from scripture.
"God." He said.
He tremblingly pulled sothing from his bosom, then in the instant Cyren couldn't react, suddenly—BANG!!!
The gunshot shook the small building. People rushed down like mad, only to see Cyren collapsed on the dining table. The black bishop's robe and pale hands soaked in blood flowing from the gunshot wound in his abdon. Joseph sat trembling in a chair, holding a revolver.
"I'm fine!" Cyren shouted through intense pain, "Stop him!"
Only then did people notice Joseph had already aid the gun at his own chin. In the instant of pulling the trigger, Matilda suddenly kicked his hand.
Accompanied by the sound of bones breaking, Joseph fell to the ground in pain. Then Matilda's [Holy Healing] lit up. The blood from Cyren's wound gradually decreased.
"Jehovah Rapha." Cyren used Holy Healing on himself again, then seeing soldiers pouncing on Joseph and tying him up, said, "Just help him up."
So Fafnir and Logan held his arms, looking at him resentfully. Cyren sat steady with Matilda's support.
[Holy Healing] could only heal external injuries, but that bullet seed still in his abdominal cavity. Cyren endured the pain and looked at Joseph.
"Why didn't you kill ! Why didn't you kill !" Joseph couldn't face Cyren's eyes. His face flushed red as he roared, but was held down firmly by two soldiers. That voice was full of despair.
"God will not abandon anyone." Cyren pressed his hand on his head, "I forgive you. Look, it's already healed."
Tears gushed from Joseph's face. Hard to imagine a person could cry like that, with desperate wails, as if a child who had lost everything.
"He's a madman, right?" Matilda said quietly. Aldridge beside her shook his head indicating he also didn't know.
Cyren looked at Joseph firmly.
Psychoanalysis was usually a long-term process. He had previously even done long-term analysis lasting a year. During that ti, patients would suffer, would avoid, would call repeatedly saying "Doctor Gu, I don't want to co anymore."
But at that ti, he had to firmly refuse, "No, you must co. Sa ti. If it's inconvenient for you, I'll co to your ho."
Because at that ti, what supported the treatnt continuing was only the analyst's persistence.
He had to repeatedly veto the patient's avoidance, force him to face his own pain. He had to play the big Other, forcibly intervene in the patient's world.
He pressed Joseph's shoulder, looking at him coldly from a condescending angle, "As my... believer, you can decide when to start confession, but when to end, only I can decide. Understand?"
Joseph cald down for the first ti. He looked at Cyren's cold, condescending, rciless perspective, instead feeling as safe and comfortable as returning ho.
"I specifically looked at your file." Cyren said, "You were once a landless farr, worked your way from doorkeeper to priest."
Joseph didn't speak.
"Not easy, was it?" Cyren said.
Tears flowed again. Joseph's entire body convulsed. His obese body shook out fat's patterns. He had already answered with actions.
"You were most likely illiterate, could only recite a few scripture fragnts, so you learned later. You were perhaps mocked, humiliated, abused, ostracized... yet you learned to read and write in such an environnt. What kind of conviction supported you?"
Cyren pressed his head. Though his words were gentle, the strength in his hand firmly pressed him down.
This wasn't because he enjoyed it, but because he knew Joseph liked it. This was his safe zone, the posture of the big Other he once took for granted.
This was precisely his initial crux.
He experienced too much pain, whether losing land or struggling in the Church's organizational structure. Traumatic events destroyed his perception of the symbolic order.
Thereafter, he internalized social rules as a cruel big Other, this Other only recognized flattery and obedience. He firmly believed the operating rules of the power world were mutual trampling and catering to superiors. This beca his stable fantasy frawork.
Even his obese body was perhaps a mark of enjoynt, but this enjoynt wasn't the commonly spoken "happiness," but a twisted pleasure obtained through self-debasent.
He completely submitted to that "flattery-approving, violent" big Other he imagined, even making his entire self the target of that big Other's desire. He groveled without bottom line. Even if soone stepped on his face, he could smile and say "Sir, you stepped well," because he felt the big Other's desire was satisfied and he obtained a "self."
Yes, his entire "self" was constructed by the big Other's desire. Each flattery, each obsequiousness, seemingly catering to superiors, was actually proving "who I am."
Each superior was the big Other's spokesman. "I" was the person who satisfied the big Other's enjoynt. Thus, in the big Other's gaze, he obtained coordinates of "self."
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