It is a small, cold, and damp room; just breathing is enough to know we are in a basement.Ulises is tied to a large chair of thick wood, with abundant leather straps and heavy ropes. His torso, legs, arms, and even his head are immobilized, the latter firmly fixed against the backrest, slightly tilted upward.
A moldy, warped wooden counter holds a variety of surgical instruments, two bowls with water and bandages, and a couple of bottles.One of the sectarians, this time without his iconic hood, leans over Ulises: in one hand he holds an eyeball, and in the other, a pair of forceps resting on his face. In front of him, trembling, the parish priest holds a lamp to illuminate the operation. His face betrays tremendous anxiety.
"C-careful! yes? Don't h-hurt him..."
The sectarian slowly looks at him without moving his head and, with a deep and hoarse voice, grumbles with evident frustration:
"Keep the light still."
Then he pulls, neatly but firmly, on the eyeball. Fresh blood gushes from the cavity, refreshing the path of recent stains across Ulises' face and the straps that secure him. Then he lets go of the face, and with the forceps he clamps the filament that connects the back of the eyeball with the inside of the head.
"Clamp," he orders, extending his open hand toward the parish priest.
"Yes, yes... here you have it," the latter responds, gently placing the tool in the hand of the improvised surgeon.
The forceps remain secured in place, allowing him to hold the eyeball again with one hand and, with the other, cut its connection precisely. A low cry escapes from Ulises' sedated body, accompanied by a slight spasm.
"It h-hurts him! He's in pain, sir! Isn't he anesthetized!? Is he suffering!?"
"Calm yourself. He feels no pain. I have done this many times. Keep the light still."
The surgeon places the eyeball in a bowl on the counter, then barely turns toward a dark corner of the room.
"All done. Bring it."
Another tall man detaches from the wall and approaches with a small open chest, finely decorated, which he holds with both hands. The parish priest adjusts the lamp's height to peek at its contents. Inside rests a small black sphere, crossed by thin red veins. It is evident what it is: an eye. A black eye.
The surgeon takes it, while with the other hand he draws from his belt a strange steel tool. He brings it with utmost care to Ulises' eye socket, with slow, studied movements, leaning closer still to achieve critical precision.
Meanwhile, the parish priest trembles more than ever. He does not know it, but he sweats profusely and breathes quickly, emitting involuntary sounds of distress. The worst is the tremor he transmits to the lamp. The surgeon remains still for a few seconds, waiting for the light to stabilize. It never does. Finally, with a legendary effort not to show his frustration, he says through clenched teeth:
"Father, give the lamp to my companion."
The parish priest takes a few seconds to react, then slowly turns his arm toward the assistant. The latter extends his hand, but perhaps out of nerves the parish priest doesn't know if he truly intended to let go of the handle or only loosened his fingers... and the lamp falls. It smashes against the ground, immediately going out, scattering glass and oil at the men's feet. Nothing can be seen.
For a moment, silence stuns the scene. A drop falling onto a puddle in some corner cuts it. Then, again, silence. And darkness.