Revelations(2)
“Dammit!” I snarl, heeding his admonition and leaving his father’s name out of my curse—this time. “Why must you twist everything around so prettily, why do you seek to confuse me with your sweet asides which have no bearing whatsoever on the topic at hand? Why will you not address this issue—for once in your life?”
“Which life?” he teases, but he casts his eyes down, and I watch as a sigh passes through his frame, a soft shudder that runs from head to toe, and I restrain myself from simply putting my arms around him and telling him everything will be all right. I can’t do that, can’t put voice to the lie, when he and I both know it won’t be, we’re simply going through the cycle again, and the end is ordained and inevitable. But just this once I’d like to change the journey just a little bit, which is what I’m attempting to do, in my own inimitable way.
“You know what she is, and you know she makes you look the fool. She destroys what credibility you have, so why do you put up with it?” My indignation is growing exponentially. I want to force him to look at me. I want to grab his arm and shake him out of this apparent torpor which is increasingly becoming a part of his current psyche, this lethargy of spirit which prevents him from seeing what must be done and acting upon it for the sake of all of us. But I also know if I touch him in that way, I’ll only harm myself in the doing, and I cannot profane that which I hold most sacred. His body is the chalice of my love and of my lust—my devotion, and my need—and I dare not sully it with my anger, nor allow it to cloud my perception. I’m the coolheaded one here, he’s the dreamer.
“Do not worry about her so, Judas.” At last he turns his gaze upon me, the corners of his mouth turning up just slightly in a sad smile that goes to my heart faster than his words. Those pass right over me, as usual. “She’s merely expressing herself, and for that I cannot blame her. How long has she been made to suffer the repression of her true spirit? Now she can be what she was always meant to be—”
“A whore?” I sneer. “An object to be used by any passing male?” Cruelly I mimic her voice in a tremulous falsetto. “‘Come in’ she says, ‘I’ll give you…
shelter from the storm.’”
“Judas.” His eyes are so incredibly large and dark and they’re looking right through me. Sorrowfully. Reproachfully. “Must you do that?”
“I must,” I say stubbornly, although it pains me to see that particular expression upon his face, even more knowing I am the cause of it. “She only makes things more difficult for us—for you—and I cannot bear it!”
“We have bigger issues than Mary,” he reminds me, cupping my cheek in one slender hand, locking his eyes upon mine. Ka-thump, ka-thump! Has a big bass drum begun beating nearby, or is that the very audible sound of my heart which is about to explode?
“But, Jesus…” I begin to protest, even as he places one finger upon my lips.
“You’re angry with her because she offered herself to me,” he says matter-of-factly. It doesn’t help to know he’s right, of course. Not that it’s the only reason I’ve no respect for Mary Magdalene—that is but one reason among many. But it’s the hardest to overcome, especially right this minute when I am coming within an ace of profaning him myself with my unworthy body. O Jesus, do you know what effect you have upon me? Of course you do. You know everything. “Sssh, sssh, don’t be angry for that, you know nothing happened, surely you realize that? It’s all right, my little one, everything shall be all right, try not to get worried…” Try not to get worried. How often have I heard her use those same words, as she attempts to touch him, to soothe his brow, to muscle her way into our midst?
The wench is much bolder now than she was when we began, I’ll grant her that.
She wastes our money on baubles and trinkets and other such foolishness. And when I protest I’m told not to worry, not to speak to her like that. Jesus says he’ll handle her, but what does that actually mean? She invariably ends up going her own way, doing what seems to come most naturally to her, regardless of what anyone says. I’d much rather be done with her this time. She plays no useful part in this story, so why not let her go? Yet for some reason he clings to her, despite my best advice, and that’s what’s tearing me apart. And which shall be our ruination.
Again.
My hand snakes out toward him, toward his spectacular tanned body, his toned ass. I want to touch him in the worst possible way, or is that the best? His eyes never blink, he never flinches—is it my imagination or has he forgotten to breathe as well? For a heart stopping moment the world recedes, and there is only he and I.