Revelations(26)
Fuck it. Let them do without me. Let them wonder about my absence, maybe worry about my well-being. Foolish idea—what do they care about me? Very little, I know, very little.
Why do I let her get to me in this way? Why do I care what she says or thinks?
Is it because I know she’s right, and I’m the reason for his agitation? Oh dear God, I don’t want to hurt him, and yet lately that seems to be all I’m capable of doing, despite my best efforts to the contrary. I don’t want his last days in this time to be filled with pain that I’ve inflicted upon him. All I wish to do is love him. That’s all.
And that is all I cannot do. Not in the way I would wish, anyway.
Will there ever come a time for us? Even if it does by some miracle of God come to pass, will I even stand a ghost of a chance with him? Or will I lose him to another man? Maybe even to some woman? Perhaps to that whore, Mary M? Is that why I despise her so greatly, above and beyond any provocation she has given me over the years, because I fear their closeness?
And just why is it I torture myself with these thoughts, when I should be preparing myself to face his death yet again? Or is that the reason for my increasing agitation, the knowledge that his time upon this earth is coming to an end? As well as my own, for our fates are ever intertwined. And then we’ll return to his father, await the next coming, whenever, whatever that might entail. I was so very hopeful, though, that perhaps this would be the right time for he and I, the right place, even. That this might be the opportunity I’ve sought for over two thousand years. Mother Mary’s words had given me such hope. And yet…and yet…
Is it really necessary that he die?
I have never questioned the wisdom, the purpose of this act before, but suddenly I find myself wondering…why does it have to be this way? Why shouldn’t Jesus be allowed to live his life all the way through, to live and love, fully and purposefully, as other people are allowed to do? Why should it always be different for him? Does simply being his father’s son preclude him from happiness by virtue of his birth? This is not blasphemy, I merely wish to understand...
Some may ask why can’t I be content to share the other world with him, the one we inhabit when we are between lives, between earthly visitations—with his father. Would not God allow us to be together there at least? The truth of the matter is that I’ve been too cowardly to even try…
My wanderings have drawn me back to the selfsame pond once more, the site of their recent escapades. Mary’s teasing words of encouragement seem to hang in the very air I breathe. None of them are currently here, for which I’m profoundly grateful, although not really surprised. They’ve no doubt found other entertainment, gone somewhere else, even out here, in the proverbial middle of nowhere—without me, obviously. Their favorite form of entertainment, don’t you know—anything that does not include Judas. Not that I miss their companionship, I can easily do without it. Or any feeble attempts at camaraderie, nor do I wish to hear the brothers-in-arms lecture either. Don’t mistake my honesty for self-pity, far from it. I need no one and nothing. The only one whose company I actually miss is Jesus, the only one whose company I desire, the only one…
Damn, what is that? My introspective reverie is broken by a sound in the darkness, and I’m instantly wary, for there is no telling whom it might be, or what they might want. Whether they be friend or foe, although I have very few of the former and too many of the latter. I prepare myself for anything, or for anyone…
What I’m not prepared for is to have Jesus himself step into my field of vision, his gentle brow furrowed as if in pain; his eyes reveal a sense of relief upon spying me, as if he’s been seeking me. But no, I read too much into his expression.
Or do I?
“You left,” he says, in his voice a gentle condemnation that I have deserted my post, I should know better. What can I really say? I know that I did, so I cannot contradict his words. But I’d rather not go into reasons, not right now. “And you didn’t come back. I was worried about you. Jude, you’ve been gone for hours.” I’m surprised that he’s noticed.
No, not really surprised. Of course he noticed, he sees everything. But I have to admit that I’m pleased, although it was never my intention to cause him pain. And yet I seem to keep doing it.
“You and Mary fought, didn’t you?”
“I wouldn’t say that, no.” I dance about the point like a fencing master avoiding the tip of the blade, waving my hand in dismissal of the topic of the whore, that unappetizing strumpet. “It’s immaterial now. It’s over. What’s done is done.” I find myself swaying toward him for just a moment before I realize what I’m doing, catching myself as I turn aside, remembering the kiss, and damning myself for wishing for a repeat.