Sometimes I am too impetuous for my own good. But then again, it’s ordained, isn’t it? Here we fucking go again.
I’m sorry, Jesus, I feel I have failed you, this is my fault, this is… I note with surprise that Lucifer remains, and he has the most hellish grin upon his otherwise pretty face. He narrows the gap between us, leans down, and whispers in my ear in that oh so superior tone he affects, “You should’ve simply let me fuck you, Judas.
We could’ve avoided all this, you know. And then, who knows, you could’ve had him, too, and impaled yourself in his holy spirit.” And then he too is gone, as I kick in frustration and futility at the ground, cursing once more the day I was born.
Fuck you Lucifer!
Chapter Sixteen: Peter
Tonight’s show was different, but I don’t know why. It sounded different. It felt different. The others say it’s because of Judas, he’s upset everything; he’s the one that’s hurting the Master. If this is true, and if I find out this is true, I will have to hurt Judas, because I can’t let that happen, I can’t let him hurt Jesus. I don’t understand why he would want to, though. Doesn’t he love him, just like we do?
There was this song that Jesus sang, it was very pretty, but it was also sad, too.
I had my hands full keeping an eye on the people as it was, what with the Master jumping down from the stage and walking around and all. Especially Lucifer, that troublemaker, with his fancy clothes and his evil ways. And then I almost thought I’d have to break up a fight between Judas and Mary—why does he have to fight with her like that? I don’t understand. She’s nice, for a girl. But he ran off before I had to get between them, and he didn’t come back. I almost wish he never would, but I know better.
After the show was over we cleaned up, as usual, the only difference was Judas wasn’t around. The others laughed about it, said how lazy he was. Not like they missed him or anything. They don’t like him very much, I know. Neither do I. But they didn’t say anything about him when Jesus was around. Jesus seemed so sad.
Mary tried to cheer him up, but even she couldn’t get a smile out of him. We asked him to come with us, told him we were going to go out drinking, but he said no, he wanted to wait for Judas to return, so we went on. And had a great time. Matthew and Philip talked Mary into going with us. She offered to stay behind, with Jesus, but he told her to go have fun. So she did. We weren’t worried about him, his mother stayed behind too; we knew she’d take care of him.
I know it’s almost over, which makes me sad. Sometimes our time with him seems too short. And our work doesn’t end when his life does. I will go into the church—I always do. I’m afraid that I’ll have to work very hard this time to see that the rules I set up a long time ago aren’t set aside, that the Bible is not forgotten.
Chapter Seventeen: Jesus
I waken in the darkness of the silent night to find his arm thrown protectively over me. I know he only wants to keep me safe from harm, his face burrowed against my shoulder, our bodies warm together. I was so tired last night, so very tired. Once I had drawn Judas away from Lucifer and his people, seeing no point in fighting with them—to what purpose, as it is ordained—we returned to the tent, the others already asleep, scattered upon the floor in their bedrolls, my mother of course in her own partitioned area, apart from ours, for the sake of her privacy. He insisted on fussing over me until at last I consented to sleep, refusing to leave my side, although we didn’t get a chance to speak. It was too late for words—late as in the lateness of the hour, I mean. And I’m not sure what I would have said, how to explain myself to him.
How warm he feels, how very comfortable. The moonlight that filters through the windows of the tent allows me a glimpse of his handsome face, thankfully in repose, his normally furrowed brow at peace. He worries too much for his own good, Judas does, worries about me. I really wish he wouldn’t. Yet how much I do love him for it. And I would not disturb him for the world, if I did not have to. But someone is waiting for me, and I must go. And where I’m going, I’d prefer he not follow, not right now. I must handle this myself. So it is written.
Gently, carefully, I remove that strong arm, wishing I did not have to do so, wishing I could simply lie where I am, and pretend the rest of the world does not exist. That it’s simply he and I, living our lives…together…
Such a futile thought that is. I push it resolutely away—at least for now—and rise to do what I must do, without so much as a backward glance. For if I turned and saw him there, I might not have the strength to go.