Revelations(82)

“Beat the sinner!” an anonymous voice in the crowd rings out, and the bloodthirsty savages echo the cry. Why is this happening? This is every nightmare I’ve ever had come true. I made a deal with Lucifer, where the fuck is he? I struggle with the assholes who hold me. Why aren’t I up there, instead of him?

When is this miracle going to occur? It better be fuck-all soon, or there’ll be hell to pay.

Before my horrified eyes, a single man emerges from the crowd, approaching my Jesus. He kicks him, hard, causing him to fall to his knees. My screams of pain are lost in the cheers of the audience, the howls of, “Sinner! Sinner!” Jesus doesn’t fight back, of course. He never does. He accepts it all, almost passively.

“Jesus!” I scream again. Do I imagine that his eyes turn toward me? Dammit! I can’t tell as someone blocks my view, a new man, and this one has a whip in his upraised hand. He’s lashing him, in long even strokes… Oh merciful God in heaven, please, not again…Wailing sirens and flashing lights. Nothing makes sense to me anymore, as I struggle in vain against the anonymous strong arm that holds me back. That should be me, why the fuck isn’t it me? Let it be me, not him…Lucifer, you prick, what’ve you done? I try to move toward him, but it’s impossible. And then a voice whispers in my ear, and I know it’s him, the bastard, and I try to get at him, struggling to hurt him as much as I can, but he has me in a chokehold I cannot break until, starved for oxygen, I suddenly lose consciousness.

I have no idea how much time has elapsed before I open my eyes once more.

But everything’s changed. I’m not where I was. In fact, I’m back at the camp, somehow. By the pond, to be precise. And very much alone. I struggle to my feet, feeling very stiff and sore. My head aches, and I reach up to touch it. Is that dried blood? Where’s Jesus? What’s happened?

“Lucifer!” I scream helplessly into the night. “Get your fucking pansy ass self down here. Now!” I’m met with only silence…for all of ten seconds. But the voices I hear don’t belong to the Lightbringer. Another country heard from.

“Betrayer!” “Bastard!” “Liar!” They hurl their epithets at me. Who? The other apostles, of course. I don’t have time for their shit now, I need to find Jesus.

Quickly.

“Where is he?” I snarl. “Where have you taken him?” I wobble unsteadily upon my feet, staggering toward them with murderous intent.

“You did it again, you killed him,” an aggrieved voice makes itself heard. My eyes focus on the overly large form of Peter. What’s he babbling about now? “You betrayed him again. I hate you, Iscariot!”

Killed him again? Oh God no, tell me it’s not so. I look for confirmation in their eyes, their faces—they all reflect the truth. Jesus is dead. And it’s my fault.

Except it’s not, I made arrangements to protect him against this. What the fuck went wrong? It doesn’t really matter, though, does it? He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead, and I might as well be. I sink to my knees, a keening wail piercing the night.

It’s my voice, my cry, my mourning of my lost love.

But I’m not to be given time to mourn. What the fuck do they care? They hated me while he was here, they have no reason to love me now. And they have the whole blaming Judas thing going on. Not that I care what they think. My reason for living has just been taken away from me. Fuck them. Fuck them all. What can they do to me now? Not a damn thing. What haven’t they done to me before? Nothing.

They’ve done everything, if you want to know the fucking truth. Stoned me to death more than once. Drowned me. Beat me. Knifed me at least three times. Run me over with a horse. You know the story in the Bible where I hung myself? Not true. It’s always been them. They’ve always been responsible for my death. I’ve never committed suicide. Ever.

So let it be them now. Let them kill me. Why the fuck not? Then I’ll be with him that much sooner. I won’t fight them. Why bother? Let’s see, who can I provoke the easiest, who has the means to do it quickly and without hesitation? Of course. Obvious choice.

“Peter, how many times did you deny him this time?” I goad the slow-witted apostle. “Three? Four? Five?” C’mon, you big ox, I silently pray, c’mon and do your thing.

The others shout their encouragement at him, but it isn’t needed. He lumbers straight for me and begins to pummel me with those huge meaty fists. Not quite the broken neck I was hoping for, but it’ll have to do. That’s right, to the head, Peter, to the head. I think I hear Thomas calling my name, yelling at Peter to stop. And Mary M, too. But it’s too late…too late…going to Jesus…I’m going to Jesus…I’m going…