The Second Word
THE SECOND WORD
By
James Calemine
Dreaming in a fever trance...
I was struck from behind as I walked through a vulgar mob with a great weight upon my back. Multitudes of people formed a pathway that I followed. The men guarding me looked liked Roman soldiers.
When I focused, I realized they beckoned me, prodding me in the back, “You’re moving too slow!” they shouted, but I could only understand one solemn soldier that spoke.
My feet were bloody from tripping on rocks as I stumbled and lost my balance. People spat at me. The weight on my shoulders was overwhelming. Great splinters hung in my neck. The faces of the people looking at me seemed solemn while others looked aggravated. Some hurled curses. It was chaos. The day became dark.
Occasionally, a whip lit across my back my back. The soldiers beat citizens slow to move out of the way. My mouth was dry and I fell to my knees. The weight on my back forced my face into the dirt. A halo of thorns wedged in the side of my head causing blood to flow down my face.
“Get up!” The soldiers and hecklers shouted as they kicked me in the ribs and pulled me up from the dirt by my hair. I was covered in spit and blood as they led me to the place of “The Skull”. I was knocked down with great force by a sharp blow to the back of my head.
I fell down and gasped. I knew today was the day I must die as a whip snapped across my neck; I winced and rolled over on my back staring at the darkening skies. I heard screams of my friend who had been convicted with me for stealing a snake's bread.
The soldiers enjoyed my friend screaming at them because they beat him harder. He screamed 'kiss my ass' as they whipped him unmercifully. I watched them force him down on wooden stakes shaped like a cross, and suddenly they grabbed me and did the same. I heard one, then two quick hammerings followed by my friend’s blood freezing screams.
There were six soldiers holding me down as I felt an excruciating pain of stakes being driven through my feet. I screamed when they drove the nails into my hands. I looked to both sides and each hand was nailed to a post. Crucified. As the soldiers raised the cross, an excruciating pain tore through my body as I could feel my shoulders dislocating from their sockets.
My friend was screaming and cussing at the top of his lungs. He was out of his mind. I could only remain silent as I felt my life slowing draining away. Below us the soldiers were slapping the Nazarene, whom I had heard speak in the city. He wore a crown of thorns and a purple robe. Blood ran down his face. He had been beaten and whipped, but I could not forget the intense gaze in his eyes. They appeared unearthly.
The crowd hurled insults at him and laughed as the soldiers mocked him. Only the women weeped. As they drove spikes through him, he gasped very little. He did not speak or resist. The soldiers nailed a sign or something over his cross I could not read or see. They hoisted the Nazarene upon a cross between my friend and I.
The crowd began shouting at him: “Save yourself, if you’re the Son of God come down from the cross. Save yourself. You can save others, but you can’t save yourself?”
The Nazarene quietly endured all the taunts with a serene dignity. I noticed two women--apparently his family--at the bottom of his cross at place they called “The Skull.” He seemed to speak to someone below him.
I wept at the sight of his suffering family. I had no family weeping for me. I was a one-occasion thief being put to death for stealing a wealthy Roman’s bread.
Some people rejoiced at the sight of the Nazarene being put to death. My friend was screaming to be taken down as he hurled blasphemies from his broken lungs——he’d gone mad.
“Get us down from here if you are the One,” my friend said to the Nazarene.
“Shut your mouth Nicholas! This is our fate. Have you no fear in God? This man is being crucified with criminals, and he’s innocent, so shut your mouth.”
I felt tired. Color seemed to fade from my vision. It became more difficult to breathe, and my arms separated from their sockets. My mouth was dryer than cotton.
The sky grew darker and the winds turned cold as people began running safely to their homes, while the soldiers divided the Nazarene’s robe. One soldier stabbed him in the side with his spear. Another offered him a drink of piss.
I only wanted forgiveness. I wanted it all to be over. I felt lonely. I asked the Nazarene if he would remember me when he was in paradise. He turned his head towards me. Blood ran down over his intense and revealing eyes, as if they looked through my soul, comforting me in their humility, and he uttered:
“You shall be in paradise with me tonight.” I felt burning blood streaming from my mouth and heat from the spikes, but I could no longer breathe. A black muteness drowned out my senses.
I awoke clutching my chest, gasping for air like I was drowning, remembering a cryptic glance from omnipotent eyes of the Nazarene only moments ago.