Author: the-lovely-anomaly PM
Sweet dreams are made of... these.Rated: Fiction T - English - Drama - Chapters: 10 - Words: 6,199 - Reviews: 26 - Favs: 3 - Follows: 3 - Updated: 10-28-12 - Published: 07-26-12 - id: 3045197
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
25 September 2004
I'm Jesus (for some unfathomable reason) and I'm about to be crucified. My body is practically shear blood, I'm wearing nothing but a loin cloth, and there's a crown of thorns on my head, digging into my scalp. I'm aching and throbbing, and swaying from the blood loss. There's an endless ringing in my ears. The sun, hanging high in the sky, is glaring down at me, its blinding light stinging my eyes.
Two Roman soldiers grab me by the arms and force me, back-down, onto my cross. They tie my wrists to the horizontal cross beam and then position long, black nails over my palms. I close my eyes as their mallets come down and drive them in. I don't remember screaming but I'm sure I did.
The cross is being raised, slowly—ever so slowly—and I feel dizzy. Then the next thing I know, it's standing erect and I'm hanging on it, limp, trembling. Fear takes me over and I think to myself, Please just let me die.
I don't die, though. Not for awhile. I wait and linger, trying to focus my strained eyes on the people below me. Interestingly enough, their sadness bothers me more than the thought of dying does. A woman walks up and kisses my nailed, blood-drenched foot. I think I say something to her—or try to at least—but I don't remember what, and I don't know if it's Biblical.
I'm still at the crucifixion, but I'm no longer Jesus—I'm the Virgin Mary, his mother. He's been taken down from the cross and now lies, dead, on the ground in a mixture of mud, rainwater, and his own blood.
I run over to him, my hurried steps somehow feeling labored and slow, and then take him up in my arms.
All I remember thinking is, This is even worse.
I don't know who I am, or where I am. All I know is that I'm in modern times because I'm standing, in jeans and a hoodie, at the edge of a vacant parking lot. Across the width of the lot, there's what looks like a run-down shack. It's pouring down rain, and almost immediately I have the urge to run over to it and stay inside until the rain stops. I'm also very cold, and even though I highly doubt that the shack's interior will offer much protection in that respect, I figure it'd be better than standing out in the open, feeling the wind rush past.
So I start running. The water is nearly ankle-deep and my clothes are completely soaked through, but I keep going. It takes about ten seconds for me to realize I'm not getting any closer to the shack. In fact, it looks like I'm getting farther and farther away. Each step makes the shack get just a bit smaller, just a little more distant. And not only that, but the parking lot has somehow become endless. There's no exit in sight—just a vast expanse of asphalt lined with yellow parking spaces.
I start to panic. A white mist that seems to have come out of nowhere engulfs me, and I can barely see ahead. I hear a loud rumbling noise that chills me to the bone, brings tears of fear to my eyes, and it dawns on me that I'm trapped in some sort of limbo, unable to get out no matter which way I turn or what I do.
Eventually I sit down on the wet asphalt, hug my knees to my chest, and think to whoever or whatever might be listening, Please… just let me die.