"You say this man who I find innocent, is guilty?"
The crowd shouted again.
Pilate dipped his fingers into the clear bowl, "I am free of this man's blood. Do what you will."
Darkness embraced the land that day. It wasn't the type of darkness that anyone could retreat to for peace and tranquillity- for pleasure of being alone. No, it was the type that threatened little children to search for the comfort of their mother's arms.
Many people stood at the temple court, shouting and screaming for one man to be crucified. A man whose hands had healed people, whose arms gathered little children with so much love. I've seen it for myself.
Triumph. Pride. The shouts were loud.
Rusty hooks and sharp bone eagerly gripped the flesh. A hand retracted and a cry of agony followed. Any man could handle five lashes. Thirty-nine was different story, though. Cat of nine tails. His arms were pressed against the rough stone of the pillar, hands bound on the other side. Blood gushed out of the wounds on his beaten back.
Flowing fabric of purple shade was brought out to caress his skin. A crown made of twisted thorns was thrusted upon his head. "King of the Jews," one soldier snickered. I caught a glimpse of Jesus' face. His eyebrows knitted into a deep frown as he leaned forward to rest his head on the pillar.
And he was crying.
I was never well acquainted with Pain and Suffering.
I tried to divert my gaze from Nazarene, concentrating on soil and shrivelled weeds beneath my feet. He fell twice, carrying that cross. Sorrow washed upon his mother's face, eyes sealed shut, concealed from the world. Concealed from her son's suffering.
A pudgy hand reached out to Jesus, while the other clung to a mother's garment. Tears crawled down the boy's reddened face as he desperately streched out his arm. Whispers of comfort and reassurance, a lash of a whip and a cry of pain. Jesus was forced to keep trudging up the hill. One more step.
Jesus wasn't standing anymore.
I looked to the ground, feeling the moist texture beneath my feet. I was getting to know Pain and Suffering.
Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?
Jesus bowed his head, his spirit gone. Lightning flashed through the gloomy clouds, illuminating what were three silhouettes of bodies pinned to their own tree. With a spear, a soldier pierced Jesus' side to confirm his death. I beat my breast at the foot of the cross, fear and sadness carved into the lines of my face.
Some people crouched down before the cross, feeling scared, almost helpless, not knowing what was going to happen. Some retreated, and others started to fight. Riots broke out, temples crumbled and everything was destroyed. I turned around and saw a soldier clutching his face, the crimson blood dripping down his wrist. I recognised the man who struck the soldier. He was that blind man that used to beg by the markets. The one Jesus healed.
I looked back to cross where Jesus hung. Like the blood that seeped out of the stabbed wound on his left side, the tears slipped from my eyes, searching for an escape.
I remember the Nazarene's death. I remember the soldiers agreeing to bury him. I remember how a faithful man quickly plucked the nails from his hands and feet, how his mother, Mary, cradled his limp form with trembling hands. I remember his death.
As well as His Resurrection.
He's standing next to me, holding my hand, telling me to always look up and never down. I smile, my encounter with Pain and Suffering, long forgotten.
A/N: I do feel that this story is a little bit rushed so I might come back and edit this story, but other than that I hope you all enjoyed it. A big thank you to JackieStarSister for helping me out with fanfiction. God bless.