Good Friday
He's right behind me. I can't turn around and face Him, I couldn't bear the sight of His beaten body, stabbed side, thorn-bitten head... and I have caused all His wounds.
So I'm standing there, my back turned on Him, and I can't escape. I'd tell Him to leave but He won't. I'd leave Him but I can't. There's no freedom in Hell.
There's one line I must tell Him, but my mouth is unfit to form the words. Eventually, He says what I should have said to him:
„I'm sorry."
I am sorry too. We both were here because of my nearsightedness - well, He's here partly because he chose so. But then, what about my choice? It was I who approached the high priests. It was I who brought the Romans on Him.
„I was pleased to see you throwing back those thirty silver coins" He says.
Sure I did throw them back. I didn't want to let the priests feel they bought us. They failed to understand my motives, but they always understand money.
„Don't thank me" I start, but I cannot continue. What could one soul thank another in the deepest Hell?
„You sent me" I remind Him. „This was what you wanted, this was what you planned. Unlike a certain apostle whom you merely warned that he would deny you three times. He did. He's quite your Rock to build on."
My words hurt Him deeper than any lance would. He wasn't even taken from the cross where He was nailed through my fault, He descended to Hell for (and because of) me, and all I'm doing is insulting him. I wish I could hit myself on the head.
And yet He's still there at my back, tortured, silently, and I know he's waiting for me to turn to Him again.
„You won't leave me, will you?" As if I didn't know the answer.
„Never."