The night is calm and the wind gently soars over the land, gracefully and pleasantly to the neighbouring mountain, a sound so soft, a whisper to the ear. Not a cloud to be seen, nor a fellow star. Only the moon dares to make an appearance, luminous in its white robe, a competitor with the sun's radiance.
A man lies on top of his bed. The summer heat consumes the air around him. He tosses and turns helplessly, not only to bat off the irritation caused by the high temperatures in a poor attempt to cool himself, but, in middle of his sleep, he also tries to find relief in his body.
Pain. The pain hurts so badly.
And the dreams are of no help either.
Time continues to drag and his imagination burns like a wildfire. Dripping into his mind is the picture of a scarred world, almost unrecognisable.
Another moment passes, and his breathing tends to quicken. Polishing his brow is a sprinkle of sweat; The dream only seeming to become much worse.
He begins to regain consciousness, his chest heaving, and hands gripping the thin material of his shirt. Slowly, his eyes open and, for a brief moment, he takes in the basic look of his surroundings, but fails to see the figure not too far away from him, before shutting his eyes again.
His heart pounds immensely as he inhales deep breaths and tugs at the hem of his shirt, pulling it off in a swift motion. His fingers claw the bandages wrapped around his palms, and around his torso, in desperate need of untying them.
Waves of pain surge through his body in convulsions, like the grip of something, tightening its hold on his being. After being reopened, the punctured wounds begin to bleed. It seeps through the already stained fabric and creates a burning itch in his flesh.
Suddenly, on his skin, rests the small hands of someone; one holding his forearm with much care, and the other caressing his face. The thumb brushes across his beard and gently strokes the newly formed scab on his cheek. A hush from a Motherly presence.
He winces at a pain so great and looks on. A tear slips from one eye. He pants. And then, he closes his eyes.
Don't cry my boy.
And the sins are countless. Each one, having a unique name and purpose, scouts the way up to his body, tearing at his flesh, like a pack of famished wolves, ready to gnaw at any meat placed before them. Persecution makes its way up and finely draws a scar over the man's collarbone and across his chest.
But it hurts, mom.
A tear slips from the other eye, and he presses his head further against the hand.
The pain intensifies and he curls up, drawing his knees to his chest; as if he were trying to prevent the pain from spreading. The tears come flowing now. His eyes are still closed. A minute passes and he looks up, hands clenching the stained bedding. A perfect display. Showing the roundness of a bleeding hole, centered in the palm. A smooth cut by iron.
But of all the wounds that he has suffered, the one that bleeds the most is his pierced heart.
Breathlessly, he mouths a single word. A silent desperate cry,
"Abba..."
Daddy. What are we going to do?