A/N: Hi there! This was just a little thing I wrote, but I figured I would post it on here. My feels took over, ha. Anyway, let's get this thing a-rollin'!
"You have murdered me!"
Over and over again, he screamed those words. He didn't know why; did he hope that somebody would hear him? Did he want for his accused murderer to stumble upon him, face stained with tears and voice shaky with the pain he couldn't swallow? Did he want his best friend's second in command, the girl with the dark hair and bright eyes, to come find him? To convince him to keep on living? Or maybe he wanted those damned priests with the fancy suits and the hollowed minds to see him, convince him to stay alive. Maybe he could help put another innocent man to death, hm? Maybe he could betray another of his friends. Surely Peter would do as the next to be betrayed by such a demonic entity, such a devil as himself. Or maybe John; he was innocent enough, right? Of course, none were as innocent as the first that was killed indirectly by Judas' words.
That death was his fault, he knew that it was. How could he possibly go on living with that guilt? The rest of the group, if any still liked him by now, would certainly kill him. He was hated, anyway, wasn't he? Nobody would miss him. Mary couldn't stand him, Peter and the rest mostly always avoided confrontation with him. Only one human being on this planet cared for him and his life, and that man was soon to dead because of his actions.
"Christ, you have murdered me!"
Again, he shouted those God forsakened words. He looked to the tree in front of him, then to the rope in his hands. In his broken rage, his shattered esteem, he did still hold his confidence fully intact. Without a moment's hesitation, he moved to the tree, tied that rough rope around a taller branch. His eyes, blurred with unshed tears yet surprisingly clear with dark intent, remained fixated on the knot that would soon be the death of him. It was beautiful, he thought, how simple a thing it was. He thought back on the men he once called his friends. One by one, he checked them off in his head. Peter never did like him, Simon didn't like anyone, much less such an outsider as Judas. John didn't probably have a problem with him until that last argument with their supposed savior...
He moved to wrap the rope around his neck, and even on the crate at his feet, he had to struggle to reach its height. He moved his hands, trembling and abruptly unsure of their own touch, to the tree's branch above his head, and as his grip on the wood tried to tighten, he took one last breath of salty air. He thought it would be his last taste of fresh air, really. He couldn't possibly predict that he would be having second thoughts this far into his plan, and even as he kicked the crate from beneath his feet and even as he desperately tried to keep his grip and move his legs up to the tree branch, he didn't know what he was doing. He wanted to die, he knew that he did, so then why was he trying not to do so? With this last pathetic thought in his mind, he finally allowed his body to drop, and as the scratchy rope dug in to his throat, his life escaped him.