Mary lay sobbing on the ground bruised; broken. Discarded like a bundle of old rags. She watched the soldiers walk away, red tunics flapping in the breeze. His friends were slapping him on the back, smiling and laughing. To them it had just been a dare, didn't mean anything, a simple game to pass the idle hours between crushing rebellions and burning villages. The hard ground rubbed against her skin; sharp stones dug into her through her clothes, carving deep groves in her bare legs as she struggled to sit up. Carefully she staggered to her feet, brushing her clothes down and pulling them straight. She tried to walk but the pain was too great, stumbling forward she fell to her knees.
Her attacker turned, glancing one last time at the little girl hunched on the floor. Their eyes met for a second, lingered, each reluctant to turn away. Her eyes, glistening with unshed tears, held his, silently pleading with him, begging him to do the impossible and turn back time. A heavy hand on his shoulder brought him back down to earth and away from the captivating power of her eyes. What did he have to be sorry about? He was a Roman after all, that little Jewish girl was his enemy. She wasn't that young anyway, 12 years old at least. Probably had a husband waiting for her at home, hungrily anticipating her growth from a girl into a woman so that she could bear his children. No, he had done nothing wrong, simply giving the poor wretch a taste of the path her life would take. He turned away sharply and began walking swiftly away, big long strides taking him further and further away from Mary with her dirty secret and accusing eyes. Why oh why had he turned back around? He could still see those eyes, fell them burning into him. He hung his head, feeling the back of his neck turn red with shame.
Mary buried her head in her shawl as the soldiers retreated, gut-wrenching sobs shook her body and salty tears blinded her as she struggled to her knees. A desperate wail rose up inside her as she raised her face to the heavens, preying to God for forgiveness; for mercy. Closing her eyes and clasping her hands tightly together she sent a bolt of utter desperation and pleading up to the heavens, willing God to help her, to give her a sign. Nothing happened. He'd deserted her. Throwing her arms up in desperation she let a cry of pure anguish escape her before collapsing back on to the floor and curling up into a tight little ball. There she stayed as the rain fell and fell, wishing that it would sweep her with mud and dead leaves.
One hand wrapped around her round bulging stomach, the other clutching at her mother's skirts, Mary cowered in the corner, the fire illuminating her over bright eyes; the evidence of a day spent in tears. She watched as her father's larger than life shadow played across the walls, to scared and ashamed to look him in the face. His flailing arms and furious words simply added to the ice that was slowly consuming her heart. She could be exiled or stoned, not that it mattered anymore. She was worthless now, her reputation in tatters. She had brought shame to her family. No man would want her for a wife now; she was ruined; spoilt.
The wedding procession snaked through the narrow streets of Nazareth, lighting up the night with brightly burning torches. Snippets of joyous song could be heard drifting on the wind. The bride-to-be perched stiffly upon a large donkey, surrounded by raucous villagers offering blessing of eternal happiness and many children. Her dark hair flowed freely down her back, a sign her virginity and purity; the foundation of her marriage. She was being escorted from her parents' house to the house of the man she was promised to, away from everything and everyone she'd ever known and loved. The more tears that slid down her cheeks, the louder the celebrations became.
Mary stood, half consumed by shadows, watching the procession from a back-alley, knowing it would never be her siting astride that donkey. Hers was a different fate; a fate that had been decided by a man six years her senior who didn't even know her name.
Gripping the rope so tightly it cut deep grooves in the palms of her hands Mary pulled down on in it with all her weight as another torrent of pain seized her stomach. Pushing back against the wall behind her she let the pain take control of her body, blocking out the worried clucking voices surrounding her, the cold hand caressing her stomach, trying to ease the baby out. They all thought she was dying, amidst the concerned tutting and whispered prayers she could hear her mother crying. Maybe she was dying, this was God's way of punishing her for her sins, her own child was going to kill her. She'd heard older women in the village whisper about devil's spawn and bastard children as she'd passed but had paid it no mind, convinced that the infant growing inside her would grow up good and kind; but could something as sweet and innocent as she'd imagined cause this much pain? She felt like her whole body was about to split in half, her pelvic bones about to snap under the strain.
Sweat drenched her body, blood trickled from her hands, tears rolled down her cheeks. Screaming and pleading with the midwives, God, the baby inside her she pushed and pushed until finally a bloodied pink blob slipped out from between her legs. Her mother wrapped the baby in a shawl as the other woman crossed themselves and muttered thankful prayers up to God. Cradling the baby in her arms, Mary slumped back against the wall completely exhausted. A great wave of relief swept over her as she peered at the tiny face poking out of the blanket. Scrunched up and red from crying he twitched and twisted in her arms, trying to make sense of this bright blurry new world. He butted his head against her chest, his small mouth stretched open to form an 'o' shape, searching for something. Unbuttoning her dress she offered the baby her breast, hitched him up slightly so he could latch on easier. It felt strange, him tugging and pulling at her nipple, a dull pain that made her heart swell. A sudden noise outside startled the baby and he
jerked away from her breast, opened his mouth to start howling. Mary felt herself slipping further and further away from the fussing women and mewing baby, surrendering herself to the contented feeling that flooded through her body, falling deeper and deeper into a satisfied sleep. However one final thought managed to push itself through the fog filling her head before she drifted off. She had given birth to a baby boy. At last she'd done something right, created something to be proud of. For the first time in her life she was someone; someone with self-esteem. She was Mary, mother to a boy-child.