My work is done and I cast aside my life. It is finished after all.

My mind is clear and I can see everything now. I see the world as it will be. I see billions bowing to Jesus from every century, kissing his feet as they venerate crucifixes. I see people call on his name to try and heal the world. I see atrocities committed in his name. They twisted his words exactly like I said they would. This is what it was all for. This is why he wanted me to betray him. The way the world would change did not match what he preached. I do not understand.

I see Jesus at the heart of the crowd, lurching forward step by agonizing step. Every place he stumbles, every wall he braces himself against to catch his breath, will become a station for pilgrims to kneel and pray at for centuries. I look to the temple. Did he know that people would sell trinkets with his face along this path?

I do not understand. He is uncertain, I know it. How did he inspire such confidence when he did not hold it himself? And I know the answer. I can almost understand. He has faith. I had faith in him once. It seems like I lost it not so long ago.

I hate him.

I want answers. He owes me answers after he used me so unkindly. A soldier trips him and he falls, crushed beneath the weight of his cross.

I pass through the crowd effortlessly. For all I care they might as well not exist at all. None of them cared for me. (I wonder when they will find my body. I wonder if anybody will look.) All that matters is him and me.

I begin asking my questions as I draw closer. Does he really believe what people had said when they loved him? Did he know what I know now? He does not respond, but I did not expect him to. Even if he could hear me, my voice must be lost in the crowd. Or maybe he just doesn't care. My part is done and I am the villain, forever memorialized in a book whose copies outnumber the stars.

I want to know why he chose this time for his blood to be spilt.

I walk in front of him and I bow my knee. I want his first prostrating follower to act with no love for him. I need to see his face. Someone has pressed a crown on his head in an act of cruel irony. His eyes are swollen and red. His lips are cracked and dry, twisted in a grimace that grants me some small amount of spiteful glee.

But then I take a closer look at his eyes and he sees me. I know he does. He is astonished and so am I. I speak and I know that he hears me now. We stare for a moment, transfixed, before the crowd pushes him on. He picks up his cross and I follow him as I did when we began our work.

I know I have his attention now. His gaze is no longer fixed on the ground. He looks to me, trying to understand my words. He weeps when he realizes that I must be dead. Well who was to blame for that? I think he must understand less than I do right now. I ask him every question he cannot answer. I am happy to have my turn punishing him. Every moment he ignored my warnings had brought us here. If he had set a plan, any plan at all, we could have avoided this.

And then he stumbles and he reaches out to me. I reach out to help him up. (It is useless, we both know we will never touch again.) I wish I did not know why I still care so much, why my anger gives way to sorrow.

I hate him. I love him.

We spent three years as brothers. We broke bread every night side by side. His words had moved me then and his suffering moves me now.

I know him. He knows me.

As they lay him on the cross he looks directly at me. He tells me that he loves me. He says that he knows that I cared for him too. There is no betrayal without love first.

He asks for my forgiveness. He says I did not know what I was doing. He has been mocked, beaten, flayed, and now crucified. He knows I did not want this.

He can barely cry out as they hammer nails into his hands and his feet. It hurts my heart more than I can bear.

I don't think he can see me anymore. His pain is too great and the blood from his crown has trickled into his eyes. I climb onto his cross and I sit on the arm. I know what it is to die alone. I do not want that for him. He does not deserve that.

I betrayed him once. I will not forsake him now.

I rest my hand on his, as though to offer him comfort. If I could take on any of his suffering I would do so gladly. I think he knows. He asks for a drink as he hangs and they press something fowl to his lips on a filthy sponge. I hate them on his behalf from my perch. He breathes his last and is mercifully still forever. I still do not understand, but I feel peace.

When people hear my story they will always think of him. Was that what my life was for? Did a god really orchestrate my life so that I would meet his son? Did he make me love him? Did he place fear in my heart to be sure I would betray him? Or did I love him of my own accord? Did it have to be this way? Jesus knew something and was willing. But me?

I don't think it had to be this way. If god was so powerful he did not need to call me. I will always love Jesus. As they take him down from the cross I can feel my soul being pulled away. Maybe to heaven if Jesus could truly absolve me. Probably to hell. If I see god I won't bother with questions. I will spit on his feet.