(A/N: Updating after watching The Passion of the Christ.)
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Father.
Father.
Father.
It hurts.
There's so much blood.
Father.
So much pain.
Father, I'm scared.
I'm not blind. Nor am I deaf, or have I lost my sense of touch. I haven't lost any of my senses at all.
So I can see the blood on the ground.
I can hear the crowd jeer and mock me.
I can feel the holes in my hands and feet.
I can smell the air, and taste the dryness of my mouth.
Red.
Everything played out according to the will of my Father.
I'm in agony.
I groan, and then cough. The ache in my chest returns tenfold. I wince, and my head hurts from the thorns pricking it. Wounds are reopening again. It hurts so much. But it hurts even more to look down at the people below.
Insults are thrown at me. They taunt me.
Forgive them, Father.
Mother stands below me, beside John. They are the closest that they are allowed. She weeps the quietest, but nevertheless she is weeping. I want to hold her hand, but the Father's will comes before mine. The only consolation I can offer is my eyes meeting hers, and my aching throat uttering a few words:
Dear woman, here is your son.
Here is your mother.
It's getting dark, and I can barely breathe without struggling. Everything hurts. I've lost a large amount of blood...I look up to the sky...
Father.
My God, my God.
Why have you forsaken me?
The burden I bear is heavy...the weight of the sins of humanity – past, present, future – crushes me...yet I have to go on...
I thirst.
My parched lips meet the wet sponge, a cold comfort in a position such as this...not only my body, but also my mind, is anguished...
Father, it is finished.
I look to the dark sky again...and my voice takes up the last of my energy.
Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.
My chest caves, and my head lowers.
It is dark, and I am suddenly numb.