Destiny or curse?

650 yards he had to walk.

When my eyes fell on the man who all know as Jesus, I felt myself getting frozen to the ground. His body was bruised and broken. His skin was red from blood and sweat. He had been mocked and the back of his body was an unrecognizable mass of torn, bleeding tissue. His torn flesh was a result of the flagrum. This is a short whip consisting of several heavy, leather thongs with two small balls of lead attached near the ends of each. The heavy whip was brought down with full force again and again across Jesus’ shoulders, back, and legs.

Despite His efforts to walk erect, the weight of the heavy wooden beam, together with the shock produced by copious blood loss, was too much. He stumbled and fell. The rough wood of the beam gouged into the lacerated skin and muscles of his shoulders. He tries to rise, but his human muscles have been pushed beyond their endurance. The centurion, anxious to get on with the crucifixion, selected a stalwart North African onlooker, Simon of Cyrene, to carry the cross. Jesus followed, still bleeding and sweating the cold, clammy sweat of shock until the 650-yard journey from the fortress Antonia to Golgotha is finally completed. I wanted to look away but I could not. I swallowed and felt his struggles, his agony, and the fear of what was coming next.

Jesus was offered a wine mixed with myrrh, a mild analgesic mixture. He refused to drink. Simon was ordered to place the patibulum on the ground and Jesus was quickly thrown backward with His shoulders against the wood. The legionnaire started searching for the perfect spot on Jesus's wrist. Without holding back he drove a heavy, square, wrought-iron nail through the wrist and deep into the wood. I will never forget the sound of that nail being pushed through flesh and bone. I still shiver when I hear someone slamming a nail into wood. Quickly, he moved to the other side and repeated the action, being careful not to pull the arms too tightly, but to allow some flexion and movement. The patibulum was then lifted in place at the top of the stipes and the titulus reading, “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews,” was nailed in place.

His left foot was then pressed backward against the right foot, and with both feet extended, toes down, a nail was driven through the arch of each, leaving the knees moderately flexed. Jesus was now crucified. And I just stood there frozen while feeling the warmth of my tears drizzling over my cheeks. Christ slowly sagged down with more weight on the nails in the wrists, excruciating pain shooting along his fingers and up the arms to explode in his brain because the nails in the wrists are putting pressure on his nerves.

He kept pushing himself upward to try and avoid the stretching torment but the nail in his feet cause just as much pain to his nerves. I watched him fight till his arms fatigued and he was no longer able to keep pushing himself up. Hanging by his arms he was able to breathe in air but he could no longer exhale. Jesus fought to raise Himself to get one more short breath. Spasmodically, he was able to push himself upward to exhale and bring in the life-giving oxygen. I gasped for air as if I was one with his being.

Jesus experienced hours of limitless pain, cycles of twisting, joint-rending cramps, intermittent partial asphyxiation, and searing pain where the tissue was torn from his lacerated back as He moved up and down against the rough timber. Then another agony began -- a terrible crushing pain deep in the chest as the pericardium slowly filled up with fluid and began to compress his heart. It was almost over. The loss of tissue fluids had reached a critical level; his compressed heart was struggling to pump heavy, thick, sluggish blood into the tissue; his tortured lungs were making a frantic effort to gasp in small gulps of air.

Someone lifted a sponge soaked in posca, cheap, sour wine to his lips. But again, he refused to drink. I could see death creeping into him. It gave me the chills and I held my breath till he finally allowed his body to die. With one last surge of strength, he once again pressed his torn feet against the nail, straightening his legs, taking a deep breath, he uttered “Father! Into thy hands, I commit my spirit.”
It was now about noon, and darkness came over the whole land until three, because the sun's light failed. I could feel the ground tremble while I felt the ice-cold wind kissing my bare shoulders.

To make sure that Christ had died a Roman Soldier named Longinus pierced his side and right away blood mixed with fluids build up in and around his heart started oozing out of his limp frame. The moment the soldier pulled his spear back I heard a voice in my head. "Keep it safe, protect it." Like magic, I knew that the voice was speaking about the spear. The soldier walked away and I followed him till I was able to tap him on his shoulder. Everything happened so quickly.

He turned around while someone behind me ran into my back. I felt the sharp pain of the spear slicing through my ribs and heard the cursing of the soldier who quickly pulled the spear back out of my body. The world was still covered in darkness when I fell on my knees and watched how the soldier left me behind like useless waste of space. He never looked back. The last thing I saw was a black bird landing on the sand right before me. I closed my eyes while blood oozed from my body and created a puddle of red sadness around me. I scratched with my nails through the sand until my heart stopped beating and I felt peace. I finally left this rotten world even though it was not my own choice. I was more than ready to give up my life after everything I went through.

Nothing...

There was darkness, no light. silence, no voices. No gates of Heaven or fires of Hell.

Nothing...

Until I woke up in a coffin three feet under the ground.

Note from the writer.

Thank you for reading my story. I am writing this story for my roleplay life! It is posted under the name Mara Bat Aaron on my RP account on FB. It's all Fiction and my own swing on some things that happened in the past!

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