I stood at the bottom of the hill, they call it Golgotha, or the place of the skull. growing up I thought along with my friends that this hill was able to turn us into gools or something. we would have competitions to see who could reach out and touch it the longest, even on a sunny day this was terrifying, but we got sick pleasure from it, a little guilt, a little thrill, it had us shaking in our boots, at any moment we thought we most defiantly could fall over dead. just the same, it was our favorite pass time, a childish game. I was so young then, but still as I stood there at the foot of it, I felt that guilt, that shame and strangely that little tug of promise of pleasure pulling me up the hill. I’m almost to the top, all of a sudden it becomes too much, all the excitement and utter fear grab my knees and violently throw me to the ground. I lay there face down. I slowly lift my head and hands. I have dirt on my face, more like mud really. I go to wipe it off but I can’t because I suddenly realize my hands are covered in something, its full of a metal smell, I realize it is the one thing I should’ve expected, but when I saw it I was entirely startled. It was blood. I get to my knees and sit on my heals, they dig into me, I look straight forward. I see a huge railroad tie of wood in front of me, the size of a tree, and at the top of my vision I see toes, completely red except for the second to first toe on the left foot. the sun is setting behind this tree like pole with toes upon it. I dont want to look up, but that excitement has filled me again, I slowly raise my eyes. I find feet are attached to these toes. and legs. I stop and look down again, suddenly someone says, “I pity the deranged one hanging on that tree.” I am completely horrified by what I’ve just heard. I then realize that it was my voice, I hummed under my breath to see if the tone of my voice sounded like what I had just hurt. it was me. how could I has said that?! why did I?! surely this mans blood will stain my hands for the rest of my God-forsaken life. I look up again past the toes to this mans ribs where an unpierced chest is, ripped in many places where the glass on the strips of leather must have whipped around and grabbed His skin and ripped it open. blood is rubbed all over what us left of Him. I look to His neck, its strained down, hanging. I look at His chin, covered in hair but I feel like I have just ripped out His beard. It hurts to move my eyes past His quivering lips up to His nose that has a drop of blood ready to fall to His chest. then I find them. His eyes. they’re closed. the guilt fills me to the point where I can no longer hold it, out of my mouth spews what is in my heart. with a trembling pain in my voice, “You had no reason to die like this. You must be doing it for someone else. who. and why.” He opened His eyes right on mine. I shuddered, they were empty but at the same time I have never seen such a grey color sparkle, not even a glassy sea of newly fallen snow in the setting sun could sparkle that bright. I asked Him with just my eyes: “me?” He nodded His head.
Just a short story that I wrote over winter retreat. I thought to share it because some may relate to it. I hope you can.