I wrote this a couple of years ago and thought I would reintroduce it to the world. A little long, perhaps, but if you don't have time to read it now, leave the window open and take it with you to lunch! :)
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He was conscience of cold sweat trickling down the back of his neck under his nape of black hair. Another bead of the stuff headed down his forehead, hiding for a moment in his bushy eyebrow before running into his left eye, making it burn. He blinked briskly but made no other move to ease his discomfort. Sweat was the last of his concerns at the moment. Let it come… it might be the last time he felt the sting.
The damp cool of his own private little room didn’t even mention itself to his mind as he slouched in the corner, head tilted back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. ‘Private’ did though, and he strained his hearing to the utmost. Still no sound. No voices, no footsteps in the hall. He was totally alone. Sweating in the coolness and alone. He strode to the door, footsteps echoing dully off the bare walls. He reached out his hand and laid it on the solid door, staring at his fingers, willing them to have the strength the brake this barrier down. They didn’t even flinch, never even tried. It was no use. There was no way out of this. No use.
Somewhere in the distance water dripped from a leak, matching his thoughts, word-for-word, drop-for-drop. No-Use, it splashed, No-Use-No-Use!
With a groan he let his forehead drop forward against that immovable barrier, hands clenched into fists against it. Though he could see no sun, had no way to see time passing, he knew it was. Time was passing… his time was passing. His life’s last sands were slipping dangerously close to the narrow neck of the hour glass and he stared, in his mind’s eye, at the mound in the bottom half. All the things he wished he had done, all the things he wished he had not, now staring him back in the face. It was too late now. He couldn’t go back, couldn’t change anything. It was too late.
Too-Late-Too-Late, the water mourned with him. Too-Late
It was the story of his life, every single one of his days summed up in two words… too late. The dreariness of that thought consumed his mind, eating up every last shred of hope he had been trying to cling to. As he stood there, exhausted from days of trying to find a way our, he felt he no longer had the will to try anymore. There was nothing, absolutely nothing he could do. For the first time in his life, he was truly and totally helpless. This impossible predicament he had brought down on himself was overtaking him, breathing down his neck, running him into the ground. Breaking him! Beating him! Destroying him! With a furious, desperate cry he raised his head and slammed his fists against that one thing that stood between him and his freedom, but it didn’t budge, didn’t even shudder. Impossible predicament. Hopeless. Absolutely…
Hope-less. It finished his thought for him.
He paused in his frantic search for hope, knowing he would find none and wanting to sink into blissful nothingness, to escape into himself. Drawing a deep breath, he exhaled slowly, letting his head sink forward to the door once more, slowing his racing heart and loosening taut muscles.
Hope-less, the drips reminded him. Hope-less, Hope-less!
“I know!” his mind screamed, but he refused to let his body respond. His breathing was ragged and heavy, his shirt now soaked and clingy. The stillness of this, his prison, clashed violently with the chaos in the prison of his mind where ideas fought for credibility, thoughts struggled against instinct, and his soul cried out for relief from its mental torture. His end was nearing… why couldn’t it come quickly? Must he endure this so much longer, only to die then?
Raising his head he turned, eyes roaming the bare walls surrounding him… nothing.
Somewhere on the other side of the door those drips continued, taunting him as they steadily splashed away, telling him of his predicaments. No-Use Help-less Hope-less
That’s when he heard them. Breaking the stillness, disrupting the rhythmic taunt of the drips, echoing dully off the bare walls as his own had… footsteps. The solemn tread of judgment filled the air, growing louder as the footsteps grew closer to the door, the door that, a moment ago, he longed to see open but which now, he only wished would remain closed.
Try as he did to keep hold of himself, fear began to shake him to his very core. Panic closed in. He gasped for air as this desperate, terrifying icy claw seemed to tear at his heart. He groped for the near-by wall, drinking in the cool firmness of it because his vision seemed suddenly to have blurred around the edges. With small, unsteady steps, he eased his way into a corner, away from that dread door, those dread footsteps. Sliding down the wall, he dropped his head into his hands, unable to even groan through his constricted throat.
Where was this loving God his parents, companions, colleagues, told him of? Here, in his darkest hour, why was he absent? If there was a God who loved him, he wouldn’t be here, now, waiting for his own death. The only God he saw here with him was a holy God of judgment, fixing to crush him through the owners of the footsteps that even now stopped outside his abode. Contempt darkened what reason he still had. Love? What place did that have?
Dread slowed his feet while his heart raced. Pain tore through his twisted arm as he bent forward, trying to escape just a little bit of this man’s iron grip. Suddenly, he found himself falling to the stone floor outside his physical prison. His hand barely made it between his face and solid rock before he hit, and he lay for a moment, stunned, barely able to move, waiting for a shower of blows to rain down upon him, but none came.
Instead, the raspy voice growled again. “Get up, you fool.” When he didn’t respond, rough hands grabbed him, pulling him to his feet and he suddenly found himself backed against the wall, nose to nose with a face so full of hate he could barely breathe. “Dog!” the guard spat out. His grip tightened, muscles bulged, nostrils flared… then the guard forced himself back away from his prisoner. “Go,” he snarled.
Confusions blanked out every bit of sense he had left. Go? What could that mean? He turned and stared down the long hallway, saw the open door at the end, but couldn’t will his feet to move. “Go! – Go!” the drips had found their voice again. “GO!”
“Barrabas…” he turned again, looking blankly at the guard. “You are free to leave.” The guard’s eyes were watery as he gazed at the very personification of evil. “Go, Barabbas. Look at the man who took your place.”
And he went.
The damp cool of his own private little room didn’t even mention itself to his mind as he slouched in the corner, head tilted back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. ‘Private’ did though, and he strained his hearing to the utmost. Still no sound. No voices, no footsteps in the hall. He was totally alone. Sweating in the coolness and alone. He strode to the door, footsteps echoing dully off the bare walls. He reached out his hand and laid it on the solid door, staring at his fingers, willing them to have the strength the brake this barrier down. They didn’t even flinch, never even tried. It was no use. There was no way out of this. No use.
Somewhere in the distance water dripped from a leak, matching his thoughts, word-for-word, drop-for-drop. No-Use, it splashed, No-Use-No-Use!
With a groan he let his forehead drop forward against that immovable barrier, hands clenched into fists against it. Though he could see no sun, had no way to see time passing, he knew it was. Time was passing… his time was passing. His life’s last sands were slipping dangerously close to the narrow neck of the hour glass and he stared, in his mind’s eye, at the mound in the bottom half. All the things he wished he had done, all the things he wished he had not, now staring him back in the face. It was too late now. He couldn’t go back, couldn’t change anything. It was too late.
Too-Late-Too-Late, the water mourned with him. Too-Late
It was the story of his life, every single one of his days summed up in two words… too late. The dreariness of that thought consumed his mind, eating up every last shred of hope he had been trying to cling to. As he stood there, exhausted from days of trying to find a way our, he felt he no longer had the will to try anymore. There was nothing, absolutely nothing he could do. For the first time in his life, he was truly and totally helpless. This impossible predicament he had brought down on himself was overtaking him, breathing down his neck, running him into the ground. Breaking him! Beating him! Destroying him! With a furious, desperate cry he raised his head and slammed his fists against that one thing that stood between him and his freedom, but it didn’t budge, didn’t even shudder. Impossible predicament. Hopeless. Absolutely…
Hope-less. It finished his thought for him.
He paused in his frantic search for hope, knowing he would find none and wanting to sink into blissful nothingness, to escape into himself. Drawing a deep breath, he exhaled slowly, letting his head sink forward to the door once more, slowing his racing heart and loosening taut muscles.
Hope-less, the drips reminded him. Hope-less, Hope-less!
“I know!” his mind screamed, but he refused to let his body respond. His breathing was ragged and heavy, his shirt now soaked and clingy. The stillness of this, his prison, clashed violently with the chaos in the prison of his mind where ideas fought for credibility, thoughts struggled against instinct, and his soul cried out for relief from its mental torture. His end was nearing… why couldn’t it come quickly? Must he endure this so much longer, only to die then?
Raising his head he turned, eyes roaming the bare walls surrounding him… nothing.
Somewhere on the other side of the door those drips continued, taunting him as they steadily splashed away, telling him of his predicaments. No-Use Help-less Hope-less
That’s when he heard them. Breaking the stillness, disrupting the rhythmic taunt of the drips, echoing dully off the bare walls as his own had… footsteps. The solemn tread of judgment filled the air, growing louder as the footsteps grew closer to the door, the door that, a moment ago, he longed to see open but which now, he only wished would remain closed.
Try as he did to keep hold of himself, fear began to shake him to his very core. Panic closed in. He gasped for air as this desperate, terrifying icy claw seemed to tear at his heart. He groped for the near-by wall, drinking in the cool firmness of it because his vision seemed suddenly to have blurred around the edges. With small, unsteady steps, he eased his way into a corner, away from that dread door, those dread footsteps. Sliding down the wall, he dropped his head into his hands, unable to even groan through his constricted throat.
Where was this loving God his parents, companions, colleagues, told him of? Here, in his darkest hour, why was he absent? If there was a God who loved him, he wouldn’t be here, now, waiting for his own death. The only God he saw here with him was a holy God of judgment, fixing to crush him through the owners of the footsteps that even now stopped outside his abode. Contempt darkened what reason he still had. Love? What place did that have?
Dread slowed his feet while his heart raced. Pain tore through his twisted arm as he bent forward, trying to escape just a little bit of this man’s iron grip. Suddenly, he found himself falling to the stone floor outside his physical prison. His hand barely made it between his face and solid rock before he hit, and he lay for a moment, stunned, barely able to move, waiting for a shower of blows to rain down upon him, but none came.
Instead, the raspy voice growled again. “Get up, you fool.” When he didn’t respond, rough hands grabbed him, pulling him to his feet and he suddenly found himself backed against the wall, nose to nose with a face so full of hate he could barely breathe. “Dog!” the guard spat out. His grip tightened, muscles bulged, nostrils flared… then the guard forced himself back away from his prisoner. “Go,” he snarled.
Confusions blanked out every bit of sense he had left. Go? What could that mean? He turned and stared down the long hallway, saw the open door at the end, but couldn’t will his feet to move. “Go! – Go!” the drips had found their voice again. “GO!”
“Barrabas…” he turned again, looking blankly at the guard. “You are free to leave.” The guard’s eyes were watery as he gazed at the very personification of evil. “Go, Barabbas. Look at the man who took your place.”
And he went.
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