Description Of A Historical Event - The Crucifixion Of Jesus

Short Story by: MorgeeLove

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The crucifixion of Jesus through Mary's eyes.
I made it all up, so sorry if none of it matches the bible :)

The sun beat across the dusty roads. Stacked houses peered down onto the path below, engaged in the activities of the day. The contrast of blue and yellow against the brown was harsh against the eye, but everyone remained. The crowds had gathered, stretching as far as I could see. Each face told a different story, though each and every mind was captivated by the events unfolding in front of them.

His controversial wake blanketed every being that day. I suspect at the back of every mind was a guilty conscience, rapping on its sides and reminding each person just how many of them he had helped. How he had helped the blind to see, the dying to live once more. But they chose to forget, for they wanted only glory. The man of so much that had been reduced to so little now bowed down in front of them. He called himself the son of God. He granted miracles beyond possibility; he was the saviour of us all. But of course, nothing as good as my son could possibly be left alive. The rulers believed he was to cause chaos, and that death was the only logical way to abort his “malevolent plans”. So now, he was to pay his price. I could do nothing but watch as he stumbled onwards.

The sheen of a glistening sweat enveloped his entire form; his face bowed granting a solemn gaze to the stubborn ground, the glaze of anguish present in his soul and eyes. His russet hair was plastered to his olive face, fixed to his skin by pain and hard labour. His drawn out legs crouched underneath the weight of the colossal crucifix held on his back. His arms were contorted, his hands bloody and crimson from the strain. Surely, could no-one show any remorse for this man? Their own kind, he was a human - a man of no wrong. But instead they forced him to carry his own death on his person, struggling towards his own end, meeting the conclusion of his story, but straining him for it just that extra fragment.

The growls of naive beings, both young and old, whipped him from all sides, their eyes aglow with resentment and exploit; the streets were lined, packed full to bursting. Mothers and children spilt out of doorways and onto balconies, eager eyes somewhat appeased by the parade slowly descending down the tracks; men stood, lurching and leering, hissing and growling; the guards and their inscrutable faces, trained to faultlessness but slacking with exuberant eyes as they brought forward their prize, their trophy; the King, who’s expression was tainted by the most sordid and terrorizing look of supremacy and authority that still haunts me to this day; it was the face of a man with too much power and not enough words; the lumbering figure incarcerated in their circle as the end of the procession drew nearer and nearer. I could not help but register the perpetual sinking of my heart as the abuse continued to rain down and my head bowed down, not only in indignity, but in the feeling of defeat also.

It took only a short while to reach the hill; I felt heavily cheated that my sons own father would not even let me saviour these last precious moments. The crowds surged forwards, circling the horrifying scene, the hum of voices strung around my head. His drained figure was hoisted upwards onto the crucifix, and I had to temporarily close my eyes in repugnance. The blend of pained cries and overjoyed voices echoed throughout the searing afternoon air. The screams stopped – I dared to look.

My sons hands and feet, nailed with imprisonment to the crucifix he was only just ridden of. Blood dripped from the 3 spots, staining the ground with a pool of red as they did. His head lolled forwards, with a crown of thorns imbedded in his skull. It was the sign that he had accepted his defeat, his denunciation. Now, he wished to abide by whatever was bestowed upon him, I knew, to rid this world of insanity and evil; to rid this world of its thorns. They wanted to disgrace him, hang him upon a cross for all to see. Only the worst of all criminals are sentenced to death upon the cross. The chief of the Jews wished to disgrace him forever by ending in his life in such a cruel fashion. I would stay until the end; I would stay until the world’s saviour departed.

Many days had gone. People came and people went. Abuse was shouted and tears were shed. I remained below his feet, the pools of blood upon the floor growing larger each day. I prayed for the end. I prayed for my son to find the heavens. Then, on the sixth day, my prayers were answered. The soldiers marched with haste in their step and fatality in their eyes. They came with a purpose, and my son sensed it. His head struggled upwards, for he had refused all offers of food and drink. The exhaustion of the man was obvious in everybody’s eyes. A rally of spears protruded out towards his body. Once more, I could do nothing. My eyes by some means managed to lock with his. I nodded my head to him, trying desperately to restrain the tears threatening to leak from my eyes. A faint smile pushed its way onto his lips. With that, I knew, was good-bye. The first of the spears plunged forwards into his chest, blood jacketing the hard ground. I could not hold back the tears any longer. The attacks continued to batter his body. They were selfless, evil and heartless. However, my son was dying to save the very people such as those in front of me. It was hard to believe.

“Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do!” poured from his mouth, in a high, hysterical demeanour. One last spear jolted through his body, and then nothing. His body sunk forwards, limp and cold. He was dead. The blood continued to mark the floor as his soul passed upwards towards the place where he belonged. I glanced one last time at the sign above his head. It read Jesus Nazarenus, Rex Iudaeorum, "Jesus the Nazarene, King of the Jews." It was in fact, incorrect. Jesus was The King of everybody. My son was in everybody’s hearts, and as I walked away, my head bowed; not only in indignity and defeat, not only in abhorrence or vehemence, but in freedom and in pride.

Submitted: February 03, 2010

Historical Fiction sad belief history mary jesus bible crucifixion the crucifixion of jesus