Free

Before I open my eyes, I am aware of the stench that can only be escaped by sleep. The stale air smells of mildew and rancid meat and human waste. I turn my face to the side and wretch. Mustering my strength, I sit up and rest my head against the cool, damp walls of my cell. My mouth is dry and tastes of bile. My head pounds. A single ray of light pierces through the darkness from a chink in the ceiling and slants to the far corner. I stare at the dust lazily falling there. It shimmers weakly while suspended in the glowing stream, then disappears as quickly as it came. Reaching my hand out, I watch it tremble in the brightness. It must be sunny outside.

I don't know how long I've been here; this is the first day I've been able to tell morning from night. I know only the rain that has fallen for days now, trickling down the stones and gathering at my feet. I know only that I've been here a long time, and that today is my last day. Last night the guards brought me a piece of old meat to go with my bread.

"Feast, for this meal is your last."

My stomach heaves again. I cradle my head in my hands and begin to sob.

I have not cried since I was a boy, when my mother died. I've killed many men without remorse, watched them die with eyes open and blood pouring from their mouths. I've listened to respected leaders snivel and beg for mercy like blubbering infants. I've seen wives and children weep at the feet of their dead husbands and fathers, heard their bitter wails in my sleep at night. Yet still my eyes were dry.

Now, for my own life I cry. The blood of many is on my hands, and I know my fate; it has been decided. The finality of my judgement shrouds me in an impenetrable darkness. I've heard that death on a cross is the closest you can come to hell on earth, but it is leaving this earth that fills me with unbearable dread. It is for that fear that I would accept a lifetime in this foul cell. Maybe a lifetime would be enough penitence to cover my crimes. Shudders rack my body and heave my broad shoulders as I inwardly acknowledge the hopelessness of even that thought. A lifetime might absolve me of one man's blood.

When I open my eyes again, the stream of light has moved from the corner and now falls vertically from ceiling to floor. I hear voices from above.

"Crucify him! Crucify him! Crucify him!"

The crowd outside is hungry for my blood. I hear the hatred in their voices, tangible as the words themselves. They violently spit the phrase from their mouths. It drips with venom and turns me cold. Even though I am a murderous man, I am amazed at the passionate anger I have aroused in these people. It sounds as if thousands have gathered outside to damn me.

I hear the clanging of metal. The trap door has been removed and footsteps approach. Two guards slide open my cell and spit at my feet. My palms are cold and my stomach is twisted. I think of the faces of those sniveling men in the last moments of their lives. I remember the loathing I felt for them, how base they seemed when stripped of their pride. I am harshly lifted on either sides by my armpits. As we pass under the light, I look up. For a moment, I am blinded.

I am not aware of climbing the stairs, not aware of passing through the guards' quarters, I am only aware of the fresh air and the breeze that is now on my face. We are outside of the jail, and it is beautiful outside. I have never seen a clearer day or a bluer sky, and the cruelty of it is too much for me. After days of rain, the clouds have receded so that even the sun may mock my cursed end. The guards throw me to the ground, and my tears mingle with the dust. "From dust you were created, and to dust you will return." I roll to my back and squint at the light, the light that is too bright, too intense for my unaccustomed eyes. One of the sentinels speaks.

"Go, Barabbas. You are free."

The breeze shifts, and lift I my head. Though tears stream down my face and blur my vision, I know the guards are gone. I repeat the sentinel's last three words, unable to fathom their weight. I cannot trust it, yet before me lies only a boundless horizon. The sun has not appeared to mock me, but to illuminate the beauties that are mine again, somehow. The crowd still chants in the distance, but it is not me they are shouting for.

I am free.