<A/N: HEY :) So this is a short story I was working on. Normally I don't write things like this, (you'll see what I mean if you read on (: ) but I found an old school paper and it was pretty well written (not to sound cocky, it just surprised me that my 11-year-old self could form a coherent sentence :P ) so I revised it and fixed things....so yeah! Hope you like it!>
The air was heavy that day, as if something calamitous was fated to happen, while the crowd's cruel jeers rang in my ears. The gloomy atmosphere was almost unbearable, and the air weighed down on me heavily. An eerie unease filled the air amid the shouts and rushing bodies. The grimy streets overflowed with noisy people, and the smell of dust and sweat hung in the air. My tongue was cottony, thick with heat, my throat parched, and my heavy armor weighed down on me. Though people were shouting and pushing, the atmosphere was tense, as if waiting for something meaningful to happen. The rowdy mass, noisy as crows, surged against each other dangerously, threatening to trample a bystander underfoot. I pushed my way through to the center and was jostled uncomfortably a number of times.
Suddenly there was an ominous silence, and the mass erupted into roars. My comrades and I seemed to emerge in the middle of the throng, other guards brusquely pushing a man ahead of us. With a look of purpose upon his face, he strained under the weight of a large, unwieldy wooden cross that I imagined must be as heavy as lead. Carrying it alone, he seemed as strong as an ox. I struggled to hold the throng back as they screamed for his crucifixion, but there was no mistaking the tension in the air - they were out for blood. I felt a kind of sympathy for him as he pushed on despite his evident exhaustion, though determination was clear in his eyes. I assured myself doubtfully that he was being crucified for a reason - this man must be a criminal if the crowd was so set on seeing him killed. Yet I was still apprehensive, and I pushed the disquieting thoughts out of my head.
He was wounded badly, pallid after losing so much blood. He struggled to continue the grueling journey, pain distorting his face. Though the masses were pressing ever closer, he seemed so alone and calm, as if he had known for eternity that he would have to go through this harsh trial. The sun beat down on my armor relentlessly, hot as a furnace, and I could feel the heat of the street through my sandals. I could only imagine how he felt, barefoot, the heat blistering his feet, bathed in sweat and blood, and carrying that great load upon his shoulders. I clenched my teeth, tearing my eyes away from the agony in his face. The crowd's hatred seemed to weigh down on him, weakening him further. The guard next to me, my comrade, mocked him and drove him on while I fought to keep the roaring crowd, threatening to hurt the man, back. At this rate, I thought, the poor man would be dead even before reaching the site of his crucifixion. I was utterly astonished at my companion's excessively cruel treatment of this man. I could never imagine my friend, with his beautiful wife and dear children, could be so heinous to this obviously innocent man.
The crowd was relentless, with hearts black as coal. They threw stones at the man and mocked him, scoffing at his distress. Their expressions were of mixed hatred, and, I was surprised to see, fear. Some in the crowd, however, looked desolate as a tomb, devastated at the fate of this poor man. They wailed and mourned for him, as if the end of the world was imminent. One despondent woman looked at him, a grief-stricken expression on her delicate features, grim as death itself, as if the weight of the world and the burden of that cross was on her shoulders instead of his. He looked straight at her - through her, in fact - with pure love and sorrow, free of self-pity or hatred, not even for his persecutors. I realized that through his torment, it was not hatred or dislike that he felt for the crowd, roaring like a thunderstorm and pressing ever closer, but love. In my heart, I grudgingly admitted to myself, I knew this man - the man I was leading to his death - was innocent as a lamb, but I pushed the haunting thought into the dark recesses of my mind and focused on the task at hand - pushing back the mob that threatened to overtake us.
Suddenly, the man staggered and fell under the weight of the cross, and guilt clouded my thoughts. Gasps rippled through the crowd and the women's wails grew desperate, their bodies racked with sobs. The other soldiers taunted him cruelly, kicking him and demanding for him to get up. I stood there, unable to defend him, though I could not bring myself to hurt this man directly. For a moment he lay there, motionless as a corpse, and I was certain he could not go on. The brutal crowd grew noisier and bolder, almost knocking me off my feet, as if his pain gave them courage. They mocked him, telling him to perform a miracle if he really could. Instead, he seemed to gather his remaining strength, getting up slowly and painfully. The agony it caused him to take each step was visible, and I could no longer bring myself to watch him being tormented. I no longer wanted a part in this. I no longer wanted to stand by, feeling useless. As I slipped through the crowd and ran, tearing of my heavy armor, only one word ran through my mind, directed at me.
Coward.
