How do you fix a blunder of global proportions?
Life was good. Fine wine and dry shelter. Camaraderie so great that we would happily die for each other.
Now I sit and roll the dice in my palms pitted with callouses and scars – wounds inflicted by others, and shamefully, by myself. I feel the dice indentions like dimples on my soul, without looking I know their smooth surface, once pure and perfect, is blood-stained now.
Once a warrior of fearsome reputation, I have become a front, an elaborate façade of confidence layered on shame and self-doubt. Every decision I make through close fists. Dice rolled where others can’t see them.
I watched the twisted thorns. Shrapnel in extremities. The mocking sign above the place of the skull.
We wanted souvenirs. I rolled my dice. Not sure why, it was just another day. Just another event.
I have no idea if he is what they say. The point is they believe.
They say he’s back. He could be anyone I meet. The servant? The leper? The strangers who seem to accuse me with judging eyes?
Perhaps the items are cursed?
Now they call from the bitter desert sands where I hastily buried my fabric secrets.
It was Good Friday when I did this and I found this one incredibly difficult to write. It didn’t get any recognition as other folk after me posted similar themes. But, some stories just affect you more than others.