FICTION
The Chosen One
The crowd parted to let him pass as he shuffled towards the city’s gate and out into the wilderness.
The midday sun bore down upon him, causing the blood on his face and limbs to cake. Above him birds began to circle in anticipation, though they would have a fruitless wait. He stared up at the sky and grinned, which caused the dried clots of blood between his lips to stretch and snap. It was good to be alive, today of all days, and to know that tomorrow he would see the dawn.
He made his way slowly across the desert scrubland seeking distance between himself and the city’s inhabitants, though he doubted that any would be troubled by remorse, for they had other distractions to occupy themselves with today.
Spotting a small cluster of dwellings ahead, he made his way towards them. There were no signs of the inhabitants, and he reasoned that they were either out grazing their goats or, more likely, had gone to the city to partake in the weekend’s festivities. He sat on the wall of a well to rest, which caused his back and shoulders to bubble in pain as the weight of his robe settled upon his torn flesh. But he was not troubled by the pain, for he would heal soon enough.
He washed the dried blood from his face and stared out over the barren landscape. He could still see the city, which wasn’t as far away as he’d hoped. In the foreground stood a tall, solitary mound. It was a barren, featureless rock save for an unmade track, just wide enough for a cart, that was scratched onto its eastern face like a scar.
His eye was drawn to a commotion near the foot of the mound. A band of soldiers were goading a man along the track whilst a small group, mostly women, followed meekly behind. The man kept stumbling under the weight of the wooden cross that was slung across his shoulder. The foot of the cross bounced and jarred against the rocks as he staggered blindly onwards towards the brow. Each time he fell the women would rush to help him whilst the soldiers rained down blows with sticks and whips, seemingly impatient for their journey to end.
Finally the man emerged exhausted at the brow of the mound and the cross was taken from him and lain to the ground. A large, unkept brute of a man appeared from over the brow and stripped him of his robe before hurriedly bundling him to the ground where two others were waiting to pounce, one grabbing his feet. Even from the distance to the well, a collective wail from the women could be heard as nails were driven into the helpless man’s wrists and ankles. Moments later the cross was pulled upright by ropes where it stood motionless between two others. The crucified were then left to hang facing into the blazing, afternoon sun.
A loud shriek brought his attention back to the well. In front of him stood a young girl carrying a water pitcher on her head. He rose up and stood before her, his towering, bloodied form caused her to shudder. She remained rooted to the spot, pressing the empty pitcher to her head with one arm, unsure whether to reach for the bucket or flee. Without warning he lurched forwards and grabbed her firmly by the arm. His predatory eyes feasted upon her trembling body. Convulsed with panic she let go of the pitcher, which fell to the ground, splintering into many small pieces.
“Who are you?” she cried in terror.
“I am Barabbas, the chosen one.”
Martin McNeil is a British writer of short fiction. He is the winner of Andromeda Literary Magazine’s “Best sci-fi short story” award, and his work has appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine and Literary Stories.
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Image from Pickpik.
Heart of Flesh Literary Journal 