“Judas.” His eyes are so incredibly large and dark and they’re looking right through me. Sorrowfully. Reproachfully. “Must you do that?”
“I must,” I say stubbornly, although it pains me to see that particular expression upon his face, even more knowing I am the cause of it. “She only makes things more difficult for us—for you—and I cannot bear it!”
“We have bigger issues than Mary,” he reminds me, cupping my cheek in one slender hand, locking his eyes upon mine. Ka-thump, ka-thump! Has a big bass drum begun beating nearby, or is that the very audible sound of my heart which is about to explode?
“But, Jesus…” I begin to protest, even as he places one finger upon my lips.
“You’re angry with her because she offered herself to me,” he says matter-of-factly. It doesn’t help to know he’s right, of course. Not that it’s the only reason I’ve no respect for Mary Magdalene—that is but one reason among many. But it’s the hardest to overcome, especially right this minute when I am coming within an ace of profaning him myself with my unworthy body. O Jesus, do you know what effect you have upon me? Of course you do. You know everything. “Sssh, sssh, don’t be angry for that, you know nothing happened, surely you realize that? It’s all right, my little one, everything shall be all right, try not to get worried…”
Try not to get worried. How often have I heard her use those same words, as she attempts to touch him, to soothe his brow, to muscle her way into our midst? The wench is much bolder now than she was when we began, I’ll grant her that. She wastes our money on baubles and trinkets and other such foolishness. And when I protest I’m told not to worry, not to speak to her like that. Jesus says he’ll handle her, but what does that actually mean? She invariably ends up going her own way, doing what seems to come most naturally to her, regardless of what anyone says. I’d much rather be done with her this time. She plays no useful part in this story, so why not let her go? Yet for some reason he clings to her, despite my best advice, and that’s what’s tearing me apart. And which shall be our ruination. Again.
My hand snakes out toward him, toward his spectacular tanned body, his toned ass. I want to touch him in the worst possible way, or is that the best? His eyes never blink, he never flinches—is it my imagination or has he forgotten to breathe as well? For a heart stopping moment the world recedes, and there is only he and I. There is only us and we. And we are good, good to go, we are good, good together, we are…
Judas has never been very popular, not in any incarnation that he and Jesus and the others have lived through. But he doesn't care about that. All he cares about is following the instructions of God as set forth in the script that they follow. And Jesus. For Judas has secretly loved the son of God for over two thousand years.
But now he decides that enough is enough, and he's tired of watching Jesus die far too early, and for what? This time Judas is determined to see that Jesus lives a long and happy life, no matter what price he has to pay to accomplish it...no matter if he has to make a deal with the devil himself.
Revelations is a story of what could be, told by those who play it out, time after time after time, unbeknownst to the rest of mankind. They've come back again, for yet another round. But this time is going to be different.