Jesus' Last Missionary Position

In the heart of Rome, a crowd gathered, their faces a mix of curiosity and cruelty. Soldiers dragged a man toward a cross, his body already battered and bloody. Jesus. The soldiers were rough, their hands calloused and unyielding. They stripped him, his naked body pale and bruised. He was tied to the cross, his muscles straining against the ropes. The soldiers set to work with hammer and nails. Jesus groaned, the sound raw and primal. The first nail pierced his hand, the sound of metal against bone echoing through the air. He grit his teeth, his body tensing. The second nail followed, and then the third. He was lifted, the cross upright, his body on full display. The crowd watched, their eyes gleaming with a mix of horror and excitement. Jesus hung there, his body naked and vulnerable. The summer sun beat down on him, the heat intense. The soldiers moved to the base of the cross, a whip in hand. They began to lash at his feet, the sound of the whip cracking through the air. Jesus cried out, his body jerking with each strike. The crowd watched, their breaths coming in ragged gasps. Blood trickled down his legs, the sight both horrific and erotic. The soldiers took turns, their arms tired but their spirits unbroken. Jesus's body was a map of red, his skin torn and raw. Yet, his eyes remained defiant, his spirit unbroken. He looked down at the crowd, his gaze lingering on a woman in the front. Her eyes were filled with tears, her body trembling. She reached out a hand, her fingers brushing against his. The touch was electric, a connection in the midst of his pain. Jesus's body was a mess of blood and bruises, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He hung there, his eyes closed, his body slack. The crowd began to disperse, their curiosity sated, their cruelty satisfied. Jesus was left alone, his body writhing with the pain of each breath. Longinus spat on the ground, wiped his hand and casually strolled away.

Centurion Longinus, his chest heaving from exertion, looked back at the figure on the cross. They'd heard the tales of this man, Jesus. Some claimed he was a magician. Others whispered he had healing powers. Longinus approached the other soldiers. Cleophas was meticulously cleaning his whip, while Gaius was inspecting the nails that had been driven through Jesus's flesh. "What do you think?" Longinus asked, his voice low. Cassius, wiping the sweat from his brow, shrugged. "Just another Jew causing trouble." Longinus scoffed, "But his eyes... they're intense. And the way he looked at that woman—like he knew her, like he cared." Gaius chuckled, "You're seeing things, Longinus. It's the heat and the blood." Longinus ignored him. He walked back to the cross, standing directly beneath Jesus. He could see the blood dripping from his wounds, the raw flesh glistening in the sun. He reached out, touching the side of Jesus's leg, the blood warm and sticky. He rubbed his fingers together, feeling the thick liquid coats the tips. He looked up, his gaze meeting Jesus's. Jesus's breath hitched, a soft gasp escaping his lips. His eyes, filled with pain and defiance, met Longinus's. There was a challenge in his gaze, a silent question. Longinus felt a strange sensation in his gut, a mix of curiosity and something darker. He looked down at his blood-stained hand, then back up at Jesus. He wanted to understand this man, this enigma who could face death with such courage. He wanted to break him, to see if his spirit was as unbreakable as it seemed. He took a step back, his mind racing. He knew he should just leave, let the man die. But there was something about him, something that drew Longinus in. He wanted to see more. He wanted to know more. But he knew he needed to back away. Before this man got into his head. Before it was too late.

Longinus turned away, his boots echoing on the stone. He needed a drink, something to wash away the taste of this encounter. He could feel the soldiers' eyes on him, their curiosity piqued. He ignored them, marching towards the tavern nearby. The cool interior was a stark contrast to the brutal heat outside. He slammed his fist on the bar, signaling the keeper. "Wine. Strong." The keeper slid a cup towards him, filled to the brim. Longinus downed it in one go, the liquid burning his throat. He set the cup down, his eyes meeting the keeper's. "Another," he growled. The keeper oblige, refilling the cup. Longinus took a sip this time, his mind racing. He couldn't shake off the image of Jesus, his body battered, his eyes defiant. He felt a strange pull, a curiosity that bordered on obsession. He pushed the cup away, standing up. He needed to clear his head. He stormed out of the tavern, his path taking him back to the cross. The crowd had dispersed, leaving Jesus alone with his pain. Longinus could see his breath misting in the air, his body shuddering with each ragged inhalation. He approached the cross, his boots crunching on the gravel. He could see the blood dripping from Jesus's wounds, the raw flesh glistening in the fading light. He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of a wound on Jesus's side. Jesus flinched, a soft groan escaping his lips. Longinus's breath hitched, his body reacting to the sound. He could feel the heat radiating from Jesus's skin, could see the sweat beading on his forehead. He wanted to wipe it away, to touch him, to explore the lines of his body. He wanted to break him, to see if his spirit was as unbreakable as it seemed. He took a step back, his mind racing. He knew he was playing with fire, that this man could consume him if he let him. But he couldn't back away. Not yet. Not when he could feel the pull, the curiosity gnawing at him. He looked up at Jesus, his eyes meeting the other man's. There was a challenge in his gaze, a silent question. Longinus smiled, a slow, dangerous curve of his lips. "We'll see about that," he murmured, his voice low and rough. He turned away, leaving the question unanswered. He needed a way to make Jesus talk. To understand him. There was a loophole—his mother. She would never leave his side. She would never stop fighting for him. And it was time for him to stop fighting and speak.

Longinus strode towards the edge of the crowd, his mind already plotting. He knew where to find her, the mother of this man they called Jesus. Mary. She was a woman of strength, of faith, but she was also a woman who loved deeply. He could use that. He could use her to break through Jesus's defiance. He found her in a small, dimly lit home, her eyes red from crying, her body wracked with sorrow. She looked up as he entered, her gaze filled with a mix of hope and fear. "Is he...?" she started, her voice barely a whisper. Longinus shook his head, "Not yet." He saw her shoulders sag in relief. He sat down across from her, his voice low and steady. "I need your help, Mary. He won't talk to us. He won't tell us what we need to know. But he'll talk to you. He'll listen to you." Mary looked at him, her eyes searching. "What do you want from him, Roman?" Longinus leaned in, his voice a low growl. "I want the truth. I want to know why he's different. Why he can face death with such courage. I want to know his secret." Mary looked down at her hands, her voice soft. "He has no secret, Roman. He is who he is. A healer, a teacher, a man of God." Longinus scoffed, "And yet, he's up there, hanging on a cross. A man of God, you say? Where is your God now, Mary?" Mary's head snapped up, her eyes flashing with anger. "You dare speak of God? You, a Roman soldier, a man of violence and cruelty?" Longinus smiled, a slow, dangerous curve of his lips. "I speak of what I see, Mary. I see a man, your son, hanging on a cross. I see a man who could have saved himself, who could have run, who could have fought. But he didn't. He chose this path. Why?" Mary looked away, her voice barely a whisper. "He chose this path because it was his destiny. Because he had to show us the way, the path to redemption, to salvation." Longinus laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. "Redemption? Salvation? There is no redemption in death, Mary. There is no salvation in pain. There is only suffering. And your son is suffering. Up there, on that cross. He's suffering, and he's not talking. He's not telling us why. He's not telling us what we need to know." Mary looked up at him, her eyes filled with tears. "He's telling you, Roman. He's telling you with his every breath, with every beat of his heart. He's telling you that love is stronger than hate, that faith is stronger than fear, that hope is stronger than despair. He's telling you that even in the darkest of times, even in the face of death, there is light. There is hope. There is love." Longinus stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. He looked down at Mary, his voice a low growl. "I'll be back, Mary. And when I do, I expect answers. I expect your son to talk. Because if he doesn't, I'll make him. One way or another, I'll get the truth out of him." He turned and walked away, leaving Mary alone with her thoughts, her fears, her hopes. But she knew what she had to do. She had to go to her son. She had to be with him, in his final moments. She had to be strong, for him, for herself, for the path he had chosen. It was time to face that dreadful crucifixion, time to fight for her son, time for her to find the strength to face the Roman. Time to find her resolve and the strength to fight.

Mary stood, her body moving with a newfound purpose. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, the fabric coarse against her skin, grounding her. She stepped out into the cool evening air, her breath misting in the moonlight. Each step was a battle, her heart pounding in her chest, but her resolve hardened with every footfall. The journey to the crucifixion site was a blur. She could see the dim outlines of other figures, some mourning, others curious, but she pushed past them all. Her focus was singular: her son. She needed to see him, to touch him, to tell him she was there. As she approached the cross, she could see the soldiers lurking in the shadows, their eyes gleaming with a mix of boredom and cruelty. Longinus was among them, his gaze fixed on her, a smirk playing on his lips. She ignored him, her attention drawn to Jesus, his body limp, his breath shallow. She reached out, her fingers brushing against his wounded hand. His skin was cold, clammy, but his pulse was steady. She looked up into his face, seeing the lines of pain etched deeply around his eyes and mouth. "I'm here, my son," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. "I'm here." Jesus's eyes fluttered open, a weak smile tugging at his lips. "Mother," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "You shouldn't have come." Mary shook her head, her voice steady despite the tears streaming down her face. "I had to. I had to be here, with you. To the end." Jesus's gaze flicked past her, landing on the soldiers. "They want answers, Mother. They want to know why." Mary's grip tightened on his hand. "They won't get them from you," she said, her voice firm. "Not like this. Not while you're in pain." Jesus's eyes met hers, and for a moment, there was a silent understanding between them. He nodded slightly, a barely perceptible movement. "Then I will endure," he whispered. "Until the end." Longinus, growing impatient, stepped forward. "Enough," he growled. "You've had your moment, woman. Now step back." Mary turned to him, her eyes blazing with a fierce protectiveness. "I will not leave him," she said, her voice steady and strong. "Not until his last breath." Longinus scoffed, but there was a hint of respect in his eyes. "Very well," he said, taking a step back. "But if he speaks, I want to hear it." Mary turned back to Jesus, her hand still wrapped around his. She could feel his pain, his struggle, but she also felt his strength, his unwavering conviction. She leaned in, her voice a soft murmur. "Tell me, my son. Tell me what you need." Jesus's eyes met hers, and in that moment, there was a profound connection, a silent conversation passing between them. He took a shallow breath, his voice a mere whisper. "Tell them... tell them the truth, Mother. Tell them why I chose this path. Tell them... love."