The Condemned

Every person in the room wore an identical mustard-yellow cloak. The looming walls stood with a cold grandeur, unable to prevent the icy air from chilling the bones of all who stood inside. The torches that lit the room, hung at intervals between the gothic windows. Although the torchlight did not reach the ceiling, each person in the room knew the most exact detail of the painting on it. Reaching out, were the hands of good, hands of their savior. Flesh and muscle annihilated, stakes for the wretched refused to let such a glorious man slip from their grasp. Such purity, matched by none, was intoxicating. And from his lips ashes flew about chaotically, lost among the vastness.
The Priest, with open arms, spoke, “ On this night, he gave us his only son. As the son walked valiantly to a criminal’s death, he never wavered. The stakes drove down, piercing his human skin and sent a stream of blood trickling down his palms. And that blood, my brothers and sisters, is the blood we lap from our tribute each Christmas night.”
In the very last row, Martha stood, waiting. Her auburn hair tumbled down from the inside of her cloak. Her hood shadowed most of her face but was unable to hide the intelligence in her gold-flecked eyes. Freckles were splashed across her nose and cheeks, giving her slender body a fawn-like appearance. The name was to soon ring out. It was known as a great honor but Martha wanted nothing to do with it. At ten years old, she wished her mother would take her to a different church but she no longer asked; the bruises seemed permanent. She cringed remembering years past, never believing in what the others said. With a child’s pure morality, she believed no one deserved to die, even if it was a person’s own doing, unless the death was by the hand of God.
“Brothers and sisters, it is my honor to present to you this year’s life blood,” the preacher’s voice rang out again. At any given spot in the room, the air did not stir as the crowd withheld its breath and the drumming of hearts ensued. It was the honor and excitement, they all believed. At the back of the room, the mother smiled, wrapping her arm around Martha’s shoulder. “Martha Goodwin,” the Priest called out with eagerness. The mother smiled, and slid her hand down to the center of Martha’s back giving her a small shove. Martha stumbled forward, still unable to believe her predicament. A child had never been chosen before. To her left, she spotted a group of girls staring at her in envy. The first! Of course, it had to be her, the one who faked her allegiance. Were they all naïve to believe she wanted this? she wondered.
Halfway through the crowd, an enormous weight fell onto Martha’s shoulders. Barely maintaining her balance, she dragged the cross on her back along the floor. The ground protested as it screeched with each step. The crowd marveled in excitement. Maybe the child would bring a new prosperity to the members. As she climbed the steps to the top of the altar, the ground began to sway. The priest smiled generously, took the cross from her back, and slipped it into place with a dead thud. As the priest hoisted her up, the mother strode forward carrying the stakes. Until that moment, Martha had not noticed the tears or quick breath. It faintly registered that there was an awful sound; never minding the source could be her. Uncurling her fingers, the stakes were placed at the center of her palms by two members. Never would Martha forget, in those last few moments, the touch of metal marking her as a savoir, as a meaningless child. The touch of the stakes awakened her and when her mother swung the mallet the first time, she cried a feral scream; a scream all in the room but Martha and God found necessary.
Next, her feet were nailed into place, as if the poor child could escape. Every fiber of her being screamed: What the hell is wrong with these people? The members began to form three lines, waiting for his or her turn to drink. Stripped of all sanity, Martha was hysterical as person after person pressed lips to her bleeding body, drinking to the covenant they thought existed. The pain was excruciating but their unrighteous lips tore Martha apart. She didn’t notice when the ritual had ended; the mouths still lingered on her bloodied skin. Everyone returned to their place while the priest walked down the center of the crowd, carrying a knife. He whispered to Martha, “You have been a generous and noble soul. You will find the favor of God in heaven.” He tilted her head back, making a small cut along her throat. It was believed to be the most precious blood; the soul was said to rise to the throat as a life neared its end. With a sweet, succulent kiss, he turned and pulled a torch from the wall. The whole congregation chanted with voices building on one another, “You were made of dust, and to dust you will return. You were made of dust, and to dust you will return.” The fire was lit; a new pain began. Martha shivered, flashing between cold clamminess from blood loss and unbearable heat of her smoldering flesh. But down the center of the room walked a man in a white robe, holding out his hands. “Oh Martha, my dear child, it is time to come home.”