Phillip John Mitchell walked slowly down the centre of the road, he was naked, his flesh black with soot and smoke, and red with blood, his head ached on one side and his brow felt wet. Smoke and flames wrapped him in their silent embrace before the wind chased them away, the scene cleared briefly, and he saw he was not the only one; others were moving, trying to stand looking about them in dazed and calm acceptance. Then wind turned back on itself and the scene was gone, there was Mitchell, the road, and that far away ringing in his ears that was all he could hear…
Above him skyscrapers reached up to the heavens, and it was snowing, though maybe not snow, but dancing, yes, the sky was dancing. He stumbled. Bending at the knees he put his hand down to steady himself and found himself looking at a little girl, sunk into the tarmac, only half her face showing. Confused, he reached out to her but stopped, as his brain made sense of what it was seeing.
The one sad eye looked blankly past his foot, looking nowhere. He stroked her hair, lightly, then stood again. Above the smoke the flames of a car twisted in and out of the black smoke, and beyond, hundred of bodies lay, some moving, some not, non visibly separable from the bloody mess. Was it really silent? Or was he deaf. He wiped the blood from his face and knelt down, picking up twisted piece of metal he knocked it against the ground, the again harder. He twisted his head towards the sound, nothing. He threw it aside and began to walk again. Why was he drawn towards that tall building at the end of the square? What had happened, the answers were there, but he could not make sense of the information, three ambulances pulled up on the edge of the square and stopped abruptly. The paramedics got out, and stood staring in blank disbelief, then they seemed to shake themselves and with their red bags ran into the square, on the other side more arrived. Mitchell stumbled on, the shop windows were filled with people staring, the glass stripped from all the windows. Mitchell looked down, the square was cover in glass, his shoes were tattered, and behind him bloody smudges marked his steps. He looked to his feet, moved them on the tarmac, and realised he could on barely feel them. He trudged on, a couple of paramedics had seen him walking and ran out towards him, but got distracted by the injured as they did so and stopped just 4 meters in. The smoke cleared and Mitchell saw he was much closer to the doors of the great hotel building than he had imagined. Inside the foyer those who could walk were clustered round those who were still, those who could stagger had propped them selves up at the windows and gazed blankly.
Then there was fuss and movement, people looked up and back into the darkness.
Mitchell walked up to the door. A large mountain of a man in what was once a bellboy’s uniform opened the door instinctively, despite the lack of glass that meant Mitchell could have stepped right through it.
Mitchell froze. The figure, bearded, slightly middle eastern looking, with a large Jewish nose, coming out of the lift was greeting people, taking their hands, touching their heads, holding them, hugging them. This man with his eyes that seemed to know everything, which was why he was here… Here.
Phillip closed his, where was here? He had travel, from Kentucky, think, think, he had travelled to, to New York, to see this man… why didn’t matter; he knew why when he looked at him. This man was why he was here. This man.
Mitchell opened his eyes, still apart from his body, still fighting to stay upright.
The man was right in front of him… the others were looking at him, at Phillip. Those he had spoken to looked well, they were bloody but they stood easily. Those he had yet to touch cough, were pale, leaned against walls for support. This man was…
The man reached out and took Mitchell’s hand, and he felt it, firm, but soft, he felt this hand, in his own. Jesus’ eyes worked though his, pulling his consciousness forwards from its shell-shocked recess, then both hands were either side of his head. The ringing in his ears, in his head got louder, stronger, under it a cacophony of noise built until it burst forth and the ringing was gone, helicopters, screams, sirens, the crackling of burning cars, the smashing of glass, the wailing of grieve, the rev of engines, the sound of wind, of carnage, of pain filled Mitchell head… seconds later has his body became real, so did the pain that filled it, washing over him in a wave, and then retreating… leaving only his feet, burning from an thousand glass cuts.
“I can’t do anything about that I’m afraid.” He looked out into Time Square behind Mitchell, shrouded in smoke and guts from the suicide Bomb, but the ground twinkling as the sun found its way. “You walked across a desert of sharpened sand, do you understand? That was a determined accomplishment; it’s a testament to your character - to your strength, if I heal your feet I take that away from you.”
“I understand.” Mitchell mumbled… he wanted to say something, anything; his body felt whole but his mind was jumbled and confused. Jesus clasped his hand briefly. And then moved out of the windows and into the square. He walked past several people, one was moving, and another was clearly dead. He settled by one who could be seen to be breathing deep but erratic breaths.
Jesus crouched on the ground and stroked the figure’s back until the breathing calmed, then after a minute more the figure moved its arms, pushing herself up from the ground then buckling up in a fit of coughing. She spraying out a flower of blood onto the tarmac and then span round to hug the saviour. Jesus smiled at her, then standing looked back to the hotel. “Why aren’t you helping these people, they need blankets, water, chairs, come on, anyone not moving can be left, but the walking wounded you should bring in.” He stopped, though the staff were already running about, there nothing like and order from God for getting fast action. Mitchell though watched as Jesus looked around him. For something Mitchell realised. He began to walk slowly out into the square, his head tilted searching, and he began to pace faster. Perhaps twenty feet ahead of him a figure stood on one leg, his other somehow twisted leg held up beneath him. He had his back to the approaching Jesus and was looking blankly about him; he pulled a mobile phone out of his pocket and was bring up to his ear as he turned. Jesus was running and threw his arms out as he reached the man he pushed his palms into his chest and the man lifted back off the ground, landing a few meters back.
Mitchell heard him whimpering, he pushed himself up but was grabbed by the tatters of his clothes and spun round hurled back towards Mitchell. The Saviour, cried out with effort as the man he clasped was launched into the air, arms and legs waving. He landed on the twisted remains of litter bin, his head visibly bouncing from the pavement.
Someone behind Mitchell put an amazingly soft linen blanket over his shoulders. Mitchell thanked the receptionist and wrapped closer, suddenly aware of his nakedness. Others had gathered to watch the bizarre spectacle. A few feet from them the man lay spluttering, still living but bleeding copiously. Jesus had stopped to heal someone, but he was watching the limp figure… Jesus stood and the limp figure rolled from the bin, and began to crawl.
“Innocence is something we are only given once!” The Son of God called, the figure whimpered and tried to get up, tripping over himself and crying out involuntarily aa his broken body fell again to the floor.
“It is a blessing.” Jesus called, reaching down the cup someone’s head briefly, running his hands down their throat their chest suddenly expanded and the young man through his head back to take his first breath for ten minutes. “You all here me?” He called out. “You are born innocent. You are born free, and you are born without faith, you are born without blame. Let that be clear, especially to those who use my name as a shield for inflicting pain on others.”
The man turned on his knees, his hands held up in front of his eyes. Phillip recognised the southern accent of a die-hard preacher. “I have sinned, and I repent to oh lord, I throw my self on your mercy lord, forgive me.” He grovelled
“Forgive?” the saviour hung mid step. “What is forgive? What is mercy? Have you told your congregation about my forgiveness? My infinite mercy? Do they know of my love for all who have love in their hearts, have you taken pity and given pity to those who come to you in despair having fallen from your impossible standards, your hypocritical definition of holy?”
The man grovelling at Jesus’ feet sobbed and trembled.
Jesus hung his head, and seemed about to continue his tirade, but he grew tired, and was loosing interest in the wretch. “And god made man in his own image.”
“You got that one the wrong way round!” he called. “That’s not how it works. You all make me, every day, every day! And you do so in your own image. I am the sum of you.”
No one moved or answered.
“Ask me again to forgive you. Ask yourself, what would you do? What do you tell the people I would do?”
Jesus sighed, his shoulders sagging, and leant down and stroked the man’s face gently, but with no smile or emotion on his, he healed the broken preacher as he had done countless others in the last few minutes. The whimpering stopped and soon the preacher stood, carefully, to his feet.
“Better?” Jesus asked.
“Yes lord.”
“Good.” The saviour smiled and as he turned and walked away the man slowly fell backwards, dead.
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