Necessary Heartbreak

by Michael J. Sullivan

  At the foot of the stairs, Michael immediately detected a pungent odor in the humid air. What is that smell? Dead fish?

  The soldiers pushed him farther down the dank hallway before them. The smell intensified, causing Michael to put his shoulder to his nose. The soldier on his right looked at Michael and grinned. “Is this your first time coming to Antonia?”

  “What is this place?”

  “It’s where Jews like you come to die.” Both soldiers laughed.

  “I’m not a Jew!” Michael protested.

  “Oh, you’re not?” asked the soldier on his left. “Then what are you? You’re not a Roman.”

  Michael didn’t answer right away, measuring the consequences of what he was going to say. Obviously, this was no place for a Jewish man or woman. But there appeared to be an anger regarding Jesus as well. So he chose the safe route. “I’m just a guy who wants to get home and see my daughter. That’s all.”

  The soldiers laughed again. “Welcome home,” one of them sneered.

  The hallway emptied out onto another stairway, which descended below them. A waft of stale air overpowered them. Michael tried not to gag.

  “What is that smell?”

  “Rotting flesh,” the soldier on his left answered. “Smells good, doesn’t it?”

  Michael stopped, shocked at what he’d just heard. “I’m not going down there!” Instinctively he gave a swift, measured kick to the back of the soldier’s leg, and he released his grip. Michael staggered back but the other soldier still hung on gamely.

  Several soldiers from below heard the commotion and came rushing up, swinging their spears at Michael and knocking him to the ground. He curled up in a fetal position with his arms covering his face in a vain attempt to stop the blows.

  “Enough!” shouted an authoritative voice. Michael lowered his arms and looked up. A soldier with a white piece of cloth dangling from the back of his helmet stared down at him.

  “Help him to his feet and put him in the dungeon. But leave him alone, he’s mine!”

  “Yes, Marcus,” said one of the soldiers. “Is there anything else you need to be done?”

  “Keep him handcuffed to the wall. I’ll take care of him later myself.”

  The soldier bowed to Marcus. He tried to drag Michael to his feet but he wouldn’t stand.

  “So, you’re going to be difficult?” another soldier asked. Michael cried out as his arms were yanked up and he was forced to walk. As they half-dragged him down the staircase, he heard one mutter, “I wonder why Marcus has an interest in this prisoner.”

  The other soldier shrugged. “It’s usually the women prisoners he cares about.”

  Michael felt like a mouse inside a maze as they made their way through the twisting, filthy corridors below. The prison must be huge. But what struck him most was the noise. Muffled screams and the sounds of whips penetrating human flesh echoed from all sides. The sound of cloth tearing and a woman’s cry for help made Michael wince helplessly. It was hard to believe that only a few hours ago he’d been worrying about what Elizabeth would wear.

  He turned to the right to catch a glimpse of the cells and saw a skeleton, arms and legs still shackled, hanging from the ceiling by what appeared to be a grimy rag around its neck. To his left, he saw a man and a little boy huddled together, weeping, their clothes torn and blood dripping from several gashes on their faces. They turned away and covered their faces in shame. In the cell next to them, a soldier was swinging a metal ball against a fallen man lying near the cell’s entrance. As Michael drew closer, he felt a splatter of blood hit his face. He retreated in horror and furiously tried to wipe his cheek.

  The soldiers moved him along more quickly. “Let’s get rid of him so we can get some dinner,” the soldier on the left said.

  The other soldier nodded. “Move!”

  After passing another bank of cells, each containing more horrifying scenes of suffering, Michael came to the last, where he heard low groans and weeping. He was startled to see Barabbas chained to the wall in the adjacent cell.

  The murderer greeted him like an old friend. “Ah, so they got you, too?” he mumbled, a faint smile spreading across his bruised and swollen face.

  The soldier on Michael’s left opened the metal gate and shoved him into the ten-by-ten cell. The other soldier locked Michael’s arm into a chain protruding out of the wall and then tightened the clamp so it pinched his skin. “Now you two killers can die side by side,” he sneered. He smashed Michael against the wall with one last parting kick in the gut. Michael’s knees buckled, and he fell to the ground, his right arm still tethered to the chain at a grotesque angle.

  “Are you all right, my friend?” Barabbas asked.

  “I’ve been better,” Michael groaned.

  He pulled himself to a sitting position and looked around. It was so dark that the only image he could decipher was the outline of the bars that covered the cell opening. Muffled sounds of men and women crying, begging for leniency, were all around them. He could hear Barabbas jiggling his chain, trying to jerk it out of the wall.

  This has got to be a nightmare. I’m going to wake up from this soon and I’ll be back in Northport. Michael closed his eyes briefly and opened them quickly when a drip of blood from the top of his forehead ran into his eye. He wiped it away quickly. This isn’t a dream. But where am I?

  He got to his feet slowly and jerked on the chain. No luck. The harder he jerked, the more the clamp dug into his wrist.

  “Keep trying,” Barabbas urged. “We’ve got to find a way out of here.”

  “Here?” asked Michael wearily. “Where is here?”

  “Here is the Roman prison.”

  “I just don’t understand how that can be—”

  Barabbas interrupted him. “Yes, that happened to me the first time they got me.”

  Michael shook his head in confusion. “You’ve been here before?”

  “Yes.”

  “So we’ll get out of here soon?”

  “My friend, you may never get out.”

  Stunned, Michael slid back down the wall and shook his head as the enormity of the situation sank in. “I don’t understand,” he muttered. “What did I do wrong?”

  They both started pulling on the chains, attracting a soldier’s attention. “Stop!” he shouted. He then slid his spear through the cell opening, poking Barabbas and then Michael. “Try it again, and I’ll come in there and make sure I reach you,” the soldier yelled.

  Michael sat back against the wall. His only thoughts now were on Elizabeth. If I had only stopped her from coming down into the tunnel. Why did I have to go back upstairs? I should have made sure she came with me. Maybe she can get home and find help?

  The chain in the wall made it impossible for him to lie down completely as exhaustion overtook him. The heat of the dungeon seeped into Michael’s body, and his throat was parched. “Barabbas, do they give you any water?”

  “When the sun comes up.”

  Michael tried not to think about how thirsty he was. It was probably best to keep talking. “Barabbas, would you—”

  Another Roman soldier bolted toward Michael, slamming his spear against the rusty rods. “Stop!”

  The clanging of the metal weapon against the front of his cell set Michael’s teeth on edge. He briefly forgot about his physical ills. He had mixed emotions about Barabbas and helping him. After seeing the cruel methods of the Romans, he understood how anger could build up in its victims. He wondered if prayer could save him this evening, but struggled to remember a time when it actually had.

  Michael’s stomach twisted in pain as he sat on the E train. He leaned down to gasp for some air as a woman sitting next to him got up and moved away.

  It must be my breath, he thought with embarrassment.

  He rubbed his chest in an effort to ease the nausea. It has to be from that tuna fish sandwich. I shouldn’t have saved it from yesterday.

  It was a cold December night. Michael sat near a heate
r, absorbing the warm air like a dog rolling on grass. Ah, this feels good.

  He moved his feet closer, aiming the right one at an angle so the air would warm the part of his sneaker that was ripped. Embarrassing. I can’t afford new sneakers. Who would think I’m a college graduate?

  Michael looked around the train, avoiding direct eye contact. He could see fellow passengers dressed in winter coats, scarves, and woolen gloves. Many people had presents and brightly colored holiday bags filled with packages either next to them or on the floor. One man, dressed in a suit, was holding a woman’s hand, talking gently while stroking the back of her neck.

  He tried hard not to look at their faces. A quick glance got him some snickers from the couple. I would laugh at me, too. Go ahead, mock me. What do I have to live for? I hate myself.

  Michael got up from his seat and walked to the far end of the train. He dropped down into a seat, pulling his hood over his head, partially covering the side of his face. When he looked up briefly, he saw his reflection in the window. Wow, I am ugly.

  He hadn’t shaved in almost five days, and it had been almost a week since he had brushed his teeth. Michael tried keeping his mouth fresh by eating Life Savers mints. But his teeth felt grimy. The fingers on his right hand peeked through his torn, ratty gloves. He clenched his fist so no one could see.

  “Fifty-third Street, Fifth Avenue,” a voice sounded over the PA system.

  So I guess this is home for tonight.

  Michael kept his face hidden as he walked with a big crowd up the stairs. When he reached the outdoors, the beautiful lights of New York City greeted him. Santas on the corners peppered New Yorkers with pleas to help the needy. They jingled their bells with glee, smiling and giving tourists merry greetings. He could see the pots filled with coins and dollar bills.

  Should I?

  The Santa on Fifth Avenue swung his bell wildly. “Can you spare some change for the poor?” the man in the red suit asked Michael.

  “I am the poor.”

  “That’s what they all say. Go back to your fancy house and keep saving your money.”

  Thanks a lot, jerk, Michael thought after giving Santa a searing glare.

  He walked away, stealing some quick glances at the storefront windows. A toy store had shiny cars, elaborate dolls, and speedy trains that captivated all the little kids passing by.

  Almost there. It’s freezing out here. Got to find a pew near a heater.

  Michael climbed the many steps to St. Patrick’s Cathedral and opened the big door. He pulled his hood partially off his head, leaving it halfway up his face. His hair was flat and greasy.

  God won’t care. Stop worrying.

  The evening mass was still going on inside the famous church. So he sat down in the last row. When it was time for Communion, he bolted quickly to be the first to extend his hands to the priest to receive it. I’m so hungry. I need to eat.

  As the line dwindled, Michael got up a second time to get Communion. The priest looked at him curiously but gave him the host again. He knelt down and said a prayer. Mom, I wish you were here. Things are going bad, Mom. Why did you have to leave? This never would have happened if you were alive, Mom. Why did God take you from me? Why?

  Michael shed some tears as he ended his prayer. The priest finished the mass. Now what do I do? I’ve got nowhere to go.

  He reached into his right pocket and found a couple of quarters. Michael dug into his left pocket and found only some tissue paper. He wiped his misty eyes and stared straight ahead. Most of the parishioners had filed out of the church. Others were lighting candles, while some were chatting with friends in the back.

  It had been a couple of days since he had had a chance to close his eyes. Michael mainly got his rest ten minutes at a time, when the E train moved into the tunnel from Queens to Manhattan, affording him a break between stops.

  He sank gratefully against the back of the pew, then jumped forward, startled, when he caught himself snoring as he began to doze. But there was no one around. Slowly his body began to relax. Peace . . .

  Thump! Wham! The noise startled Michael awake. He lifted his head up, banging it against the back of the pew. “What the . . . ?”

  “Church is not for sleeping,” an old lady sternly lectured Michael. She walked back toward the candles, lighting them, and placed some coins into a box. Michael stood up and glared at her but she didn’t notice. He staggered out of the pew and made a direct line toward her. Too late. The lady walked out the front door and down the steps.

  A light rain had begun, wetting Michael’s head. He sat down on one of the steps and buried his face in his hands. Mom, I need your help. Oh, why, God? Oh, why? I don’t have anywhere to go. Oh, God, why . . . why . . . is there anyone out there who can help me?

  Michael let the rain hit his unwashed hair. No better way to get it clean, right? he thought sarcastically. Drips of water fell from his hair, gently removing the crust that had built up in his eyes. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his soiled jacket, forcing him to spit out some grains of dirt from his lips.

  He put his head down again, allowing the big drops to slide down the back of his neck. He shivered. I’ve got nowhere to go. Nowhere.

  The woman in the black veil easily navigated the bustling, congested streets, and Elizabeth followed closely behind. The roads were unlike any she had seen back in Northport. They were paved entirely of stone yet still dusty, and already her legs were aching from walking on the uneven surface. People were milling about, chatting and laughing with marketplace owners. Despite the strangeness of her surroundings, it felt like a carnival to Elizabeth, as if she were back in Northport at the Firemen’s Fair in the Pit. There were no midway games or rides, but a variety of foods and items were being sold on both sides of the street.

  The scene was so chaotic and absorbing, especially under the veil, that Elizabeth almost forgot that she was holding the hand of a complete stranger. Her thoughts flew to her father and she stopped abruptly. Leah, a few steps ahead, unintentionally yanked her hand. “Please,” Leah begged, “we must get you back. There’s no time. You have to show me exactly where you came from.”

  Elizabeth looked all around, her eyes now focusing on not just movement but the myriad of buildings surrounding them. She quickly pulled her hand away from the woman. “It’s over there,” she said, pointing to a fruit and vegetable stand about thirty yards away.

  “By that marketplace?”

  Elizabeth nodded. The woman walked a few paces ahead, but when Elizabeth stopped, the woman turned around.

  “Why are you stopping? We’re almost there. We can get you home now. Hurry. You’re in danger.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “My father is in more danger.”

  “But the soldier, he’ll come for you if you don’t leave now.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “I don’t know anything about any soldier. I’m not going home until my father is with me.”

  Leah walked back to Elizabeth and spoke urgently. “You are obviously from another place. There isn’t much a woman can do to help. The Roman soldiers are brutal and vicious. They know you helped a murderer who killed one of their own. Every step you take and every day you spend here will only bring you more risk.”

  “I don’t care about what you think or what they think of women in this town. I’m not going without my father!”

  They stood in silence and looked at each other awkwardly for a few seconds. Then Elizabeth relented, her eyes glistening with a new round of fresh tears. “Can you help me? Please?”

  The woman glanced back at the tunnel’s entrance. She hesitated a moment, then turned back to Elizabeth and nodded. “I’ll try to help you in any way I can.”

  Elizabeth let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” She paused, then smiled uncomfortably. “You know, um . . .”

  “I am Leah. And you are Elizabeth? Did your father not speak of me?”

  Elizabeth shook her head, puzzled, yet certain that this woman must have hea
rd her father call her by name earlier.

  “Elizabeth, let me get you something to eat and drink. Then we can discuss what we should do.” Leah reached out her hand in a display of friendship, and Elizabeth took it with some apprehension. They started toward the fruit stand across the street.

  “What kind of a place is it where my father is being held?”

  “It’s a place where they hold people before they are put on trial. And there are many soldiers.”

  They both stopped walking. The breeze picked up slightly; even though it relieved some of the heat that had bothered Elizabeth only moments ago, it had a chilling effect. She turned around resolutely and began walking back. Leah followed behind. She noticed that Elizabeth was looking up at the sky and then putting her hands to her eyes.

  “Oh dear,” Leah said, walking quickly alongside the teenager. She wrapped her arm gently around her shoulders, but Elizabeth pulled away.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What are you sorry for?”

  “It’s all my fault,” said Elizabeth, her eyes red.

  “It’s not your fault. You were only trying to help someone in need.”

  “But if I hadn’t gone into the tunnel . . . and if I didn’t run out to help that man . . .”

  Leah patted Elizabeth’s back reassuringly. “Come with me. Let’s get something to drink and eat. You’ll feel better.”

  “No.”

  Leah frowned. “I’ll take you to the prison. Then perhaps we can find out more about your father. But first, why don’t we get you something to drink.”

  She guided them to a nearby well, where she cupped the water in her hands.

  Elizabeth pulled back in disgust. “Aren’t there any cups or anything? My hands are really dirty.”

  “You can rinse them first.”

  Elizabeth peered at the water. It looked cloudy. “You drink this?” she asked doubtfully.