warning...graphic content...short fiction...about a real event.
"He must increase and I must decrease"...those words had felt so right, so brave, so true. But as John sat alone in the dark those words were now fading as quickly as the day light from the narrow gap at the bottom of his cell door.
John had been sitting in jail now for almost a year. All of those who had looked to him as a spiritual leader and mighty prophet had diminished to two, the same two that he had figured were the two most likely to walk away. While he was still free he was not sure if they were followers or stragglers. But now there they were, week after week speaking to him through that narrow space at the bottom of the door.
That space had become his only connection to the world outside. His food came through that space, light came in through that space, voices came through that narrow gap the width of the door.
The tiny cell was more than torture to a man who had lived most of his adult life in the desert with the sky the limit, the wind in his beard and the taste of honey in his mouth. His conscience now questioned his memory. "Was that him, was it all a dream, is this a nightmare?" You know what it's like to wake from a dream and not be quite sure if it was a dream or reality? John was not sure if he ever woke up or if he ever went to sleep, he just knew that either way the nightmare never ended.
These two disciples had been his last contact with the one who must increase. The little bit of hope Jesus' message had brought to John, was now of little consolation. Darkness takes a lot out of a man.
John had no idea if it was day or night when he heard the guards at the door. Had he dozed off for a moment or night? He did know that the light from the torch was brighter than he could remember it being. For an instant a memory flashed of him sitting by a fire and the flames dancing with the evening breeze and the feeling of contentment that a warm fire can bring.
That glimmer was quickly shattered by the guards as they reached in and drug John into the passage way. The guards let their disgust be known as they got a whiff of the disgusting odor that filled the cell and clung to John as he lie on the ground. The guards could hardly believe that the frail body and matted hair belonged to the mighty John the Baptizer. The men could feel the frail flesh and bone as they lifted him to his feet to make their trip out of the dungeon.
You probably have no idea the level of atrophy that can happen to a man trapped in a cell the size of small walk-in closet for almost a year.
Even disoriented and weak by his abrupt departure from his cell, John had no delusions about what was going on. He had imagined this moment. He had hoped for a little dignity. Early on he had dreamed of Jesus actually setting him free somehow. But he knew what was happening, deep down he always knew it would.
The last words John heard was the guard whispering into his ear, "Herodias said "to let you know this was the happiest night of her life." The last thing he heard was the sound of the knife coming out of its sheaf. The last think he felt was the cold steeled tearing at the flesh of his neck.
But no one can imagine what John experienced next.
