I carried the flowers to his tomb. I came with his mother and the others. We were silent and solemn; still in a state of paralysis, shock and regret and disbelief. Disbelief that he had been taken from us. I felt betrayed. He said he was the Son. Yet they slew him like a dog; we saw his blood and it was the same colour as everyone else's.
When we arrived, we were dismayed to see the stone had been rolled away. Vandals, or thieves. How could they! Have they not done enough? But suddenly, two men appeared, and told us he had risen. I ran into the tomb in disbelief, but it was empty save for the cloth his body had been wrapped in. He had risen! My heart flowed to the brim with joy, and relief.
And then I woke up. The same dream, every night since they nailed him up. My heart sank to the soles of my feet with the realisation of his death. Death was irreversible. He is gone forever. I will never see him again, in this mortal world.
I shook the feeling off and pulled myself out of bed. There was no time to wallow in misery and despair. His mother would be waiting for me. It's Sunday morning, and today we are going to visit his tomb. I need to see that stone, unmoved, unmovable. I need to let him go.
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
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