Chapter Text
The taste of metal filled his mouth and the room felt as though it were spinning. Judas could sense his mother on the other side of the door. She smelled of bread and soap. He was vaguely aware that today had been a washing day. He wanted to get to her, he needed her. There was a part of him that wanted to curl up in her arms the way he did when he was sick or sleepy or sad. But that part was buried so deeply he wasn’t sure he remembered it being there in the first place. Every other part of him wanted to hurt her. He wanted nothing more than to break through the door and sink his teeth into her skin. Why did he want this? What was wrong with him? What kind of son would try to hurt his own mother like that? Judas didn’t know, the only thing that mattered was satisfying the hunger. When banging on the door led nowhere, he settled into an exhausted heap, writhing and sinking his teeth into his own arms.
The attacks started when he was three. He had now just turned seven, and they’d only worsened over time. At first, they only came on every couple of months. He never knew what triggered them, but they always went the same. First the appetite. He was ravenous, eating everything his mother could find to offer him and it was never enough. Then the real hunger set in. After the first attack, he’d injured his mother so badly she didn’t leave her bed for days. She’d refused to leave him alone or lock him in a room, so scared of what he might do to himself if left alone. Judas didn’t like that memory at all. The way his father yelled at him like he was a monster and not a child. The paleness of his mother’s skin, contrasted by her bruised arms. The way he was certain he’d killed her when he came back to his senses.
And then there were the whispers. Even at his young age he knew when people were talking about him.
“Demons,” they said. “Who sinned that he might be punished like this?” Priests from the temple started visiting, they’d say prayers over him and burn incense. They’d spend weeks or months hopeful, until the next attack came on. His mother said it wasn’t his fault. His father didn’t say anything, at least not in front of Judas.
After the attacks started, his father had learned to make himself scarce. He worked longer hours and locked Judas’ room at night. When Judas was younger, this bothered him. His mother would soothe him, telling him that his father was only scared, that he still loved him the same. Now Judas was old enough not to care. Who needs a father, anyways.
Every morning and every evening, Judas and his mother prayed. They prayed over breakfast, and they prayed over supper, and they prayed on the stars when the sun set. Judas’s mother made him thank God first, every time. She reminded him how many blessings he had and how gracious God was for providing them with food and a home and good times. Judas’s mother always thanked God for Judas. She would say how glad she was to have such a sweet, strong, fiery son. Judas knew she meant it, but he never understood how she could. They prayed for other things, too. For his father, and his father’s work. For the neighbors. And of course, for Judas’s condition.
Judas used to believe God heard him. That He was only testing him or that maybe Judas deserved this somehow. He used to believe that God was going to save him. He doesn’t remember when he stopped.
The other seven-year-olds spent their days learning. They would go to the temple and learn reading and scriptures from the priests. Judas wasn’t allowed, for obvious reasons. His mother couldn’t read, so neither could Judas. But he could cook, clean, and mend better than any of the neighbor boys and his mother always said that mattered more anyways. When he wasn’t helping his mother with the cooking or cleaning or mending, she would have him count the money. His father kept the money he made at work in a big jar, and once a week his mother would dump the jar on the table for Judas to count. Then they’d take it to the market and get groceries and other supplies. When Judas was little, they’d go together, but now that he was big, his mother let him go alone. He learned to barter with the shopkeepers, just like his mother did. He never got over the smile on her face when he would come home bragging about how much he’d saved.
There was one shopkeeper Judas loved the most. He sold lambs and doves. Judas had never bought anything from this shopkeeper, because his father handled those purchases. His mother said that’s because sacrifices are a serious matter and it’s important to get the right animals. Judas knew it was only because his father was afraid he’d defile them. The shopkeeper was less concerned. Judas always liked to stop by and admire the animals, he could watch for hours if his mother would have let him. He liked to watch the lambs play with each other or watch the birds in flight. Often when he got home, he would sketch them out in charcoal, working on getting the details to be just right. He’d found that smudging the charcoal with linen gave the right texture for wool, but he was still finding the right strokes for the feathers. Oftentimes, the shopkeeper would offer jobs to Judas. The other shopkeepers didn’t do this. He supposed it was because they were afraid of being attacked. This shopkeeper was different, he would ask for Judas to count his money for him or to clean up after the animals. Judas did this gladly, and sometimes he got change in return.
The attacks were occurring nearly every day now. Judas hadn’t been to the market in ages. He was always exhausted, his arms raw and infected from wounds that wouldn’t heal. He tried to pretend he didn’t hear his mother weeping late at night. He didn’t weep, because he was a man and he needed to be brave for her. One day, a woman named Mary came to visit.
“Mary has been healing people of demons, she can heal you too.” His mother whispered to him. Judas didn’t believe her, but he pretended to be hopeful anyways.
“Hi Judas, it’s nice to meet you. You must be so brave. I imagine you’re about my son’s age.”
“I’m seven.”
“Jesus still has a few more months,” she smiled. She seemed so nice; he was sad she wouldn’t be able to do anything for him. He hoped she wouldn’t be disappointed when she left like all the priests and healers had, his demons unperturbed.
“I’m going to pray over you, to send out the demons. Is it alright if I touch your shoulders?” Judas nodded, then flinched when he felt her hands on his scabs. She prayed over him just like the priests did, and just as expected, he felt the same. She said she’d be back to try again tomorrow.
The next day Judas figured would go no differently. He tried not to think about how discouraged his mother looked. Or how he hadn’t seen his father in days. This time Mary had a boy with her, Judas guessed he must be the son she had mentioned.
“Hi Judas, it’s nice to see you again. I need to talk to your mother for a while, why don’t you and Jesus go play while we chat.” Judas wasn’t used to mothers telling him to play with their children. Usually they shooed him away, scared he’d hurt them or that somehow, they’d end up possessed like him. Still, he’d always wanted a friend, and Jesus already seemed so nice. He had a gentle look to him. Judas was shocked to see that he had no bruises or scrapes, not even on his knees from playing too hard on gravel. Hesitantly, he made his way over. Had Mary told her son who she was sending to play with him? Did this poor kid have any idea how dangerous Judas was?
“Hi, my name’s Jesus”
“I’m Judas”
“Nice to meet you, Judas. Wanna play tag?” Judas did not want to play tag. Walking was hard enough with all of the bruises.
“I don’t like tag.”
“Oh. Well, what do you like?”
“Drawing.”
“I’m a terrible drawer. Can you draw something for me?” Judas brightened at the suggestion and began to look for a stick.
“What do you mean, you’re a terrible drawer? Nobody’s bad at drawing, you just copy what you see.”
“Maybe that’s what works for you, but it never turns out when I do it.” Judas handed him a stick.
“Just try it. Draw that donkey over there, or that tree – that’s easy enough.”
“You just wait and see, it’s going to look awful,” Jesus laughed. Judas focused intently on Jesus as he drew. He really might have been right, whatever he was drawing was looking nothing like a donkey. Or a tree. Judas’s eyes drifted from the drawing to the boy’s dirty fingernails, up to the flush of his cheeks. He had a gap between his front teeth and the kind of eyes that Judas thought looked deeper than a person’s eyes should. He was so enamored by this boy that he almost didn’t notice the hunger take over him. Panicked, he tried to fight for control of his body. He was so exhausted, however, that almost immediately he gave in, shrinking deep inside his conscience.
He felt his body stumble closer to Jesus, landing on the boy’s right hand. He tried with all his might to bite Jesus, but for whatever reason he could not. This hadn’t happened before and neither Judas nor the demons possessing him knew what to make of it. In frustration, Judas (or rather, Judas’s body, controlled by the demons) hit Jesus as hard as he possibly could. No sooner than he’d struck him, Jesus started crying. Judas hated to see him weep, hated it so much that all he could think to do was lean in and comfort him.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I promise you I didn’t mean it,” he bumbled, hardly aware of his mother and Mary rushing out of the house behind him.
“Judas!” His mother was crying too, he’d really messed up. He turned to look up at her and saw that the expression on her face did not match the tears in her voice. “Judas, God has heard us, he was gracious to us. He heard me like he heard Hagar, and he freed you.” Judas squinted at her; what did she mean he was freed? And then it hit him, Jesus’s crying had brought him back, the demons had left him. He couldn’t remember feeling this way before. So light and alive.
And just like that, Judas was crying too.