Chapter Text
Most of the time, I live in the hospital. The hospital where I work is situated on a small hill in the suburbs, far from any nearby rental houses. Besides, I really can’t stand cars—they somehow make me feel extremely uncomfortable. My parents suggested I could go back home, so I gave it a try for a week. But I soon went back to my place in the hospital, because I didn’t want to waste my precious sleep time on commuting every day. As a single nurse going back and forth through the hospital’s airtight doors, all I need is a decent sleeping area and a cafeteria for the staff.
I have to admit that the department I work in might sound a bit crazy, but it’s just as normal as any other department in the hospital. Some of the patients’ relatives, mostly mothers, would eye our psychiatric closed inpatient unit with a skeptical look.
You can see what the hospital is like in their eyes: gothic, ghostly, with possibly shrieking women. It’s a miniature of St. Mary Bethlehem, the first mental institution in 16th-century London, where patients were confined and mistreated by nurses. If they are fans of movies, they may even look for Nurse Ratched from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. When the doctors patiently debunk these stereotypes, the eyes of the patients’ relatives fill with doubt, as if the hospital were trying to hide its own chaos and loss of control, making itself less like…what’s the word for it…ah, a madhouse.
Sometimes, patients here seem even more confused, as if the hospital itself were a madman who believes he is normal. They get puzzled by the clean consulting room, patients sitting calmly or chatting and laughing in the activity room, and the nurses’ stations with their white counters, just like any other unit. It feels as if their medieval idea of a madhouse were still hiding beneath the surface of institutionalized management and the medical advancements of the 21st century.
It’s not their fault, really. Sometimes, I feel that way too.
Tonight, the doctor informs me that there’s a new patient who requires special care, and I’m moving to a different sleeping spot.
The duty room is right across the hall from the hospital room I’m in charge of. I bring a few books with me and tidy up the little room. As I glance back, I find him standing right behind me.
Startled by his presence, I accidentally step on a corner of the sheet as I move backward. In a comical manner, I clutch onto my quilt, trying to regain my balance, and end up plopping down on the floor clumsily. With his hand still raised, he looks down at me, wearing a serious expression without a trace of amusement.
Leaning closer, he holds out his hand. Although I feel a little uneasy, his naturally calm demeanor prevents any further embarrassment. He maintains direct eye contact and doesn’t shy away from the closing distance.
I find it hard to take my eyes off his. Initially, it is his shaggy ginger hair that catches your attention. It’s like the untamed mane of a lion, giving him an air of aggression and a wild silhouette. However, as he stands before me with a relaxed posture, his eyebrows and bushy beard, matching the hue of his hair, blend softly with the surrounding light, lending his features a dreamlike quality. Upon observing his entire presence, his silhouette swiftly transforms from that of a lion to that of a kitten.
And his green eyes burn so brightly, they almost sting me. I have to pinch the back of my hand and force myself to look away.
My patient releases my hand and asks in a lively tone, “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Hello, I’m your new nurse.” I tuck the excessively long portion of the sheet under the bed board and turn around, maintaining my composure.
He holds out his hand to me and says, “Jesus.”
For a moment, I pause, surprised by the lack of an exclamatory tone in his exclamation.
I guess my confusion must be written all over my face, because he quickly adds with a slight cough, “My name, Jesus Christ. Of course, the doctor insists on calling me Atticus. When you call me from a distance, Atticus is more convenient.”
He fancies himself to be Jesus Christ, the Messiah of the New Age, displaying the worst kind of human arrogance through his delusions.
I pause cautiously, not immediately adopting his introduction, because I remember that neither of those names is his real one. He doesn’t seem bothered by my silence or any potential embarrassment, and continues, “So, what about you, Mr. Nurse? What would you like me to call you? After all, your sleeping spot is right across from mine, and every half hour at night, you come over to adjust my quilt and see if I’m sleeping soundly. I don’t want you to be just a nameless shadow or some robot doing a job—that would be quite scary, really. The shadow that stands by my bed every day… In my dreams, you might even turn into… Hmm, maybe a creepy stalker?”
A chill runs down my spine as he describes that dream, but I still hesitate to tell him my name. Under his piercing green eyes, I feel exposed, and I desperately clutch onto my name as if it were the last shred of dignity left unknown to him. I decide to evade the question with my last bit of humor.
“If you’re so insistent on being the Jesus of the 21st century, perhaps I’m the Judas Iscariot, in the doctors’ employ.”
Jesus seems taken aback by my response, pausing for a moment before bursting into laughter. “My God, you really are… Do they pay you thirty pieces of silver to keep tabs on my whereabouts?”
“Exactly.”
“Judas isn’t a great name to have. It’s like getting called a dirty liar and a backstabber. Wait, wait! Maybe you’re into computer worms and there’s this one called Judas that you dig. Or maybe you’re a fan of that rock band Judas Priest. Or could it be that you love the outlandish association between ‘Judas’ and ‘Judah’ used in anti-Semitic propaganda under the Nazis, encouraging the portrayal of Jews as Judas the traitor, and indirectly encouraging their slaughter?”
I stare at him, and Jesus seems almost earnest, as if he’s genuinely pondering these options. I retort, “Thank you, but none of those apply to me. It’s just a religious joke. But the name Jesus isn’t exactly flawless either. It sounds dramatic.”
Jesus’ expression turns serious and thoughtful, and I instantly regret my words. I can already anticipate an argument, fearing that explaining the joke might trigger his hostility and unpredictable mood swings. It may not show now, but later during the night rounds, he might give me a hard slap, or strip off and yell that I’ve violated his sanctity. Don’t laugh. In the last cubicle I was in charge of, there was a Joan of Arc.
I pull myself out of my thoughts and find Jesus staring at me with a solemn expression. Then, in a dramatic tone, he exclaims, “Jesus Christ!”
I should have quickly tightened my expression to make myself more serious, but he cracks a contagious smile, like a comedian who has just nailed the punchline. I can’t help but follow my irresistible habit of returning the smile.
On my first ward round tonight, he calls me Judas. The doctor in charge turns around and fixes me with a piercing glance through his dazzling glasses.
“I have no idea,” I reply.
Jesus turns away and curls up into a ball, laughing so hard that the quilt bobs up and down.
“This is Ben,” the doctor states, introducing me. “Ben, meet Tim.”
“All right,” says Jesus in a muffled voice. “I know who he is. He’s my nurse Judas.”
The doctor turns to me and says very seriously, “Ben, go get Mary. Then go back to your own bed.”
I say, “All right, Doctor.”
I’m a bit afraid of Mary. That girl always works with an emotionless expression, and she alone has the ability to subdue a maniac that would typically require three men. She used to oversee the mealtime routines of the eating disorder group, ensuring that bulimics didn’t hide extra bread and coaxing anorexics to consume carbohydrates. Her voice is gentle, but her eyes are piercing, and I don’t particularly like her impartial gaze. Sometimes, she looks at me with the same level of scrutiny, making me wonder what I might have done wrong.
I go to the nurses’ station and call for Mary, who appears surprised and doesn’t seem to grasp why I’m here. I tell her what the doctor said and then return to my duty room, hoping as usual to fall asleep at once.
As a child, I often saw the moonlit ocean. The sky was as dark as the sea, and the stars glistened like countless eyes in the sky, turning into hazy luminous specks as they fell into the water, dancing and flickering with the capricious waves, as if singing. But tonight, I can’t find the peace I usually feel by the boundless water. In my mind’s eye, little Ben sits in his canoe, imagining himself immersed by the sea.
I meditate for half an hour, and the previously calm sea gradually becomes turbulent, which perplexes me. I need to get up and find something else to do, or I fear that the immense waves will overturn my imaginary canoe. I sit down to write in my diary today. I choose not to include dates, as the sense of a looming countdown makes me uneasy. Upstairs, someone sings Waltzing Matilda in a soaring voice, as he does every day, and the ghost of the swagman sways happily by the billabong. Australia’s unofficial national anthem, the most joyous of requiems.
I recall that Jesus’ profile also mentions Australia. Surprisingly, I have grown accustomed to referring to him as “Jesus.” It seems rather difficult now to think of calling him Atticus or Tim. Seriously, Atticus? I feel like I’ve heard that name somewhere before.
An Australian Jesus, this idea amuses me. But why not? We already have a Jesus who doesn’t eat unleavened bread, an unrecognized Jesus, and a blond Jesus. I can’t see much of a difference between them. Some carve his figure on the cross, while others simplify it into a short horizontal line and a long one. For some, a simple cross is enough. Perhaps he could even be represented by four wavy lines—who knows? People understand, implore, and fantasize about him, each according to their own needs. It has essentially become detached from Jesus himself. He died, like a hand puppet manipulated by God, which makes one shudder when thinking about it. It feels as if love dissipated with his death, leaving only an ineffable phantom within the human heart.
Maybe we should make a bet: who does the world revolve around now?
“Don’t you find it strange?”
“What's strange?”
“The fervent missionary zeal of the believers. Hey, Judas! If you got a treasure from God, what would you do?”
“Hide it. Spend it secretly.”
“Exactly, exactly! Isn’t it strange how they invite others to share this grace, as if they lack faith in me and need to rope more people in? But, well, if one’s glory is earned in the same way as a pyramid scheme, that’s a different story.”
I fall silent, letting Jesus ramble on with his curious critical thoughts. After a couple of minutes, he loses interest in talking to a statue, and turns his head to carry on the conversation with the patient across from him.
Over the past few days, I’ve noticed that Jesus’ eyes are not the vivid green I initially thought. His pupils are dark, and his irises are light. At night, in the gentle room light, his eyes shine like bright emeralds. But in the daytime, under the harsh outside light, they appear pale gray, like grinding stones. I try not to stare at my patient, but that’s part of my duty. According to his brother, he is severely suicidal and requires constant surveillance. It’s confusing because he seems so talkative and relaxed. I gaze at the back of his head, listening as another patient in the room laughs at his words. It’s just baffling. While many patients seem normal and friendly most of the time, Jesus…
“Judas,” Jesus calls out, turning towards me.
Bluish-gray.
“Judas!”
I feel disoriented, as if I’ve just emerged from the depths of the sea, but my expression remains unchanged.
“What do you think of rock music?”
“I don’t really listen to rock music,” I reply dryly.
Jesus looks at me in surprise. “Wow. What about…Queen?”
“I’ve heard a couple of their songs. Not really my thing.”
Jesus and the man across from him exchange synchronized expressions of astonishment, mouthing “Oh my God,” before Jesus dramatically slouches in his chair.
I glance at my watch and solemnly announce, “It’s time for the checkup.”
Jesus lets out a frustrated huff and reluctantly gets up from his chair. The activity room is small but well-maintained. All the patients who are permitted to move around indoors are gathered here. There’s a TV on the wall, but it’s still off. Mary is waiting by the door to take Jesus for his checkup. As for myself, having been here for only a few months, I still struggle to memorize all the different wards, elevators, and hallways. I suspect this maze-like place is specifically designed to prevent the patients from escaping. Our unit is divided into multiple wards based on gender, the severity of illness, and its type. Each ward has its own strict schedule and controlled access. Mary leads the way, repeatedly swiping her card. “Beep.” “Identity verified.” The nurse on duty gives her a nod, and I can see the silent confirmation in her eyes, saying, “Identity verified.”
Jesus walks into the examination room, and Mary and I stand silently outside the door.
After an hour, Jesus emerges with his fluffy head and gives me a shrug. Following him, the doctor opens the door and walks out.
Turning to me, the doctor says, “Ben, come with me.”
He takes me to the nearest empty consulting room, where he tells me to relax and have a seat. I feel slightly nervous as I realize that I forgot to attend the head nurse’s morning meeting report. I also forgot to write Jesus’ daily report, although there haven’t been any notable changes with him lately.
“Mary told me that Patient 26 always called you Judas.”
I feel a sudden surge of unease, as if Mary’s calm eyes were lingering behind me, silently evaluating my every move.
I admit, “Yes.”
Leaning back, the doctor’s tone carries a casual curiosity as he asks, “Why?”
“Well… On the day I first met Jesus, I made a joke about him.”
The doctor gazes at me intently. “Jesus.”
Realizing my slip-up, I swiftly correct myself, “I mean Patient 26.”
The doctor says, “Having conversations with patients is beneficial, but it is important to remain unaffected by their emotions and avoid causing any influence, okay? If you experience any particularly intense empathic responses from him, please let me know at once, Ben.”
His eyes.
I reply, “Yes, Doctor.”
“I’m going to do my rounds, and I’ll walk you back to your hospital room on the way. Let’s go.”
I obediently follow behind the doctor. The doctor chooses not to lead the way but instead waits for me, walking beside me.
“So, Ben, do you still have doubts about your faith?”
I come to a halt.
“What faith?”
The doctor pauses too, turning to face me. I notice that his face now bears the eyes of Jesus, and instinctively rub my face hard. When I open my eyes again, the doctor’s brown gaze meets mine, filled with confusion.
“What did you just see?”
“Nothing, Doctor. I didn’t sleep well last night. I’m probably just a little tired.”
“I have some medications for sleep regulation. If you need them, feel free to come to me and get them.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“By the way, I have a small test that I want Patient 26 to take. Would you mind doing me a favor and taking it as well? I want to observe the contrast between a patient and a regular person, and see how Patient 26 actually affects you.”
I hesitate and ask, “Why me?”
“Ah, an interesting question. There’s no specific reason. If you don’t want to take it, I can find someone else, perhaps Mary.”
“Hold on, can you show me the results of Patient 26?”
The doctor grins and says, “Well, I’ll make an exception—yes. Just keep it confidential.”
As evening comes, Jesus continues speaking without pausing. If nothing else, he really has the potential to be a preacher. He’s talking about the doomsday algorithm of the Jehovah’s Witnesses. Apparently, they think seven times equals seven years, one year equals 360 days, one day represents a whole year, and 2520 days means 2520 years. That’s why they predicted the end of the world in 1914, right when World War I broke out. Jesus would indeed seem to be preaching, if it weren’t for his…occasional mockery of them.
Sitting beside him, Mary rests her chin on her hand, wearing a rare smile.
But I am the one assigned as Jesus’ nurse.
I cast a critical gaze upon Mary, wondering why she has joined me in fulfilling my duties.
The doctor does his usual check of the room, grabs some pieces of paper, and tells me to come along.
Honestly, I totally forgot about the test. We walk through the empty waiting area and head to his office.
He puts the papers on the table and says to me, “Just say whatever you see or think of.”
I imagine Jesus sitting right here, taking the test, and absentmindedly nod in response.
He puts the first piece of paper in front of me. There’s a weird, symmetrical ink blot, as if someone accidentally spilled ink on it and then folded it in half.
“It looks like two chubby angels. The pointed parts are wings, similar to those of a moth. In the center, there’s a beetle. As for the thin part at the bottom… Maybe the angels are laying eggs? The thin middle part could be an egg.”
“The second one… Well, red makes me uneasy. There are two men wearing red hats and holding their hands together. Down below… Are they washing feet with blood?”
The third. “Two women huddled together, with what appears to be their lungs hanging on each side after being rinsed.”
The fourth. “A man at the top, with his dark feet pointing towards me. On top of him, there’s this strange-shaped head, and below, it looks like a large, oddly-shaped penis.”
The fifth. “A snail with wings.”
The sixth. “A candlestick in a church. The central part looks like a woman’s labia, or an open scallop.”
The seventh. “Two little girls.”
The eighth. “Beetles are climbing up their sacred mountain made of bones.”
The ninth. “They’ve reached the top of the mountain and turned gold. The blue part in the middle looks like a cloud, and the bottom part looks like blazing hell.”
The tenth. “Is this…a heaven for arthropods? The red shrimp are the guards, surrounded by crabs, birds, and caterpillars, like little angels scattered along the way to heaven.”
After describing the ten pictures and going through the doctor’s repeated confirmations, I suddenly feel uneasy, as if I’m being treated as a patient. It reminds me of a famous problem: how can you prove you’re normal in a mental hospital?
I’ve thought about it a lot while sitting next to Jesus’ bed at night, but I haven’t come up with any good ideas. I’m just grateful that I don’t have to deal with that problem myself. Maybe I can ask Jesus about it in the morning. But today, I’m tired and those ten pictures are making me anxious, lingering in my mind. I’m really curious about how Jesus perceives them. I wonder if he sees the world the same way I do. Of course, having the same perspective as a patient might not be what everyone wants.
“Thanks for your cooperation, Ben. You may go back now,” says the doctor, and I feel relieved.
I turn around and see Mary standing in the doorway, watching me. I get chills and quickly walk away, keeping my head down.
At eight in the morning, Mary brings several bottles of white pills into Jesus’ hospital room. She takes out the bottle labeled “26” and pours out the pills. Jesus, who woke up at six, washed up, had breakfast, and returned from the common area, now stares at the white pill. Mary watches impassively as he reluctantly takes the pill with a grimace. She asks him to open his mouth and checks under his tongue to make sure he swallowed the pill. Then she checks his sleeves and pockets before pushing the cart away. I take out my bottle of vitamin C pills, which look identical to Jesus’ white pills, and take one.
Jesus yawns and sits up in bed. He tilts his head and asks me, “Do you need to take medicine too?”
I sit by his bed, and Jesus gazes directly at me. I see the fire in his eyes diminish, as his irises transform into a pale gray, resembling a stagnant pool. Gradually, Jesus lifts his head, looks upwards, and offers a serene and gentle smile as if greeting his fans.
A shiver runs down my spine, and I ask, “What are you looking at?”
“I’m saying hi to our Creator. I see him fiddling with the camera, switching lenses, trying to make your pill look the same as mine, so as to stir up some intriguing thoughts and suspicions,” he says softly. “And there are future readers. I’m saying hi to them. How are you, my dear ones?”
“What readers?”
“A new New Testament, about me. Of course it will have an audience.”
I try to understand what he’s saying. “Sorry, but as far as I can see, you don’t have any disciples. You’re alone in here and out there too, or else they wouldn’t have put you here. Who’s going to write your Gospel?”
Jesus whispers, “It’s you, Judas. You will be the one to write the only true Gospel about me.”
My stomach turns.
“Don’t you feel that way? The words written by Matthew and Luke were too carefully planned, as if my life was simply following a script from the Old Testament. They were eager to meet the popular demand, choosing me or anyone else to satisfy the people’s longing for a Messiah, as well as someone else’s desire for the crucifixion. Don’t you think those movies about my Passion are too much like torture porn? I bet eight out of ten sexual deviants would get off on seeing my bleeding foot, probably with some religious fervor making it even more intense for them.”
He suddenly pauses and smiles again. “Sorry for not asking earlier, Judas. Do you believe in God?”
I feel a sharp blow to my head, the impact echoing with a thunderous clang.
Arise, O LORD; save me, O my God!
I reply, “I don’t know.”
Jesus nods thoughtfully, crosses his legs, and curls up, saying, “He’s a pile of shit.”
I chuckle and say, “Prove it to me.”
“Do you know what people throughout history who asked Jesus to ‘prove it to me’ get in the end? A pile of shit.”
“‘Because thou hast seen me, thou hast believed: blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.’”
Jesus’ head lowers, and his expression turns cold, seemingly offended by the scriptures I recited.
“It’s a shame Blandina’s story wasn’t filmed as torture porn,” he says.
“Who?”
“Blandina, a maid from Lyon. Someone as pious as you should be familiar with her.”
I’m not sure if he’s being sarcastic.
“She was the epitome of a martyr, Judas. Despite enduring countless beatings from the Romans, she simply repeated, ‘I am a Christian, and we commit no wrongdoing.’ Having exhausted all means, they bound Blandina in a net and threw her into the arena to face a raging bull. The Romans killed her. I killed her.”
A distant buzzing fills my mind as I hear my gentle yet unwavering voice echoing in the wilderness.
They fearlessly and heroically laid down their lives for our Lord, because their very existence had been transformed by the grace of Jesus Christ, and they found incomparable glory in walking the perilous path by His side.
Leave me be.
All those emperors who compelled the masses to chant hollow praises are gone, but Jesus remains alive in our midst.
Leave me be!
Jesus closes his eyes and says, “The real me has been overshadowed by elaborate adornments. Why are they so fascinated with a mere projection screen that fills the void of their beliefs, even to the point of sacrificing their lives? I could only watch from my place on the cross as the beautiful girl repeatedly shouted her allegiance, which horrified me. I wanted to distance myself from her in heaven, but God kept presenting her to me, showcasing the most exemplary faith and how many would do the same for me. He reminded me—it was also what I was destined to do for him.”
The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church.
Jesus starts to weep, a haunting and restrained cry. His arms are tightly folded, gripping his hospital gown, his shoulders trembling, while his face remains expressionless, except for the tears streaming down. His voice remains calm, without any fluctuations. “Leave, Judas, I’m just a madman. Don’t believe me, don’t…”
My head begins to throb violently.
I can see that he mistakes me for someone else. In his pupils, I see a pious reflection of myself, hands clasped together, murmuring psalms. As I reach out my hand to wipe his tears, Jesus dodges backwards subtly. My hand freezes in midair, then turns to sand, then to grains of salt before his tears. Jesus covers his face and says, “Fuck you. Now, get out of here.”
“No…”
“Get out!”
He throws me to the ground and immediately withdraws his hand, retreating to the head of the bed like a frightened animal. The hysterical scream alerts the nurses outside the door. Mary rushes in, her brows furrowed, and Jesus, amidst laughter and tears, extends his arms to her, saying, “Blandina! Blandina! I will! I will die for you!”
Mary sighs and steps forward, trying to console him. Jesus cries like a child while laughing like a deity. I stumble away, covering my ears, unwilling to hear his voice. Someone tries to help me up, but I push him away.
Thou hast smitten all mine enemies upon the cheek bone; thou hast broken the teeth of the ungodly.
I hear Jesus scream and sob as he is dragged past me. “Don’t treat me, give me death! Give me rebirth! How painful…how powerful…my dear Blandina! Father! My Father! Bless her!”
The desperate cry feels so close, as if it originates from within my own chest. I struggle, trying to get closer to him. He walks among the dark clouds, God’s wrath echoing within them. A pitch-black thunder strikes my chest, and the demon residing within emits a piercing scream. With no sensation of pain, I reach for his white robe, and everything dissipates. I plummet into my canoe, floating on the boundless sea, my insides aching, my heart hollow. Pain washes over me once again, and I curl up on the deck, yielding to the sea that devours me.
The waves buffet me. The stars have all fallen.
The sea is as dark as the sky.
After a whole day passes, Jesus is finally released from his restraints. His hair clumps together, disheveled like a tangle of yarn, with swollen, red eye sockets from crying, and a messy beard. Mary stops me, takes the basin from my hands, and says, “Sorry.”
I remain motionless, staring at the closed door.
I try to convince myself that it’s because I didn’t do a good enough job before. And honestly, I didn’t. I should have told the doctor that Jesus’ empathic impact on me was way stronger than I could have imagined. When I look into his eyes, I see a grayish-blue lake with his peaceful city resting beneath it, and I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, just one step away from falling.
I wait patiently, and when the doctor makes his rounds, I stop him and say, “Doctor, there’s something I need to tell you.”
We return to his office, and with unease, I confess, “Doctor, I believed I was just talking to him, not treating him or delving into his innermost thoughts. I can’t tell what he is projecting onto me or which aspect of himself it represents. Perhaps I am the Judas within him. I… I don’t know. Doctor, do you think it’s reasonable to let him continue calling me Judas? Should I ask him to stop? I suspect that he may be mistaking me for someone else, probably a priest, I suppose?”
The doctor says, “It’s not your fault. We found pills that he didn’t take under his pillow. Mary is upset because she swore she made sure Patient 26 took his medication, but somehow it ended up under the pillow. Try not to put too much psychological pressure on yourself. By the way, how do you know he mistakes you for a priest?”
“I could see it in his eyes. Yesterday, when he lost control, I saw a priest in his eyes, kneeling in prayer, reciting psalms.”
The doctor encourages me to go on, asking, “Did you get a good look at his face?”
“I… No, I didn’t.”
The doctor crosses his fingers and says, “Ben, have you ever thought that empathic impact can go both ways?”
I remain silent, not understanding what he means.
“Doctor, may I continue caring for Jesus? I’ll limit my interactions with him, I promise.”
The doctor seems hesitant. I glance at him anxiously and add, “If you’re unsure, Mary can come with me.” Just like before.
The doctor stays silent for a while, then sighs and says, “All right.”
I don’t like Mary.
She does everything so perfectly and neatly. I can see that Jesus likes her better than me. Only during medication time, Jesus avoids her or acts like a spoiled child towards her, but Mary never budges, because his previous outburst scared us all. Sometimes I see her smiling tenderly and resignedly at Jesus. I keep my distance and let Mary take care of everything, which she never complains about.
I feel uneasy. The nights spent in bed feel longer and longer, as do the shifts Mary covers for me. Four times in the middle of the night, Mary caught Jesus attempting suicide. Neither of us can figure out where he gets those small blades. There was one time when I accidentally left the blister pack in the hospital room. He sharpened one edge and tried to use it on his throat.
It’s not that I’m jealous of Mary. I dislike her for a deeper reason. One night, I woke up to find her in my room, standing in the darkness, and staring at me. I was on the verge of screaming, clutching the quilt tightly. I closed my eyes, and Mary stayed beside me for a while. Her gaze felt intense, almost as if it had a physical presence, making the back of my head burn. Eventually, she gently adjusted my quilt, and her cold hand brushed against my neck, sending shivers down my spine.
Every time our eyes meet, it’s like coming face to face with a surveillance camera in a parking lot. I feel scared and constantly long to escape from her gaze, but she seems to be omnipresent.
Her eyes.
Jesus sits in a chair, blowing bubbles with his saliva during his free movement time. Mary goes off to do something else, leaving me to watch over him. When Mary is present, I don’t feel like talking to Jesus, and he also remains silent, ignoring me. It’s as if both of us can sense a certain comfort, warmth, and inexplicable restraint that Mary brings, as if she represents an ultimate power from another world.
“Judas…”
“I’m not Judas.”
Jesus stares at me as if I have betrayed him.
“Do you want to change your name to Peter? You’ve already denied me once.”
“No, I just don’t want to play games with you anymore. That’s all.”
“Look at you, Peter, it’s the second time. Games,” Jesus repeats sarcastically, “games!”
I remain unaffected.
“Judas, it’s me who’s playing games with you! You have a void,” he says, placing his hand on my chest and looking into my eyes. “Your void is your game. You are incomplete.”
I don’t understand what Jesus is saying, so I awkwardly smile and move his hand away.
“Where did you hide it?” he asks.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Jesus’ pupils are as dark as the sea in my dreams. He shrugs, wraps his arms around his legs, and rests his chin on his knees. “Never mind, you seem normal most of the time. I don’t believe what Mary said.”
I grab him by the shoulders.
“What did Mary say?”
Jesus looks at me in horror. I try to calm my voice.
“What did Mary tell you?”
“She didn’t say anything; it’s just my guess.”
Just then, Mary opens the door and walks into the activity room. As I look up, her eyes sweep across the entire room and land on me.
Instinctively, I let go of his shoulders.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I reply.
I cannot recall the last time Jesus was allowed to get out of bed. It is disconcerting how his condition keeps fluctuating. Mary and I seldom leave his side. Occasionally, Jesus bursts into giggles, and the previously well-groomed hair that Mary diligently tends to becomes disheveled, with a few clumps of tangled strands slinking down his face like tiny serpents.
“Oh dear, are you here to witness my suffering? I prefer it this way—it’s less painful and tormenting than the cross. But it’s just as long…just as agonizing… Where’s my cup? Give me that cup of my poison…” Jesus murmurs hoarsely.
When he gets a bit better, the doctor comes to talk to him. Jesus calls him Pontius Pilate, which never fails to amuse me whenever he washes his hands.
Soon after, Jesus was moved to another ward, and I can no longer see him.
Today, there is no more singing.
I’m still on the same floor, listening to the person upstairs sing Waltzing Matilda passionately every evening. I have grown accustomed to the Australian ghost, but tonight it has vanished without a trace. This unsettles me, and inexplicably, my thoughts turn to Jesus. Sometimes God uses strange signs to guide prophets. I know this mystical connection is groundless, but I can’t help feeling it. I want to see Jesus. I want to see him. I’ve been nervously biting my nails all day, thinking about it.
Suddenly, there’s a commotion upstairs in the ward. A disheveled doctor rushes down the stairs, his arm covered in blood. I follow the other nurses up the stairs. Slowly, I separate from the main group, checking the labels on the doors of the isolation rooms, searching for number 26.
I find it. Through the transparent window, I see Mary with her back turned to me, and Jesus lying on the hospital bed, turning his head slightly to catch a glimpse of me.
Bluish-green.
Mary notices the shift in his gaze and turns around. I hastily crouch down and rush forward, finding refuge in the small utility room that exists on every floor—a simple space reserved for cleaning supplies.
I clasp my hands together, silently praying that Mary won’t notice me. I hear her footsteps pass by in front of me.
“Mary, what are you doing here?”
“Did someone just come upstairs?”
“A lot of people just came upstairs. Patient 3 hurt the doctor.”
“Guess I must have seen it wrong then. Sorry for interrupting. Everything’s fine.”
I cover my mouth and remain motionless, patiently waiting. Gradually, the outside grows silent, as if Mary has already left. I cautiously press my ear against the door. It is eerily quiet, so quiet that I can hear someone holding their breath.
Mary is right outside the door.
She opens the door. I look up at her, and she widens her eyes, frozen for three or four seconds. I feel stiff all over, and without saying a single word, Mary closes the door. Shaking, I hear her hurried footsteps as she leaves, and I rush to Jesus’ room. Mary forgot to lock the door; I’m not sure if it was intentional or not.
I gently push the door open. Jesus’ eyes are deeply sunken, but he still wears the same smile as when we first met. He reaches out his hands to me, and I can’t help but tenderly embrace him, trembling.
“Judas,” he says softly, “can you kill me?”
For a moment, I forget to correct his use of the name and freeze. “No…”
“My brother already signed an agreement for me. Tomorrow, I’m going through ECT. It’ll make me vanish. But I don’t want to vanish; I want death and rebirth. Can you help me?”
Jesus is wearing a straitjacket, hands bound in white bags, looking funny. He kisses my palm against his face, making my fingers twitch. With a gentle, encouraging gaze, he instructs me, and I find a piece of wire from under the mattress.
I struggle to hold it. I can’t make sense of his words. In my head, someone is reciting psalms loudly. I am reciting psalms loudly. Jesus grows impatient, and I weakly put the wire around his neck, tears silently streaming down my face. His expression turns serene, and he gives me a kiss.
His weightless kiss lands on the emptiness in my chest, weighing so heavily that I can’t breathe.
They are brought down and fallen: but we are risen, and stand upright.
I let go and say, “No.”
The door flies open abruptly. Mary rushes toward me in panic. I offer no resistance, focusing my gaze on Jesus’ face, a face devoid of any answers… Feebly, I reach out my hand towards him, only to be forcibly restrained by multiple hands pinning me to the ground. It is then that I notice the white hospital gown I wear for the first time, but there is no time for contemplation. His crashing waves consume me, and I tumble off a cliff, off my canoe. I sink into his dark pupils, into the embrace of his underwater forest.
I never keep track of dates, but somehow I know tomorrow is Christmas. The doctors and nurses all wear smiles, and I sit in the church, hands clasped together, blessing people. I recite psalms, gazing at the crucifix on the wall. The noise of cars outside has stopped. I keep reciting psalms.
Jesus will die on Christmas.