Work In Progress

Pain seared through his hand as the nail was driven in. The hammer was light, and the wood hardened; what could have been a quick process was turned into a lengthy torture. His captors held his other arm and legs in place, and no matter how much he struggled, how hard he fought, he could not break free. He felt the small bones in his hand bowing and breaking as the nail passed through. Every vibration from the hammer meeting nail head sent new pain through him. Though he struggled, he did not cry out. He would not give these men that satisfaction.
He lost consciousness many times, the pain too much to take. They were relentless; their goal was to inflict pain, to torture, and in this single goal they were victorious. He wondered, during one of his moments of consciousness, if this was how the man Jesus had felt, when he had been tortured in much the same fashion. It had been many years since he had even seen a bible, much less read one, but the stories of pain and penance were passed along from generation to generation, the elders ensuring the young knew of the price of disobedience.
He lost consciousness again, but came to as he was being raised up. He felt the pain intensify as the weight of his body pulled on his hands. These men, his captors, stared at him on his cross, taking in the sight of pain, and admiring a job well done. They would have to return to report to the counsel soon. The sun was rising, the air already beginning to heat the sands surrounding them. They took one last glimpse at him, and then left.
Time. Time was his next torture. Mere seconds seemed like hours, hours felt like days. He tried to hold still, to prevent further pain in his extremities, but it was near impossible. The weight of his body pulled him downward, and his legs were useless in pushing him up, preventing any sort of relief. The sun beat down on him, roasting him in the open air. The wind blew, and the sand it carried blasted against his flesh, scraping away at him little by little. There was no reprieve for his suffering. Each gust of wind tore at him, the sun's rays beat against him, and the sand clung to every drop of moisture - blood, sweat and tears were all gritty mud caked on his broken body.
Hours passed, the sun finally setting, and instead of the intense, driving heat, he was now enveloped in bitter cold. Shivers racked his naked body, reigniting the pain of his battered flesh and bone. He had no protection from the elements; the scorching heat, the deep chill of desert night, all part of the design for maximum punishment. He tried to lose himself in memories of better times; the joy of lovers past, the happiness of family, the jokes shared with friends. There were a few, albeit brief, moments where he found relief, but ultimately there was no escape.
The sun began to rise again, the end of a sleepless night and the beginning of a new day. In the distance through the rising heat, he thought he saw a figure approaching. Perhaps his tormentors returning to check on their victim. Exhaustion overtook him, and he lowered his head and closed his eyes, preparing for more punishment and pain. He knew he was defeated.