Judas Iscariot
The ghost of a breeze blows through the simmering summer air, whispering through the maple leaves as it passes. Thick beads of sweat drip down Adam’s face, blazing a trail over the crest of his brow. He squints against it as the breeze blesses him with the slightest reprieve, caressing his exposed skin with its chill. It only lasts a moment, and then the neverending swelter blankets him once more.
Creekbed bubbling harmonizes with the bird and bug song around him. The park is pitifully small, a tiny bike trail with a failing bridge and a set of rusted swings. No one comes here except for them and the occasional suburban jogger. Arcadia is not known for its bustling city life or natural views; it’s a pitstop town off the interstate. The only people visiting are traveling elsewhere, trekking on a pilgrimage far beyond its borders. The swaying trees, blossoming under the hateful sun, are the only shade for miles. Heat is inescapable even for the muddy, polluted waterway that trickles on towards a far-off river. It is almost unbearable.
It’s hotter inside Adam’s house. The tin-can mobile home traps heat in with its thick metal walls, making any air inside unbreathable. Not even the strongest wind could break through the blanket-covered windows of that prison; it’s an impenetrable fortress of suffering waiting for him when he finally has to leave this trashy oasis.
With his back flat against the yellowing grass, his view is limited to the sky stretching above him. Not a single cloud blemishes the heavenly expanse as he watches, eyes lazily trailing over the endless blue. Beside him, John is playing on one of his handheld games, the volume turned all the way down so as not to draw any attention from distant passersby. No one has passed in the hours since they both arrived, the cracked sidewalk blissfully empty, but Adam knows this fact won’t sway John’s decision. The teenager’s anxiety levels run a bit too high for comfort most days. He is constantly afraid of being a problem, of bothering some hypothetical person that doesn’t exist. Adam has accepted this quirk along with all the rest, with his interest piqued and mind hungry for more. There isn’t much about John that Adam doesn’t know, but he always wants more. He wants to understand.
The easy presence of the other boy catches Adam’s attention, not in a way that causes him to turn his head or even speak, but in a way that has him listening for his breath. Under cicada screams and bird chirps, Adam can hear the excited exhales of victory and the huffs of frustrating loss. It holds him for moments, wraps him up in a touch as gentle as the breeze.
They sit like this for a long while, silent in their camaraderie. The sun crosses the sky, heat unwavering, as time passes both boys by, uncaring for their time together. Adam’s mother will be home from work soon, exhausted from hours on the hospital floor. She’ll want him there for dinner; she’ll be pissed if he isn’t.
His father will be even more pissed if he is. Something about back talk at breakfast, or a mean glance as he walks through the door, or maybe Adam just looks particularly hateable today. It’s always something with his father, something mean and aggressive and pathetically rude. He does not need a real reason for his vicious nature; Adam has learned from experience that a man like his father is simply malicious for the sake of it. He is violent because that is who he is.
Maybe Adam should just ask to stay at John’s house.
“Hey, man—”
“Can I ask—”
They both speak at once, cutting off just as they hear the other. A moment of staring settles between them before giggles burst out. Adam flops against the grass as laughter bubbles up from his chest, shaking his sternum as it flows out like a stream.
After a second to calm down, Adam speaks again. “What did you wanna ask?”
John sighs, shifting loudly in the grass as he squirms into a different position. “It’s… It’s kinda weird now that I think about it.”
Everything John thinks of is weird. He is a weird dude, from his tangled blond curls to his crooked canine tooth. Adam doubts that John could say anything to him to make him dislike that fact. It just isn’t possible.
“That’s never stopped you from asking something before.”
John flushes slightly, pale skin turning pink as the blood rushes to his face. It is a miracle he hasn’t gotten sunburnt yet.
“What were you gonna say?” he says instead of answering, blue eyes looking everywhere but Adam.
Adam sighs, rolling his eyes in faux annoyance. “Don’t play that game with me, John. We both know I am far more stubborn than you.”
And he is. Adam is stubborn and brave and a little mean around his edges. He stands up for himself and others no matter the circumstances with a defiant cheek turned to any adversaries, daring them to swing. He is strong and confident. He is kind beyond belief, even when he is not being nice. He is street smart with dark eyes and dark skin and dark hair. Adam is all the things John is not. He makes John want to be more.
“You grew up Protestant, right?” John’s voice is barely above a whisper, sweet and quiet as another breeze brushes by, running its invisible hands through wheatgrass strands of hair. “Like you went to church when you were little?”
Adam lays one of his hands between them, reaching out ever so slightly but not quite touching. Religion doesn’t come up between them often; it tends to leave them angry in a way that can only be described as hurt. Adam’s parents don’t make him go anymore, but past experiences still sting; he has lived a life of disappointing his elders. Church was no different.
Adam nods. “Yeah, I went for a while.”
John still attends twice weekly services at the church in the next town over, large stained glass windows painting him with Bible stories every Sunday and Wednesday. He does not hate the church like Adam does; he does not share his disconnect. John is a good boy, has not disappointed anyone in his seventeen years of life.
Still, he meets Adam halfway, connecting their hands with the softest, most saccharine touch.
“Do you think Judas had a choice?” He spits the sentence like it’s all one word, slurring the syllables together like a drunk. Though the years have taught him much about speaking John, Adam barely understands him.
John’s gaze bores holes into the ground, locked in a staring contest with a sharp blade of yellowing grass. He does not offer any sort of elaboration.
“What do you mean?” Adam asks after a moment of quiet, tone not unkind but curious.
John doesn’t look up. “Do you think Judas had a choice when he betrayed Jesus? Or, uh, that it was set in stone….”
“Are you asking if I believe in free will under God?”
John’s bitten raw lips curl down tightly, scrunching his face into a portrait of frustration. Adam rubs his thumb soothingly over the back of the other boy’s hand, simple circles to show that he is trying his best to understand.
“I—I’m asking if you think Judas went to hell over something he couldn’t control,” he stutters.
“I thought he went to hell for killing himself, not for being a traitor.”
John’s frown tightens even more, carving deep lines into the softness of his face. Adam feels a sharp pang of guilt in his chest then. He wants to understand; he wants John to feel understood,
“He killed himself out of guilt, but that… that isn’t the question. Did you think he had any control over what he did?’
“I don’t think it matters, ya know. Even if he didn’t have a choice, he still killed himself. His role in God’s plan was over.” Like a pawn in chess sacrificed for a later win.
“It matters to me.” John spits, venom dripping from his summer-dry lips. Frustration has boiled over into anger, spilling out of John and onto the ground between the pair. Adam does not back away; instead, he leans forward. His thumb stops its circular motion, freezing in place as he thinks of his next move carefully.
“Why, Johnny?”
“I just… I don’t understand why God would make him a traitor, make him play this awful role, and then give him so much guilt that he has to go to hell. Th-there wasn’t any coming back for Judas, ya know. It was over for him before it even started.”
Adam doesn’t know, either. His church never taught him anything like this; there were no sermons on the complexities of sin, guilt, or prophecy. There was only hellfire and brimstone, burning bodies and pillars of salt, but he does know that John is talking around his point. His Johnny never knows how to really speak his mind.
“Is this one of those things where I think we are talking about a hypothetical philosophical thingy, but it’s actually about us?”
John chuckles a dry sob, choking on something stuck deep in his throat like he’s eaten the forbidden fruit. “I think I might be going to hell.”
For all his knowledge and care, Adam doesn’t know what to say to that, pupils blown wide like dinner plates as the birds keep singing their summer hymn. There is no space for silence under the vibrant green maples; the world does not care about their problems. It will not make room for them.
“Do you… Do you feel guilty about something you can’t control?” Adam asks, grabbing John’s hand a little tighter as he speaks. His skin stands dark against the other boy’s, suntanned and calloused from shitty day jobs around his trailer park. John’s hands are so soft, skin unmarred except around his nail beds. He chews on them when he is nervous, tearing the flesh from his cuticles with gnawing accuracy. Adam will not let him pull his hand towards his mouth; there will be no blood today.
John doesn’t say anything for a moment, letting the birdsong do all the talking for him. A car honks in the distance. His handheld is lying forgotten in the grass. Adam’s mom is wondering where he is. He wants to bite at his hands. The world keeps spinning.
“I think I love you.”
Adam’s lungs deflate, pushing boiled air out between his clenched teeth as John shakes in his grasp. The leaves whisper above them once more, gossiping about the lives below.
He has so much to say; he has so many words buzzing around his skull. None of it sounds right. None of it is enough. An endless wave of Johnny, Johnny, Johnny fills his brain as his best friend stares at their connected fingers, eyes clenched tight like he’s preparing for a hit.
“I,” Adam starts, voice wavering on the breeze, brave, defiant, and terrified. Johnny flinches at the sound. “I think I might be guilty too.”
Neither of them speaks after that, hands still intertwined between their half-slumped bodies.
The cicadas keep screaming, the sun beats down, and Judas sits under a tree with Jesus’s hand in his own. There will be no saving today, no bloodshed miracles, and no betrayals. God is not listening anyway.
Atticus Combs is a junior at the University of Kentucky in Lexington, KY, pursuing a degree in English. He describes himself as a queer romantic with a love for tragedy and religious imagery. His poetry has appeared on a broadside at the University of Kentucky, in his hometown museum (Wayne County, KY), and the online publication Grim & Gilded.
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