Here is the seventh entry from my upcoming booklet “Our Darkness, His Light”. These events would have historically occurred on Good Friday.
Cletus pushed the broom across the worn tiles, straining to get at the blood. Skritch, skritch, skritch. A sound he had come to endure, repeated all day, every day for the last twenty years. My, how filthy the floor was. Especially after yesterday’s record crowd. Again, he scratched at the blood soaked deep into the mortar between the tiles. Black, aged, dried from years of shed blood, the tiles would never be clean. The blood could never be removed. It was there forever. And everyday, the people came, strewing dirt and straw and leaves across his carefully scrubbed floor. And every evening, he cleaned. Skritch, skritch, skritch.
The never ending pattern of his sweeping was well rehearsed. He could do it in his sleep. He always began in the back corner and ended up near the curtain. Today, he had been fortunate. The usual crowds were gone. The vast chamber empty. They were all out there, watching the show. He did not complain. It gave him the opportunity to finish his task earlier. Perhaps tonight, he would get home before sunset.
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