Judgement.

Into the jaws of death. Into the mouth of hell.

painting by Richard Caton Woodville JR

The look was slow, drawn, an icicle spear hanging from a tree. It was cold, beautiful and utterly ruthless. I stood transfixed by it, unable to shift my weight or even lean away.

It drew me forward, a caterpillar willingly edging across a razor. I wanted to hear the judgement, feel the pronouncement, and in that way be able to absolve myself of the waiting.

If I could be free of burden, free of guilt, then surely a lightness would return. There would be a resurgence in not only confidence, but in a self-belief, that what I was doing was worthy, was of substance and value.

To put the focus of control outside myself was absurdly destructive, yet like an addict, the necessity of the drug of ‘approval’ made my soul yearn for a fix. My spirit was gripped in a tourniquet of hope, of dreams, and ‘what ifs.’ At each corner I could imagine another scenario, each better than the last.

I gazed at the eyes before me and waited. The upper cheek, just below my eyelids, was moist. My knees, interminably locked, were cold stilts of immobility. It was the waiting that gnawed at me.

The verdict arrived like cannon shot. Unlike Lord Tennyson’s, Charge of the Light Brigade, there were no blasted bodies…