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Delirium

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JustJJ

Governor
I've been thinking a lot about this aspect of crucifixion, it's not something I've seen discussed elsewhere. For your pleasure, here is a description from a victim's imagination...

-----------------------------------

The fear has only compounded upon itself leading to this moment. My right forearm is tied down, and my hand is useless to protect my wrist, as much as it flails. I feel the tip of the nail search for the soft spot in my wrist, and it presses hard before the hammer strikes. Pain explodes down my whole arm and I am screaming. They don’t have to tie down the left, I am in too much pain already to fight it as the second nail is driven in.

My body crumples and twists, tugging at the fresh wounds out of pure instinct. My muscles will never be relaxed again, they are already tense and straining. That is when two of my executioners count together before rhythmically hoisting up the patibulum. This is routine for them, the screaming is part of what they’ve learned to tune out. I know it is useless, but I can’t stop, as my full weight falls on my burning arms and seems to stretch the holes in my wrists.

When the patibulum roughly jolts into its position atop the stipes, my long scream jerks and howls. My torn back slides against the rough wood and I start to fall. I feel like I’m continuously falling, and I can’t stop it from happening. My feet try desperately to find something to balance on. My arms are stretching and straining to hold the weight of my body up. My arms hurt so much it seems impossible that the pain in them gets worse with every passing second. My long scream stretches as I seem to reach for the ground, for stability. All too suddenly I am out of breath. Tears obstruct my vision as my voice catches and I try to inhale, but I cannot.

I try and try to breathe. There is nothing else to do. My consciousness fades as I fight, but the pain keeps me aware. I know that they will eventually give me a painful way to stay alive. First I must endure near suffocation hanging from my arms alone. When I am choking and can’t see anything but the red agony inside my head, I feel rough hands grabbing my feet. They are limp, tingling, as they are positioned. They bend one knee and place my foot flat against the wooden pillar behind me, and it is impossible to anticipate the feeling of the larger nail hacking through my foot. My screams are breathless, defeated. The second foot is placed alongside the other and the last nail gives me my foundation.

I can do nothing now but press into the nails in my feet and pull at the nails in my hands. As I pull myself up for the first time, I dread that each attempt will be more difficult than the last as my body weakens. It is already impossibly difficult to breathe, and the effort of standing gives me a mere gasp of air. Then, before my lungs have had their fill, I slip. I am slipping and falling again. There is no rest because I must strain to breathe, and a moment of stopping means not breathing.

Cruel spectators have referred to it as a dance, this struggle on the cross. I have no power over my movements, they follow the pain now. I do not decide to start pulling up, nor do I choose when my muscles give in and leave me to fall again.

The falling is endless, because I never pull myself up enough for my lungs to fill completely. My throat is hoarse from screaming, from the effort of trying to breathe. The sounds I’m making turn to moans and grunts as I lift my weight again and again. My arms hurt more all the time, from the nail wounds and the strain of pulling against them. My calves are overwhelmed with cramps, and these spread into my upper legs and hips as I lift my body.

I am aware all over again that I am naked, twisting and displaying every inch of my bloodied, sweaty body. I sink again and start to urinate all over myself. As it seeps between my legs and stings my feet where the nails hold them in place, I realize that this indicates it’s only been a few minutes that I’ve been hanging here. I had despaired already, but it hadn’t brought me low enough for the utter disdain I hold for what remains of my future.

Falling, continuously falling, always fighting to pull myself up. I never reach a full standing position. I never get to fully catch my breath, and on top of everything, my sides have stitches as if I’ve been running. It is demanding exercise. I am working myself to death as a spectacle for entertainment.

I have no balance. The ground spins. It has been spinning since they completed my cross. I realize I will never feel steady. I am still groaning through the effort to pull myself up, whimpering helplessly as the stipes leaves slivers of wood in my whip wounds each time I slide down. It’s wet with my blood now.

Dizziness turns to nausea, and I feel faint. My consciousness divides and separates, seeking any form of mental escape and finding none. Instead I find the ground tilting, and I realize I’m looking down at it from an odd angle. I am tilting, hanging off the cross, while it stands upright. I am securely pinned to it, yet my position allows me plenty of movement. Too much movement. I want to hold still without losing the ability to breathe. I want to stop straining. It hurts more every time I lift myself up.

Hours flow together, as my only indication of time passing is when it starts to get dark. I am muttering and crying out incoherently, and sometimes the guards call back mockingly, and I’m too confused to respond. I know it’s useless to beg, but my mind has lost all reason, and I beg for release. I beg for someone to please kill me. “We are killing you, just more slowly than you would like,” comes a response that sends me on a chase to comprehend as my head pounds.

The sun rises after a longer time than my whole life leading up to now. My body keeps fighting to preserve what is impossible to save. My mind has altogether given up a thousand times, yet it fights for solutions, too. I sink, still with the sensation of falling and spinning, into a feverish world.

The pain is constant. It also builds and spreads all the time. It is my sense of self that vanishes into the anguish. My wrists are nailed into place and my arms strain to lift me, but I am riding a crashing cascade in my head, the blood rushing and throbbing and flowing everywhere but my dry mouth. I lick my cracked lips, and it is futile. I pull myself up yet again, it is a task I can never finish or feel satisfied from. It is meaningless work, the effort of staying alive until I cannot any longer.

For moments, my predicament vanishes into waves of pain without meaning. I am flying through falling sands in an hourglass. It is not escape from the pain, but a journey into the depths of it. Icicles hail down on me in my mind as my brain seeks an explanation for the endless suffering. The vivid, loud colors crashing through my being are a fever wide awake. This is delirium – illusions pass by and take hold, and I beseech these demons for mercy, for they are kinder than the humans who did this to me.
 
I've been thinking a lot about this aspect of crucifixion, it's not something I've seen discussed elsewhere. For your pleasure, here is a description from a victim's imagination...

-----------------------------------

The fear has only compounded upon itself leading to this moment. My right forearm is tied down, and my hand is useless to protect my wrist, as much as it flails. I feel the tip of the nail search for the soft spot in my wrist, and it presses hard before the hammer strikes. Pain explodes down my whole arm and I am screaming. They don’t have to tie down the left, I am in too much pain already to fight it as the second nail is driven in.

My body crumples and twists, tugging at the fresh wounds out of pure instinct. My muscles will never be relaxed again, they are already tense and straining. That is when two of my executioners count together before rhythmically hoisting up the patibulum. This is routine for them, the screaming is part of what they’ve learned to tune out. I know it is useless, but I can’t stop, as my full weight falls on my burning arms and seems to stretch the holes in my wrists.

When the patibulum roughly jolts into its position atop the stipes, my long scream jerks and howls. My torn back slides against the rough wood and I start to fall. I feel like I’m continuously falling, and I can’t stop it from happening. My feet try desperately to find something to balance on. My arms are stretching and straining to hold the weight of my body up. My arms hurt so much it seems impossible that the pain in them gets worse with every passing second. My long scream stretches as I seem to reach for the ground, for stability. All too suddenly I am out of breath. Tears obstruct my vision as my voice catches and I try to inhale, but I cannot.

I try and try to breathe. There is nothing else to do. My consciousness fades as I fight, but the pain keeps me aware. I know that they will eventually give me a painful way to stay alive. First I must endure near suffocation hanging from my arms alone. When I am choking and can’t see anything but the red agony inside my head, I feel rough hands grabbing my feet. They are limp, tingling, as they are positioned. They bend one knee and place my foot flat against the wooden pillar behind me, and it is impossible to anticipate the feeling of the larger nail hacking through my foot. My screams are breathless, defeated. The second foot is placed alongside the other and the last nail gives me my foundation.

I can do nothing now but press into the nails in my feet and pull at the nails in my hands. As I pull myself up for the first time, I dread that each attempt will be more difficult than the last as my body weakens. It is already impossibly difficult to breathe, and the effort of standing gives me a mere gasp of air. Then, before my lungs have had their fill, I slip. I am slipping and falling again. There is no rest because I must strain to breathe, and a moment of stopping means not breathing.

Cruel spectators have referred to it as a dance, this struggle on the cross. I have no power over my movements, they follow the pain now. I do not decide to start pulling up, nor do I choose when my muscles give in and leave me to fall again.

The falling is endless, because I never pull myself up enough for my lungs to fill completely. My throat is hoarse from screaming, from the effort of trying to breathe. The sounds I’m making turn to moans and grunts as I lift my weight again and again. My arms hurt more all the time, from the nail wounds and the strain of pulling against them. My calves are overwhelmed with cramps, and these spread into my upper legs and hips as I lift my body.

I am aware all over again that I am naked, twisting and displaying every inch of my bloodied, sweaty body. I sink again and start to urinate all over myself. As it seeps between my legs and stings my feet where the nails hold them in place, I realize that this indicates it’s only been a few minutes that I’ve been hanging here. I had despaired already, but it hadn’t brought me low enough for the utter disdain I hold for what remains of my future.

Falling, continuously falling, always fighting to pull myself up. I never reach a full standing position. I never get to fully catch my breath, and on top of everything, my sides have stitches as if I’ve been running. It is demanding exercise. I am working myself to death as a spectacle for entertainment.

I have no balance. The ground spins. It has been spinning since they completed my cross. I realize I will never feel steady. I am still groaning through the effort to pull myself up, whimpering helplessly as the stipes leaves slivers of wood in my whip wounds each time I slide down. It’s wet with my blood now.

Dizziness turns to nausea, and I feel faint. My consciousness divides and separates, seeking any form of mental escape and finding none. Instead I find the ground tilting, and I realize I’m looking down at it from an odd angle. I am tilting, hanging off the cross, while it stands upright. I am securely pinned to it, yet my position allows me plenty of movement. Too much movement. I want to hold still without losing the ability to breathe. I want to stop straining. It hurts more every time I lift myself up.

Hours flow together, as my only indication of time passing is when it starts to get dark. I am muttering and crying out incoherently, and sometimes the guards call back mockingly, and I’m too confused to respond. I know it’s useless to beg, but my mind has lost all reason, and I beg for release. I beg for someone to please kill me. “We are killing you, just more slowly than you would like,” comes a response that sends me on a chase to comprehend as my head pounds.

The sun rises after a longer time than my whole life leading up to now. My body keeps fighting to preserve what is impossible to save. My mind has altogether given up a thousand times, yet it fights for solutions, too. I sink, still with the sensation of falling and spinning, into a feverish world.

The pain is constant. It also builds and spreads all the time. It is my sense of self that vanishes into the anguish. My wrists are nailed into place and my arms strain to lift me, but I am riding a crashing cascade in my head, the blood rushing and throbbing and flowing everywhere but my dry mouth. I lick my cracked lips, and it is futile. I pull myself up yet again, it is a task I can never finish or feel satisfied from. It is meaningless work, the effort of staying alive until I cannot any longer.

For moments, my predicament vanishes into waves of pain without meaning. I am flying through falling sands in an hourglass. It is not escape from the pain, but a journey into the depths of it. Icicles hail down on me in my mind as my brain seeks an explanation for the endless suffering. The vivid, loud colors crashing through my being are a fever wide awake. This is delirium – illusions pass by and take hold, and I beseech these demons for mercy, for they are kinder than the humans who did this to me.
Incredible writing, Judith, it took my own breath away!
 
I've been thinking a lot about this aspect of crucifixion, it's not something I've seen discussed elsewhere. For your pleasure, here is a description from a victim's imagination...

-----------------------------------

The fear has only compounded upon itself leading to this moment. My right forearm is tied down, and my hand is useless to protect my wrist, as much as it flails. I feel the tip of the nail search for the soft spot in my wrist, and it presses hard before the hammer strikes. Pain explodes down my whole arm and I am screaming. They don’t have to tie down the left, I am in too much pain already to fight it as the second nail is driven in.

My body crumples and twists, tugging at the fresh wounds out of pure instinct. My muscles will never be relaxed again, they are already tense and straining. That is when two of my executioners count together before rhythmically hoisting up the patibulum. This is routine for them, the screaming is part of what they’ve learned to tune out. I know it is useless, but I can’t stop, as my full weight falls on my burning arms and seems to stretch the holes in my wrists.
I also wondered. I know that under pain a lot of people lost consciousness even with only a little pain. So it might be quite often, that after mailing most will be unaware of what happens.... I do not know if this is good or bad...... Probably I will bring this into account in my Yvonne storyline
 
I've been thinking a lot about this aspect of crucifixion, it's not something I've seen discussed elsewhere. For your pleasure, here is a description from a victim's imagination...

-----------------------------------

The fear has only compounded upon itself leading to this moment. My right forearm is tied down, and my hand is useless to protect my wrist, as much as it flails. I feel the tip of the nail search for the soft spot in my wrist, and it presses hard before the hammer strikes. Pain explodes down my whole arm and I am screaming. They don’t have to tie down the left, I am in too much pain already to fight it as the second nail is driven in.

My body crumples and twists, tugging at the fresh wounds out of pure instinct. My muscles will never be relaxed again, they are already tense and straining. That is when two of my executioners count together before rhythmically hoisting up the patibulum. This is routine for them, the screaming is part of what they’ve learned to tune out. I know it is useless, but I can’t stop, as my full weight falls on my burning arms and seems to stretch the holes in my wrists.

When the patibulum roughly jolts into its position atop the stipes, my long scream jerks and howls. My torn back slides against the rough wood and I start to fall. I feel like I’m continuously falling, and I can’t stop it from happening. My feet try desperately to find something to balance on. My arms are stretching and straining to hold the weight of my body up. My arms hurt so much it seems impossible that the pain in them gets worse with every passing second. My long scream stretches as I seem to reach for the ground, for stability. All too suddenly I am out of breath. Tears obstruct my vision as my voice catches and I try to inhale, but I cannot.

I try and try to breathe. There is nothing else to do. My consciousness fades as I fight, but the pain keeps me aware. I know that they will eventually give me a painful way to stay alive. First I must endure near suffocation hanging from my arms alone. When I am choking and can’t see anything but the red agony inside my head, I feel rough hands grabbing my feet. They are limp, tingling, as they are positioned. They bend one knee and place my foot flat against the wooden pillar behind me, and it is impossible to anticipate the feeling of the larger nail hacking through my foot. My screams are breathless, defeated. The second foot is placed alongside the other and the last nail gives me my foundation.

I can do nothing now but press into the nails in my feet and pull at the nails in my hands. As I pull myself up for the first time, I dread that each attempt will be more difficult than the last as my body weakens. It is already impossibly difficult to breathe, and the effort of standing gives me a mere gasp of air. Then, before my lungs have had their fill, I slip. I am slipping and falling again. There is no rest because I must strain to breathe, and a moment of stopping means not breathing.

Cruel spectators have referred to it as a dance, this struggle on the cross. I have no power over my movements, they follow the pain now. I do not decide to start pulling up, nor do I choose when my muscles give in and leave me to fall again.

The falling is endless, because I never pull myself up enough for my lungs to fill completely. My throat is hoarse from screaming, from the effort of trying to breathe. The sounds I’m making turn to moans and grunts as I lift my weight again and again. My arms hurt more all the time, from the nail wounds and the strain of pulling against them. My calves are overwhelmed with cramps, and these spread into my upper legs and hips as I lift my body.

I am aware all over again that I am naked, twisting and displaying every inch of my bloodied, sweaty body. I sink again and start to urinate all over myself. As it seeps between my legs and stings my feet where the nails hold them in place, I realize that this indicates it’s only been a few minutes that I’ve been hanging here. I had despaired already, but it hadn’t brought me low enough for the utter disdain I hold for what remains of my future.

Falling, continuously falling, always fighting to pull myself up. I never reach a full standing position. I never get to fully catch my breath, and on top of everything, my sides have stitches as if I’ve been running. It is demanding exercise. I am working myself to death as a spectacle for entertainment.

I have no balance. The ground spins. It has been spinning since they completed my cross. I realize I will never feel steady. I am still groaning through the effort to pull myself up, whimpering helplessly as the stipes leaves slivers of wood in my whip wounds each time I slide down. It’s wet with my blood now.

Dizziness turns to nausea, and I feel faint. My consciousness divides and separates, seeking any form of mental escape and finding none. Instead I find the ground tilting, and I realize I’m looking down at it from an odd angle. I am tilting, hanging off the cross, while it stands upright. I am securely pinned to it, yet my position allows me plenty of movement. Too much movement. I want to hold still without losing the ability to breathe. I want to stop straining. It hurts more every time I lift myself up.

Hours flow together, as my only indication of time passing is when it starts to get dark. I am muttering and crying out incoherently, and sometimes the guards call back mockingly, and I’m too confused to respond. I know it’s useless to beg, but my mind has lost all reason, and I beg for release. I beg for someone to please kill me. “We are killing you, just more slowly than you would like,” comes a response that sends me on a chase to comprehend as my head pounds.

The sun rises after a longer time than my whole life leading up to now. My body keeps fighting to preserve what is impossible to save. My mind has altogether given up a thousand times, yet it fights for solutions, too. I sink, still with the sensation of falling and spinning, into a feverish world.

The pain is constant. It also builds and spreads all the time. It is my sense of self that vanishes into the anguish. My wrists are nailed into place and my arms strain to lift me, but I am riding a crashing cascade in my head, the blood rushing and throbbing and flowing everywhere but my dry mouth. I lick my cracked lips, and it is futile. I pull myself up yet again, it is a task I can never finish or feel satisfied from. It is meaningless work, the effort of staying alive until I cannot any longer.

For moments, my predicament vanishes into waves of pain without meaning. I am flying through falling sands in an hourglass. It is not escape from the pain, but a journey into the depths of it. Icicles hail down on me in my mind as my brain seeks an explanation for the endless suffering. The vivid, loud colors crashing through my being are a fever wide awake. This is delirium – illusions pass by and take hold, and I beseech these demons for mercy, for they are kinder than the humans who did this to me.

Very beautiful account of the feelings felt by a crucified person. I must say that I must not force my imagination to find myself a little in this description. Bravo to you, I enjoyed the reading.
 
I don't mean this as a criticism at all, because that was truly a remarkable piece of writing. So this is more of a biological or physiological observation that it was likely not so much that the person on the cross couldn't inhale, but that they finally could not relax their muscles or their body to exhale to make room for new air. A niggling little point, I know.

That does not detract from the fact that this was still one of the finest "victim perspective" accounts that I think I have read here. :clapping::clapping:
 
I don't mean this as a criticism at all, because that was truly a remarkable piece of writing. So this is more of a biological or physiological observation that it was likely not so much that the person on the cross couldn't inhale, but that they finally could not relax their muscles or their body to exhale to make room for new air. A niggling little point, I know.

That does not detract from the fact that this was still one of the finest "victim perspective" accounts that I think I have read here. :clapping::clapping:
I appreciate this! Let me see if I can rework it to have the proper breathing description. I want it to be realistic.
 
I have edited this version to better explain the ordeal of breathing. I went back and did some research, and spent some time holding my breath with my arms outstretched to get just a hint of what it might feel like. @Madiosi can you use this updated one for the digest? I'm honored to be included!

Also thank you all so much for your kind words!

-------------------------------

Delirium

The fear has only compounded upon itself leading to this moment. My right forearm is tied down, and my hand is useless to protect my wrist, as much as it flails. I feel the tip of the nail search for the soft spot in my wrist, and it presses hard before the hammer strikes. Pain explodes down my whole arm and I am screaming. They don’t have to tie down the left, I am in too much pain already to fight it as the second nail is driven in.

My body crumples and twists, tugging at the fresh wounds out of pure instinct. My muscles will never be relaxed again, they are already tense and straining. That is when two of my executioners count together before rhythmically hoisting up the patibulum. This is routine for them, the screaming is part of what they’ve learned to tune out. I know it is useless, but I can’t stop, as my full weight falls on my burning arms and seems to stretch the holes in my wrists.

When the patibulum roughly jolts into its position atop the stipes, my long scream jerks and howls. My torn back slides against the rough wood and I start to fall. I feel like I’m continuously falling, and I can’t stop it from happening. My feet try desperately to find something to balance on. My arms are stretching and straining to hold the weight of my body up. My arms hurt so much it seems impossible that the pain in them gets worse with every passing second. My long scream stretches as I seem to reach for the ground, for stability. All too suddenly I am out of breath. Tears obstruct my vision as my voice catches and I gasp for air. My lungs expand and stretch my shoulders unbearably, my breasts extend out, weighing on my chest, and I realize I’m unable to exhale. I hang there, and the pain from the nails clambers into my chest as my lungs fill to their maximum. The air has nowhere to go and it turns to fire in my lungs. I am flailing, my legs shakily giving up on the effort of finding a foothold.

I try and try to breathe. There is nothing else to do. My consciousness fades as I fight, but the pain keeps me aware. I know that they will eventually give me a painful way to stay alive. First I must endure near suffocation hanging from my arms alone. When I am choking and can’t see anything but the red agony inside my head, I feel rough hands grabbing my feet. They are limp, tingling, as they are positioned. They bend one knee and place my foot flat against the wooden pillar behind me, and it is impossible to anticipate the feeling of the larger nail hacking through my foot. My screams are breathless, defeated. The second foot is placed alongside the other and the last nail gives me my foundation.

I can do nothing now but press into the nails in my feet and pull at the nails in my hands. As I pull myself up for the first time, I dread that each attempt will be more difficult than the last as my body weakens. It is already impossibly difficult to breathe, and the effort of standing gives me only horror at how little relief it is to push the stale air out of my lungs. I pant desperately in tiny sputters, not enough to regain my breathing pattern, and I slip down.

Cruel spectators have referred to it as a dance, this struggle on the cross. I have no power over my movements, they follow the pain now. I do not decide to start pulling up, nor do I choose when my muscles give in and leave me to fall again. There is no rest because I must strain to breathe in small sips, hoist myself up, and pull back against the position of my outstretched shoulders and chest to breathe out. Breathing is work. Pulling on my wrists, pushing on my feet, it is all hard, strenuous work.

The falling is endless, because I never pull myself up enough for my lungs to empty completely, meaning my chest juts out and fills with too much air. My throat is hoarse from screaming, from the effort of trying to breathe. The sounds I’m making turn to moans and grunts as I lift my weight again and again. My arms hurt more all the time, from the nail wounds and the strain of pulling against them. My calves are overwhelmed with cramps, and these spread into my upper legs and hips as I lift my body.

I am aware all over again that I am naked, twisting and displaying every inch of my bloodied, sweaty body. I sink again and start to urinate all over myself. As it seeps between my legs and stings my feet where the nails hold them in place, I realize that this indicates it’s only been a few minutes that I’ve been hanging here. I had despaired already, but it hadn’t brought me low enough for the utter disdain I hold for what remains of my future.

Falling, continuously falling, always fighting to pull myself up. I never reach a full standing position. I never get to fully catch my breath, and on top of everything, my sides have stitches as if I’ve been running. It is demanding exercise. I am working myself to death as a spectacle for entertainment.

I have no balance. The ground spins. It has been spinning since they completed my cross. I realize I will never feel steady. I am still groaning through the effort to pull myself up, whimpering helplessly as the stipes leaves slivers of wood in my whip wounds each time I slide down. It’s wet with my blood now.

Dizziness turns to nausea, and I feel faint. My consciousness divides and separates, seeking any form of mental escape and finding none. Instead I find the ground tilting, and I realize I’m looking down at it from an odd angle. I am tilting, hanging off the cross, while it stands upright. I am securely pinned to it, yet my position allows me plenty of movement. Too much movement. I want to hold still without losing the ability to breathe. I want to stop straining. It hurts more every time I lift myself up.

Hours flow together, as my only indication of time passing is when it starts to get dark. I am muttering and crying out incoherently, and sometimes the guards call back mockingly, and I’m too confused to respond. I know it’s useless to beg, but my mind has lost all reason, and I beg for release. I beg for someone to please kill me. “We are killing you, just more slowly than you would like,” comes a response that sends me on a chase to comprehend as my head pounds.

The sun rises after a longer time than my whole life leading up to now. My body keeps fighting to preserve what is impossible to save. My mind has altogether given up a thousand times, yet it fights for solutions, too. I sink, still with the sensation of falling and spinning, into a feverish world.

The pain is constant. It also builds and spreads all the time. It is my sense of self that vanishes into the anguish. My wrists are nailed into place and my arms strain to lift me, but I am riding a crashing cascade in my head, the blood rushing and throbbing and flowing everywhere but my dry mouth. I lick my cracked lips, and it is futile. I pull myself up yet again, it is a task I can never finish or feel satisfied from. It is meaningless work, the effort of staying alive until I cannot any longer.

For moments, my predicament vanishes into waves of pain without meaning. I am flying through falling sands in an hourglass. It is not escape from the pain, but a journey into the depths of it. Icicles hail down on me in my mind as my brain seeks an explanation for the endless suffering. The vivid, loud colors crashing through my being are a fever wide awake. This is delirium – illusions pass by and take hold, and I beseech these demons for mercy, for they are kinder than the humans who did this to me.
 
I've been thinking a lot about this aspect of crucifixion, it's not something I've seen discussed elsewhere. For your pleasure, here is a description from a victim's imagination...

-----------------------------------

The fear has only compounded upon itself leading to this moment. My right forearm is tied down, and my hand is useless to protect my wrist, as much as it flails. I feel the tip of the nail search for the soft spot in my wrist, and it presses hard before the hammer strikes. Pain explodes down my whole arm and I am screaming. They don’t have to tie down the left, I am in too much pain already to fight it as the second nail is driven in.

My body crumples and twists, tugging at the fresh wounds out of pure instinct. My muscles will never be relaxed again, they are already tense and straining. That is when two of my executioners count together before rhythmically hoisting up the patibulum. This is routine for them, the screaming is part of what they’ve learned to tune out. I know it is useless, but I can’t stop, as my full weight falls on my burning arms and seems to stretch the holes in my wrists.

When the patibulum roughly jolts into its position atop the stipes, my long scream jerks and howls. My torn back slides against the rough wood and I start to fall. I feel like I’m continuously falling, and I can’t stop it from happening. My feet try desperately to find something to balance on. My arms are stretching and straining to hold the weight of my body up. My arms hurt so much it seems impossible that the pain in them gets worse with every passing second. My long scream stretches as I seem to reach for the ground, for stability. All too suddenly I am out of breath. Tears obstruct my vision as my voice catches and I try to inhale, but I cannot.

I try and try to breathe. There is nothing else to do. My consciousness fades as I fight, but the pain keeps me aware. I know that they will eventually give me a painful way to stay alive. First I must endure near suffocation hanging from my arms alone. When I am choking and can’t see anything but the red agony inside my head, I feel rough hands grabbing my feet. They are limp, tingling, as they are positioned. They bend one knee and place my foot flat against the wooden pillar behind me, and it is impossible to anticipate the feeling of the larger nail hacking through my foot. My screams are breathless, defeated. The second foot is placed alongside the other and the last nail gives me my foundation.

I can do nothing now but press into the nails in my feet and pull at the nails in my hands. As I pull myself up for the first time, I dread that each attempt will be more difficult than the last as my body weakens. It is already impossibly difficult to breathe, and the effort of standing gives me a mere gasp of air. Then, before my lungs have had their fill, I slip. I am slipping and falling again. There is no rest because I must strain to breathe, and a moment of stopping means not breathing.

Cruel spectators have referred to it as a dance, this struggle on the cross. I have no power over my movements, they follow the pain now. I do not decide to start pulling up, nor do I choose when my muscles give in and leave me to fall again.

The falling is endless, because I never pull myself up enough for my lungs to fill completely. My throat is hoarse from screaming, from the effort of trying to breathe. The sounds I’m making turn to moans and grunts as I lift my weight again and again. My arms hurt more all the time, from the nail wounds and the strain of pulling against them. My calves are overwhelmed with cramps, and these spread into my upper legs and hips as I lift my body.

I am aware all over again that I am naked, twisting and displaying every inch of my bloodied, sweaty body. I sink again and start to urinate all over myself. As it seeps between my legs and stings my feet where the nails hold them in place, I realize that this indicates it’s only been a few minutes that I’ve been hanging here. I had despaired already, but it hadn’t brought me low enough for the utter disdain I hold for what remains of my future.

Falling, continuously falling, always fighting to pull myself up. I never reach a full standing position. I never get to fully catch my breath, and on top of everything, my sides have stitches as if I’ve been running. It is demanding exercise. I am working myself to death as a spectacle for entertainment.

I have no balance. The ground spins. It has been spinning since they completed my cross. I realize I will never feel steady. I am still groaning through the effort to pull myself up, whimpering helplessly as the stipes leaves slivers of wood in my whip wounds each time I slide down. It’s wet with my blood now.

Dizziness turns to nausea, and I feel faint. My consciousness divides and separates, seeking any form of mental escape and finding none. Instead I find the ground tilting, and I realize I’m looking down at it from an odd angle. I am tilting, hanging off the cross, while it stands upright. I am securely pinned to it, yet my position allows me plenty of movement. Too much movement. I want to hold still without losing the ability to breathe. I want to stop straining. It hurts more every time I lift myself up.

Hours flow together, as my only indication of time passing is when it starts to get dark. I am muttering and crying out incoherently, and sometimes the guards call back mockingly, and I’m too confused to respond. I know it’s useless to beg, but my mind has lost all reason, and I beg for release. I beg for someone to please kill me. “We are killing you, just more slowly than you would like,” comes a response that sends me on a chase to comprehend as my head pounds.

The sun rises after a longer time than my whole life leading up to now. My body keeps fighting to preserve what is impossible to save. My mind has altogether given up a thousand times, yet it fights for solutions, too. I sink, still with the sensation of falling and spinning, into a feverish world.

The pain is constant. It also builds and spreads all the time. It is my sense of self that vanishes into the anguish. My wrists are nailed into place and my arms strain to lift me, but I am riding a crashing cascade in my head, the blood rushing and throbbing and flowing everywhere but my dry mouth. I lick my cracked lips, and it is futile. I pull myself up yet again, it is a task I can never finish or feel satisfied from. It is meaningless work, the effort of staying alive until I cannot any longer.

For moments, my predicament vanishes into waves of pain without meaning. I am flying through falling sands in an hourglass. It is not escape from the pain, but a journey into the depths of it. Icicles hail down on me in my mind as my brain seeks an explanation for the endless suffering. The vivid, loud colors crashing through my being are a fever wide awake. This is delirium – illusions pass by and take hold, and I beseech these demons for mercy, for they are kinder than the humans who did this to me.
Wow. Excellent
 
Today I wrote a little bit more about what it might be like. It didn't seem long enough for its own thread so I thought I'd add it here:

I write about crucifixion because it’s what it feels like to be in this world. Stretched out, powerless, yet fighting to breathe until all strength is gone, until my life has been wrenched away from me.

Being left alone on this cross is the worst part of it. They are no longer interested in my torture, but it’s still worsening with each passing moment. My legs and arms are burning from the effort of pulling myself up. The shockwaves of my nerves grinding against the cruel iron nails never stop. I can’t breathe. I can’t slow my breathing enough to calm myself. My mind is spinning, it’s a nightmare I can’t wake up from.

The ground is too far away, yet close enough that I could step down. If only I could. Instead, I have no center of balance. I’m falling, constantly falling, never able to stop catching myself. I’m not grabbing onto anything, my bones balance on these nails, and they are all I have to prevent me from stepping down off this cross.
 
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