Her body hit the ground when she was released from her binds. She laid motionless, breathing slowly, her eyes closed. Her body felt the relief of resting on solid ground, no longer hanging. Her arms slowly recovered some feeling as her blood circulated freely again. It was painful at first but she did not react, even if her wrists were almost exploding as they felt the freedom from the ropes.

The soldiers were preparing the next stage of her sentence, they were moving slowly, perhaps allowing her a time of rest, her suffering was not over and giving her a moment was all they could do for her.

The growing crowd were silent, watching the body laying on the ground, full of whip marks.

I had some time to meditate in an almost religious state of contemplation. I had learned to appreciate the ravages of suffering on a martyr. Countless hours, rosary in hand, kneeling on the hard wooden pews contemplating the stages of the cross and their meaning in our lives.

Perhaps that's not what the priests and nuns had in mind, but the erotic elements we were fed were there.

An almost schizophrenic relationship with sin. At once renouncing it while clamoring for it.

The weakness of the flesh manifesting itself during holy communion.

The images of martyrs suffering at the hands of Nero during mass. The overwhelming image of the cross shadowing with it's glow.

Her face was so full of light. She was so full of that inner peace that came from the feeling that she was ok with all this.

There was no hang-up at all. The one overcoming the hang-ups was me. I was facing my fantasy and making it come alive, I was destroying my built-in taboos, I was rejecting the bonds forced on me early in life.

Camille was helping me do it. Not only by putting her person, her body, her nakedness, on this, but by encouraging me with her simple and innocent comment. Why not? Why not indeed.

Her pubic hairs were gone, burnt out, her legs were still smoldering. She was shaking, her eyes open, looking at the soldiers in shock, the shock of her ordeal, of the pain. Her ankles and wrists were swollen and dark, a bluish tone on the edges.

Her face was dark, her lips shone through. She was also covered in dirt, her hair was almost totally gone, a few strands here and there, most of her scalp was burnt and full of open sores.

She laid shaking as the soldier prepared the ropes to hoist her up the post. One soldier, tears in his eyes, gave her to drink some water, she looked into his eyes as she drank slowly, spilling most of it through the sides of her mouth. The soldier was holding her head as he made her drink. She felt his warm and kind hand behind her neck.

She was laying on top of the timber under her back, so her back was arcked, her arms were pressed by the timber under her back. The soldier released her head slowly, and it went back, turning to the side. She saw the crowds looking down on her.

Camille looked at me as I placed a piece of wood by her head and took her wrist. I knelt by her side, looking into her eyes. The moment had come.

The kind soldier looked at the servant as he raised her head again, making her sit up. While he held her another soldier tied the rope around the timber, behind her back. She felt he rough rope against her skin.

The crucifixion began.