The Passion of Jesus According to Nitrogen

The Chamber

In the darkness of night, they brought him to the chamber. Where am I going? Why this place? The hallway was narrow, its walls cold and unyielding, stretching into a silence that pressed against him. God, are you with me? Do you see this? At the end stood a steel door, its surface reflecting the faint glow of the fluorescent lights. When it opened, the room inside was blinding in its sterility. White walls, polished floors, and the faint chemical sting of bleach tried in vain to disguise the odor of death. In the center, the gurney awaited. Behind it, a mask hung from a hook, black tubing curling like a serpent ready to strike. This is my final cross. Not wood, not nails, but this…metal and straps.

The Gurney

They pressed him down onto the gurney. Leather straps tightened across his wrists, chest, and ankles. No escape. It is finished. How quickly the world condemns love. He felt the weight of it pressing against his body, a finality that could not be undone. The charges were read aloud: disturber of order, enemy of the state. They say the same words to every prophet. They will not understand. They will not see.

The Mask Descends

The mask was brought forward. Blue rubber, black plastic tubing, clinical and unfeeling. I cannot breathe through this. God, stay with me. I am yours, hold me in this darkness. It covered his face, sealing him in. His heart pounded, a drum of fear and desperation.

The Hiss of Death

The knob was turned, and the hiss began. At first, it was just a sound, a low, steady exhalation. Then his body understood. His chest rose in desperate gasps. Nothing came. I can’t… I can’t… breathe. What is happening? Someone help me! He clawed at the air, the straps, the cold metal around him. His lungs burned. Why won’t they stop? Why does no one move?

Mary’s Cry

Mary was among the witnesses. She pressed her hands against the glass, nails biting into her skin. When she saw him thrash, when she heard the muffled sounds of his choking, she cried out with a voice that tore through the chamber: “My son! My son!” The guards averted their eyes, pretending her grief was noise, but it would not be silenced.

The Last Prayer

Inside the mask, his thoughts became fragmented, urgent, jagged: I’m on fire. My chest is on fire. Father, don’t leave me. Why am I alone? His muscles convulsed violently against the restraints. It hurts… it hurts too much… I am breaking… My spirit cannot bear it.

Mary pounded the glass. “Give him air! Please!” Her sobs shook her whole body, but the hiss grew only steadier. Please… end it… Father, take me… I can’t… I can’t…

His vision blurred. Through the mist of panic and suffocation, he caught a glimpse of her face. Tears streaked down her cheeks, her eyes wide with agony. He wanted to speak, to assure her that he was present, still there, still watching her pain. I am here. I am here. Do not despair. I am with you. But the mask silenced him. Only his eyes could reach out.

The nitrogen hissed on, relentless. His muscles spasmed. His throat clawed at emptiness. Let it end… let it end now… my body cannot contain this… I am on fire… I am being torn apart… Father, help me…

One final prayer tore through him: Into your hands, I commend my spirit. His chest rose in one last, desperate heave, a futile gasp for air that would never come. Then his body went still. His head slumped forward. His eyes froze open, staring into the indifferent light of the chamber.

Mary’s cry filled the silence that followed. She pressed her forehead to the glass and whispered through tears, “My son… my son.” Her grief was a mirror of the suffering that had been endured, powerless against the machinery of death.

The Aftermath

The mask continued to hiss, running long after his breath had ceased. When it was finally shut off, the straps were loosened. His body was carried away, motionless and final. Papers were signed. The mask was cleaned, sterilized, and returned to its hook, ready for the next life.

Outside, the crowd shifted uneasily. Some wiped their eyes, some nodded grimly, some slipped away silently, unable to bear the sight. One corrections officer, whispering what others feared to admit, said, “Surely this man was innocent. Surely this was the Son of God.”

The Silence of Empire

And it was finished. The creator of all air had been denied even a final gasp. The savior had been suffocated…not by chance…not by accident…but by the hands of empire…by the cold logic of control…the cold logic of vengeance. The final witness was silence, punctuated only by grief and the unceasing hiss of a world unwilling to confront its own cruelty.