He pressed his forehead against the stone and screamed.
His voice tore across the hills, echoing through tombs where only the dead should live. His nails scraped the rock until they bled. Blood meant nothing. Pain meant nothing now. The voices inside drew sharper lines than any blade in his hand.
“Leave me!” he roared into the silence.
No one answered. The villagers no longer came. Mothers shielded their children’s eyes. Men carried clubs no longer — not since the last ones fled, faces torn, eyes ruined. Chains rusted in the dirt where he had burst them apart. He was alone now, as he always ended, even when other voices filled his mouth.
But today — ships. Down the slope, boats skirted the shoreline. He saw them.
Something deeper than fury stirred.
He stumbled down the rocks on bare feet, slipping often, rising every time. The voices hissed — run, flee, hide — but something heavier pulled him forward. Toward that boat. Toward that man.
The moment his knees buckled in the dust before him, the silence cracked.
“What have you to do with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God?” His own voice, but not his own. “I beg you — do not torment me!”
The man looked at him. Just looked.
Not with fear.
Not with hate.
He raised no hand, no stone. He asked no questions. He said only, “Come out of him.”
His body folded forward. A howl tore free, not from his throat but through his chest, as if something inside him was dying, or birthing, or both. He clawed the earth, gasping. The heat behind his eyes snapped and broke like ropes yanked from flesh. Sweat ran down his back in rivulets. Again, the voices begged through him — pleading, bargaining — but the man stood firm.
And then — release.
Like a broken fever. Like waking from a nightmare into breath.
He lay still.
Sand clung to his skin, and his chest rose and fell like it belonged to him again. His hand gripped no stone. He was aware of his own skin, the sun on his shoulders, the quiet.
When he opened his eyes, he wasn’t alone.
The man had not left.
He was seated near him, watching him as one watches a wounded dog uncertain if it can trust again.
“Your name,” Jesus said gently.
The man blinked. His lips cracked with salt and wordlessness.
“No one has asked me that in years,” he rasped. “I don't know.”
Jesus smiled, as though he did.
Later, the pigs drowned. The villagers returned. They found him clothed and calm, sitting where he had once shattered himself. Their faces twisted not with rejoicing — but with fear.
They looked at Jesus and trembled.
When they begged him to leave, the man stood.
“Take me with you,” he whispered. “Please.”
Jesus shook His head.
“Go home,” He said. “Tell them what the Lord has done for you.”
The man stared at the boat, the shore, the only quiet he had known in years. Then he looked back at the hills.
He hadn’t walked that path since the chains broke.
He turned, one hand brushing the cloak Jesus had given him — a single piece of fabric across scarred skin — and took a step toward the place that had once held him like a grave.
Toward life.
Toward his name.
He pressed his forehead against the stone and screamed.
His voice tore across the hills, echoing through tombs where only the dead should live. His nails scraped the rock until they bled. Blood meant nothing. Pain meant nothing now. The voices inside drew sharper lines than any blade in his hand.
“Leave me!” he roared into the silence.
No one answered. The villagers no longer came. Mothers shielded their children’s eyes. Men carried clubs no longer — not since the last ones fled, faces torn, eyes ruined. Chains rusted in the dirt where he had burst them apart. He was alone now, as he always ended, even when other voices filled his mouth.
But today — ships. Down the slope, boats skirted the shoreline. He saw them.
Something deeper than fury stirred.
He stumbled down the rocks on bare feet, slipping often, rising every time. The voices hissed — run, flee, hide — but something heavier pulled him forward. Toward that boat. Toward that man.
The moment his knees buckled in the dust before him, the silence cracked.
“What have you to do with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God?” His own voice, but not his own. “I beg you — do not torment me!”
The man looked at him. Just looked.
Not with fear.
Not with hate.
He raised no hand, no stone. He asked no questions. He said only, “Come out of him.”
His body folded forward. A howl tore free, not from his throat but through his chest, as if something inside him was dying, or birthing, or both. He clawed the earth, gasping. The heat behind his eyes snapped and broke like ropes yanked from flesh. Sweat ran down his back in rivulets. Again, the voices begged through him — pleading, bargaining — but the man stood firm.
And then — release.
Like a broken fever. Like waking from a nightmare into breath.
He lay still.
Sand clung to his skin, and his chest rose and fell like it belonged to him again. His hand gripped no stone. He was aware of his own skin, the sun on his shoulders, the quiet.
When he opened his eyes, he wasn’t alone.
The man had not left.
He was seated near him, watching him as one watches a wounded dog uncertain if it can trust again.
“Your name,” Jesus said gently.
The man blinked. His lips cracked with salt and wordlessness.
“No one has asked me that in years,” he rasped. “I don't know.”
Jesus smiled, as though he did.
Later, the pigs drowned. The villagers returned. They found him clothed and calm, sitting where he had once shattered himself. Their faces twisted not with rejoicing — but with fear.
They looked at Jesus and trembled.
When they begged him to leave, the man stood.
“Take me with you,” he whispered. “Please.”
Jesus shook His head.
“Go home,” He said. “Tell them what the Lord has done for you.”
The man stared at the boat, the shore, the only quiet he had known in years. Then he looked back at the hills.
He hadn’t walked that path since the chains broke.
He turned, one hand brushing the cloak Jesus had given him — a single piece of fabric across scarred skin — and took a step toward the place that had once held him like a grave.
Toward life.
Toward his name.
