By RTF Staff Writer Sarah Rupp

Sirens sound outside my house. I rise from my chair to look, but before I reach the window, a bullhorn squeals and I stop in my tracks. “This is the police,” says a gruff voice, “Come out of the house with your hands in the air and throw down any weapons.”

I frown, but turn to the front door and do as the man says. After all, I need to listen to the police officer, especially if I haven’t done anything wrong, right?

When I open the door, my heart flutters in my chest as I see about twenty guns pointing in my direction. “What’s this all about?” I step out onto the porch with my hands up, trying to figure out what was happening. Maybe they just have the wrong address.

Two officers grab me and lock my wrists in handcuffs. “Hey, ouch! Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” I ask again. The officer looks at me funny, like I should know what this is about, then recites my rights. My mind swirls like alphabet soup and I can’t put the letters together to make any sense.

After he finishes and asks me if I want to give up my rights, I say, “There must have been a mistake. I didn’t do anything illegal.”

“Tell it to the judge.” He says as he hauls me into the police car. “We’re taking you straight to court.” He slams the door and gets in the drivers seat in front of me.

Straight to court? I never heard of such a thing! “Who’s my attorney? Can’t I make some calls?” I shout though the net separating me from the officer. “You don’t even know if I’m guilty!”

The officer concentrates on the street ahead, blatantly ignoring me. I must be dreaming. This could never happen in real life. Too bad I’m handcuffed and can’t pinch myself. That always works in cartoons.

Once at the courthouse, the officer shoves me though the door and walks me down a long hall, leading to a massive door. He heaves open the door and pushes me into a spacious room with tall ceilings. A judge sits high at her desk and many other people fill up the seats in the room. Then I see him. Seated beside the judge is familiar face. The one I wronged. But I can’t seem to remember his name, can’t place what I’ve done to him.

The judge slams her mallet on her table. “Here begins the trial for the murder of Jesus Christ, son of God.”

My throat burns as it all floods back to me. His bloody death on the cross. And I just stood there. He was dying because of me. All of my lies nailed him to that piece of wood. A groan courses inside me. I did kill him.

“We hereby suspect you –” I startle as she juts her short, red-manicured finger at me. “– as the killer.”

To be continued tomorrow…

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Sarah Rupp is a freelance writer who loves God, reading, fashion, and music, as well as writing of course! You can find her over at her blog, Sarah’s Words of Witsdom, or her fashion and beauty blog, Mod Style Lounge. She enjoys connecting with readers and other writers though comments.