by Matthew J. Andrews
Drunk at the bar, Pilate slams his glass on the table to broadcast his emptiness. The bartender responds with a wordless pour.
He drinks slowly, aimlessly, trying to ignore the background noise: the gossip traded in whispers at the tables, the hushed tears, the unrestrained gasps of the men gathered at the window, watching the stretched body rise and fall in labored breaths, the blood condensing and dripping like dew in the dirt. He drinks until the lines between things erode, until his static body suddenly lurches and rolls, until the glass slips from his uncommitted fingers, and shatters on the bar. He can only laugh, so very tired and so very drunk, as he gathers the shards in a pile, his hands a mixed drink of blood and wine, and then yells aloud as he raises them into the air for a toast: to truth!