Barabbas

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A long, sultry Syrian day was nearing its end, with oppressive heat and a noxious stench permeating the Jewish prison, suffocating the air. In the lowest dungeons, darkness prevailed, except for one cell where a thin line of light pierced the gloom, irritating the solitary prisoner within. This flicker of light, a reflection of the outside Eastern sky, became a source of torment for him. He turned away from its harsh brightness, cursing and groaning in frustration. Bound by chains, he pressed his face into his hands, gnawing his lips until they bled, consumed by restless fury. The light was a constant reminder of time passing—its presence signified day, its absence marked night—while he remained unaware of the minutes or hours slipping by. His life had devolved into a prolonged state of dull suffering, punctuated by fits of maniacal rage that provided only fleeting relief, leaving him more stupefied than before. The relentless beam of light, sharp and blinding, was his only awareness, piercing through the oppressive darkness that enveloped him.