The Portrait of Jesus on the Wall

by John Marck Sanico

I've always been stuck in the same place. Sometimes, on a long and old mahogany altar but it's quite rare. Most of the time, I've been displayed on a small varnished high chair covered with embroidered textile. I can say that I'm old. Five generations of the same clan have passed before me together with the other antique ivory statues that have been forgotten by time. People recite prayers to honor me. Sometimes, they put flowers and light a candle beside me. I am always dressed with a fancy and detailed linen cloth. They even make sure to clean me two or three times a week. I've been treated like a very important and valuable thing. People worship me for I don't know the reason why. Now, I was sent as a gift to another family. It also means that I will be displayed on another altar. Hoping that other saints and virgins are also residing in that place. In that way, I could share the boredom and lucidity that I always felt. Gradual beams of light swallowed the darkness as they slowly opened the box. The box kept me safe during the unsteady journey. I knew that I was sent far. Far from the previous house. Too far from the previous altar. A man with glasses recovered my delicate ivory body from the box. He held me tight like an infant. I can barely feel the rush of air coming from his nostrils. He embraced me closer to his chest. The wild beating of his heart made me conclude that he was excited. The man with the glasses placed my fragile form on a special altar. I thought it was a special altar because it was located in the center part of the room. There was also another altar in every corner. Each altar has its religious statue. Yet, something was odd about these statues. They were different from the fellow statues that I met before. On the first altar was a grieving woman with some sort of halo above her head. Adjacent to her altar was an angel pointing his sword towards my location. The other altar was a man holding a staff with a halo on his head and chest. On the last altar was a man crucified on a cross. I was very anxious. This place was far different from the usual places that I stayed in. I could feel that my crooked vessel was heating up. The atmosphere inside that torture room makes me melt.

I thought that was the pinnacle of my sufferings. However, something unexpected and more painful is yet to come. The man with the glasses once again entered the room. Three padlocks were unlocked. It seems that the man makes sure that no one can enter and exit from the room. A piece of cloth with some odd writings was also pasted on the front side of the door. The man was carrying a big portrait. He placed the picture on the wall facing opposite from my location. Aside from the intimidating and unfamiliar statues that surround my altar, a big picture of a bearded man with a thorny crown watches me. The portrait has a label written on the lower frame, "Jesus". I wondered what the label stands for but one thing is sure, this is pain. Every time I meet the eyes of the man in the picture, I could feel that I am being choked. My vessel was being shaken. I could sense that scratches in my body multiplied. There's a pain in every meeting of our eyes. The dilemma became worse and worse. The man with the glasses placed the portrait nearer to my altar. There is no chance that I can refrain my eyes from looking at him. I tried to keep my eyes shut but it's too hard. Given the fact that I'm a statue, my movements were locked beyond my imagination. "Is this my end?", I asked myself.

I've been stuck in this place for years. My stay here was a lifetime of torture. My vessel is reaching its end. Fragments of my fragile body break down. My clothes are all torn up. My prized horns are now breaking. This is the only time that I feel fear. I've been shut from the reach of my loyal devotees. I'm slowly losing my grasp. This is a prison. While my consciousness is slowly fading, pictures in my mind flashed. I was thrown back to my previous life before I came here. I can see the faces of my devotees. I can hear their prayers. The smell of the flowers diffuses in the air. Before I'm about to surrender, I remember the time when the man with glasses pulled me from the box. I realized that, from the start, I was wrong. He held me very tight because he was afraid of me. The wild beating of his heart was not caused by excitement but by fear. He locked me up in a room not to be worshipped but to be tortured. He was a man used by that person in the portrait.

The portrait of Jesus on the wall.