It angered her the way he said these things, as though Mary herself had never considered just getting over it all, as though she'd never just thought to cheer up and deal with it all. For once, Mary wished Judas was there. Not for comfort, but so that she could pummel him again. Huitzilopochtli had no idea of the anger she was holding back as the day approached.
"I haven't treated you like you're poison," Mary snapped, but there was a hiss in her voice that bordered on cruel and even she could hear it. She'd lost Jesus forever. She couldn't lose Huitzilopochtli on top of that. Not again.
She pressed her eyes closed, shoving the palms of her hands against her eyelids until colours flashed there in the darkness. The bottle swung uneasily between her fingers. "I'm sorry- I just- I can't- There's so many voices in my head and I don't want to hear their prayers, not now, not when all I can remember is how torn apart his body was, how his blood was all over me, how that crowd laughed and jeered and he cried and-"
She shook her head and dropped her hands, taking a long swig from the bottle. "I can't do it," she insisted a little frantically to Huitzilopochtli, shaking her head violently. "I can't- I can't be here in this damned world and feel like this every year and I can't make it stop, and this fucking ache-" she jammed her fist somewhere against her solar plexus where that pain seemed to reside. "It never gets better."