“WHEN THE DEVIL REMINDS YOU OF YOUR SIN, YOU REMIND HIM OF CHRIST'S CRUCIFIXION AND RESURRECTION!”, Reverend Tom of New Haven Parish screamed, the modern microphone attached from his ear until over his lips amplified his voice across the large hall. Men, women and little children yelling from their pews with hopeful agreement.
Everyone seated here in comfort had their best smiles pasted on, even possessed the right energy for every activity; to dance, clap, shout, sing, pray—It was almost as if everything in their lives were in place—and lock hands in strangers' with love . . . Was it real? If Love were in true existence, could I be the only individual seated amongst this sea of happy people in lack?
Being in the House of God—like the red bricked housing was called—didn't allow the emotions I believed everyone felt when in His Presence. I heard of unsettling peace, indescribable joy and happiness, but here I sat; stiff, very lost and empty.
“Have faith, Bernice”, that voice belonged to the only way I understood Love. The only one who had noticed the little but unhealthy bursts of rage in me as a kid, had also been there to guide and tame my wild spirit. He was My Comforter. A Comforter in living flesh.
I lived well not only because he was mine but he was there. Always there for me. My lips twitched to form a smile whilst an old scene replayed in my head; rushing from my room to attack his knees with tight hugs—they were my favorite recliner—whenever he returned home but he would catch and heave me high into the air.
Oftentimes, while others picked a settee to watch an old favorite show on TV, I was snugly propped on his laps, resting my head to his chest while his big hands played with my hair.
Prayers had begun, three Hail Marys and the congregation bowed their heads, I promptly followed. Life wasn't unfair until 'God took his life'—they always said God took him.
Drying the last streak of tears off, I let out a cheerless laughter, it was still very hard to accept those were actual assertions of the public when the man who had co-conceived me had been murdered by people he had sacrificed a lot for. He had served the church in extreme selflessness. He paid his tithes, single-handedly sponsored the completion of the Church! Yet, they dare declare his death as 'meant to be'. HYPOCRITES, ALL OF THEM!
“YOUR SINS DOES NOT DEFINE GOD'S PROPOSITION!”, the clergyman announced, did the sign of the cross then left the altar in a slow pace. Raising the sacrament to the skies painted on the glasses above, a group of altar boys trailed behind, wild smoke from the incense burners they beared veiling their faces. The choir vocalized a tune and the brethrens arose to join. The mass would soon be concluded.
11.35AM, an antique clock hung far behind the auditorium struck. Once the service was over, I'd take a stab at life. Once the service was over, the C4 explosives planted in and around the church's environs would be detonated and perhaps, IF there be a survivor, my gospel; separating 'A Special Purpose of the Lord' from unjust deaths would be viral.
They all looked joyous. How could they live without guilt after ending the life of one of their own? Because they'd found out about his secret family? Because he had defiled me? All because there had been twelve strong rà pe accusations directed towards him?
HE WAS THEIR REVEREND, THOSE REASONS WERE UNJUSTIFIABLE, IT WAS NEVER ENOUGH TO BURN HIM ALIVE BEFORE HIS WIFE AND DAUGHTER!
11.45 AM, I stood, glared at every being seated at the hall, over a thousand—minus the women and children—were present. Good score, I whispered, leaving the church and its people to the approaching annihila– The scheduled ethic cleansing, rather.
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