Chapter 23: A Closing Talk With God

Kenchiro's Monologue: P. O. V

Matthew Chapter 5:5 states

"Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth."

But what does that even mean?

Is this the inheritance You promised?

A world torn to pieces—filled with silence where her voice used to be?

Is this what You left for me, God?

They say all you have to do is accept Jesus into your heart to be saved.

That even a murderer...

The person who took my mother from me—

Who looked her in the eye and still did what they did—

They say they can be forgiven?

All they have to do is whisper a prayer?

And boom their washed clean?

While I've spent every day since drowning in memories,

Cleaning up pieces of a life that can never be whole again.

Where's the justice in that?

Where's the mercy for me?

Where's the salvation for the child left behind, staring at blood on the wall and calling it a shadow just to sleep at night?

You say You're a God of love.

You say You're my Father.

So tell me, why do You keep hugging the monsters tighter than the ones they destroyed?

I want to believe in You.

I really do.

I want to close my eyes and feel peace instead of rage.

I want to pray without choking on the words.

So if they get to walk through your gates,

Then tell me, where does that leave me?

I used to believe.

God, I really did.

Not just because my mother told me to, not just because the Bible said so—

But because I thought if I gave Him my heart, He'd protect hers.

That if I prayed hard enough, loud enough, long enough...

She wouldn't have to cry herself to sleep at night.

She wouldn't have to choose between feeding me and paying tithes.

She gave everything to the church.

Even when we were broke.

Even when our lights were cut off.

She'd say, "Don't worry, baby. God will bless us. He sees our faith."

Well, I guess He did.

He saw her pain and sent a bullet instead of a blessing.

Forty six years of faith, and her reward was a body bag.

And you know what? The church didn't even pay for the funeral.

You want to know when I stopped believing?

When I realized the only people who got saved in church…

Were the ones wearing masks.

Behind those stained-glass windows were men full of judgment,

Full of lust, greed, pride—all the sins they preached against.

Pastors sleeping with choir girls.

Mothers gossiping in pews like they were sipping tea at the salon.

Kids like me, judged for how we dressed, for where we came from.

For asking questions that made them uncomfortable.

I saw men who beat their wives walk out of church with smiles.

I saw girls forced to hug the very men who hurt them because "God said forgive."

I watched my mother carry her pain like a cross,

While they laughed in suits she helped them buy.

That's not faith.

That's not holiness.

That's control wrapped in scripture.

That's guilt baptized in shame.

So yeah—I let go.

Not just of the church.

Not just of Christianity.

But of God Himself.

Because if that's who He is

If He watches the innocent suffer and the wicked prosper,

If He lets murderers repent but makes survivors bleed for years

Then He's not my God.

Not anymore.

I don't need a pew to find peace.

I don't need a preacher to validate my pain.

And I sure as hell don't need a Savior

Who couldn't even save my mother.

Am I wrong? I shouted out loud can you blame me God?

Tears welling up in the corners of my eyes. No response as usual. I stood up from the alter and did an about face. I placed the Bible back on the pew bench and removed the bookmark and tore it to shreds. I walked out with my head high into the unknown world with a resolve of only revenge on my mind. Tomorrow started a new day of training with the unit and for the first time I didn't feel a sense of fear or worry.

Because once you've already died inside—

What's left to be afraid of?