BEGONE

CHAPTER II

God didn't banish all evil because He loved us.

No, He left it lurking in the shadows, serving as a sobering reminder of how frail humanity is. We are created in the furnace of pain, and the crucible of misfortune tempers our spirits. What about love, one would wonder? What about the alleged heavenly grace that provides comfort during our darkest moments? I have been asking myself this question for as long as I can remember. Maybe the human spirit's tenacity proves God's love rather than the lack of suffering. Love is what keeps us going during the darkest hours, a glimmer of hope in the midst of utter darkness.

Not me, though. I am at the edge of hopelessness, peering into the chasm with hopeless eyes. 

I've looked for comfort in the deep recesses of my thoughts, hoping that a glimpse of heavenly grace may dispel the shadow of uncertainty around my existence. But all I've discovered is emptiness—a gaping vacuum where love ought to be. I don't hold grudges against those who haven't been nice to me, nor do I blame God for the pain I've experienced. No, all that's heavy on my heart is the weight of loneliness and the realization that I am utterly alone in this world.

The garden was once lovely, now it seems like a perverted parody of paradise, and the devil lived long before Eve. I see him approaching, the snake with his poisonous promises and enticing murmurs. I know I should run, escape his hold before he traps me again. But I'm stuck there, glued to the spot as he waves a finger, a loaded gun, a quiet threat hanging in the air, pointing towards the forbidden fruit tree.

With a terrible hiss, he sinks his fangs into my skin and strikes. He leaves a scarlet mark on my skin, and I can feel the agony burning and piercing. I feel ashamed and humiliated of myself for allowing him to creep back into my life.

Now when we're both fleeing in this twisting garden, the only sound in the air is my desperation-filled screams resonating against my prison's walls, not laughter. With a demonic grace, he slithers through the vegetation while I tremble in the shadows, fearing the lurking monster.

I am Eve, and he is the devil that I hate. His touch ignites my skin with a pain that pierces deeper than any physical wound, leaving a path of fire in its wake. His malice has branded me, designating me as a conduit for his perverted impulses.

But no matter how much I curse at his name, I am powerless against the oppressive humiliation that closes in on my heart. Regardless of how much I cleanse my skin, his contact leaves an enduring stain that is ingrained in the very fabric of who I am.

I have attempted to wash away the guilt and the dirt that sticks to me like a festering wound for weeks, months, years, and decades. However, no amount of soap or water will erase the past's sins or purge the evil that resides within.