The Malvada Household

               Crime, it happens everywhere. Some are far worse than others. Fear struck into the hearts of many families from all around the world. I remember the time I once had fear struck into mine, my near death experience. The group my friends and I came across, a cult if you will. Believers in God, but in the worst ways possible. We have satanists, and then Christians. Of course there are many other religions, but these are the ones I know about the most. Or at least I think I do. Sometimes you run into the hard core Christians that find nothing else better to do with their lives other than to push their religion upon others. Telling people that the only way is God, or prepare to burn in the dark depths of hell. Why? For what? Why do they feel as if they must push and push until someone snaps. People lose their minds in situations such as that. Some feel so pressured to pick a religion, only one. One that you must live with the rest of your life. You walk around in constant fear that if you make one wrong move your God will send you to burn forever. Stuff like that never truly made sense to me. If he loves you so much, why would he do that to his people? His children? And if he was all powerful, wouldn't we all be living in peace? Christianity is a trap, the constant dark hole in your mind. Many Christians, not all, but many, are very strict. "The way of God is the only way," I've heard many times. Too many to count. I hate it, I hate it when they say that. When they tell me where I should go, what to believe in. When they tell me that if I don't run into the hands of God then I will surely be rejected from the kingdom up above. I had enough. It's so tiring, yet, I remain silent. But I can't help but think that there must be another place, another place for the good people. A place where people who were good in life still get to go, despite not believing in God. I have never been a believer in God, the church itself ruined that for me. They make him sound so evil, and maybe he is. Everyone would tell me things that pushed me away from him. The pushy old ladies that sit in the front row, singing gospel with the others around them. The church I used to attend was full of judgmental people. Just walking into the church with shorts and a shirt on would get heads to turn. Saying that the shorts showed too much, the straps on your shoulders just showed too much skin. "You're just asking for it," they'd say. And anything you did was unpleasant to them, never enough. Feeling the eyes of judgment tearing into your skin as if it were a burning blade that sliced into your back. You can't help but just sit there and take it. Church was never a safe place for me, never a place I felt welcomed. It felt more like a constant battle for one God's approval. Always fearing that you are never enough, never going to be enough. A least, that's what it felt like. When the ladies from the front row look back at you and whisper in each other's ear. They would say awful things about you. They always make it so obvious. Oh, the things they would say about me. That I was a witch, Satan's spawn. Just because of what I wore, how I spoke. Hell, standing up for myself in tough situations even made me a bad person. "Treat others how you want to be treated, even if they don't treat you well," they say. My parents would always pressure me to accompany them to church. My mother would play the piano for them, for the singing choir, while my father helped with devotions. They began to force me to sit in the back of the church after a while. I was a disturbance to those who entered, an embarrassment. People feared for my future just because I wore the clothes that I wore, did the things I did, and went to parties every chance I got. Just being a teenager made me a sinner in my parents eyes. Eventually, however, my parents stopped taking me to church with them. The church did not allow it any longer, and for good reason I suppose. I had done something at church, something that made me snap. I wasn't having it any longer. I mean, it wasn't my fault. A girl my age walked over to me during devotions. Grace, she could fool anyone with her looks, deceiving looks. She always wore a dress, tights, long socks, and a fine pair of white shoes. She was her father's little angel, if not the church's angel on its own. She had blue eyes, and long, wavy brown hair. Her hair was always in beautiful waves, and evenly parted on the sides. She would occasionally have her hair in two braids that laid perfectly across her shoulders. The sisters, or rather, Nuns, that sat next to her in the front row would always say how her blue eyes held beautiful oceans, and skies that held the angels and other lovely beings within it, but I would always say differently. I'd always tell my parents that her eyes held raging storms full of deadly waves that destroyed boats and drowns people to death. The skies in her eyes held lightning that struck trees and destroyed buildings. But, of course, I was always punished for my "cruel" words. They were "unholy" and "untrue." My mother would send me to my room for hours without food, water, or even a bathroom break. I could only come out for dinner of course. The day Grace walked up to me was the day my life changed, at least my life in the church. For me, that was when life truly started. She approached with her deceiving smile, her head held high as usual. That day I wore a black dress and a necklace that held a cross, and a pair of black boots to match my outfit. My eyes were locked on the ground as if there was something interesting to see other than the red carpet. Though, at the time there was. I was looking at the shine of my new boots when the sight of glimmering white shoes stood before me. I glanced up to see Grace standing there, looking at me. "You have the nerve to be wearing the symbol of God around your neck, Witch?" She always had rude things to say to me. I just gave her a look, but she knew how much she set me off. In the end, the girl ended up with a bloody nose, on the floor, because she ripped the necklace from my neck, telling me that I wasn't worthy of holding the symbol of God. I've never liked church, I've never loved God, and no one will convince me otherwise.