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‘Know no shame at your hungers, Gabriel. Like all in heaven above and earth below, they are the will of God.’ Jean-François drew a bottle of ink from his coat pocket, unstopped its cork. ‘And made as you are in his image, your sickness is but a shadow of his own, mon ami. For there are none of us so bloodthirsty as the sovereign of heaven himself.’
I wonder what it would be like to be able to ignore the hypocrisy. The cruelty. To content myself with the thought that no matter how dark it gets, how senseless it seems, the Almighty has some kind of plan.” I shook my head and sighed. “I envy you, old man. I truly do. To be able to look at the living corpses of slaughtered children and declare It’s his will. To roam endless fields of shallow graves and say He loves us still. To stare into the face of brutality, unchecked, unavenged, and to excuse it all with a wave of my hand and the answer for every hard question I ever asked a holy man:
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then I remember I’m not an infant. Hiding under a soft blanket for fear of the dark. Only a coward raises a fist to his child and calls it love. I name no one my Father who never loved me as a son. And I would scorn to lie meek upon the block and smile up at he who lifts the axe
