Now I Believe in Hell: The Gospel According to What You Did
I did not believe in Hell
until you proved it could be built
with bare hands.
Not in myth,
but in memory.
Not with sulphur,
but with rooms full of screaming
and no exit but silence.
You did not witness destruction—
you authored it.
You held the pen
and called it providence.
You did not let the house burn.
You struck the match,
watched the curtains catch,
and poured gasoline on the cradle.
They told stories
in tight voices and broken timelines—
not of oversight,
but of orchestration.
Not of what you allowed,
but what you commanded.
You entered every room
already loaded.
You aimed.
You fired.
You smiled.
Hell is not beneath us.
It is behind us.
It is what we crawled from—
bloody-kneed, half-formed—
while you set more traps
and called yourself
a teacher.
I do not carry confusion.
Only consequence.
Only the aftershock
of your deliberate theology of harm.
Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it?
A gospel.
A dark liturgy.
You preached violence like it was inheritance.
You broke things and called it order.
You gutted softness
and offered the bones as lessons.
And still,
you wear your grin
like absolution—
like history forgot how to testify.
But I remember.
I remember the sermon of your cruelty.
I remember the hymns of screaming behind closed doors.
I remember the prayers I whispered
to no one
because no God I knew
could compete
with your omnipresent cruelty.
You made me believe in damnation.
You made me believe in a Hell
crafted by human hands
and passed off as parenting.
You did not fall.
You descended.
Willingly.
In vestments of control,
in psalms of manipulation,
in the gospel
according to what you did.
And I?
I live in the scripture you left behind.
This is not healing.
This is documentation.
This is testament.
This is the holy record
of a man who played God
in a house built on fear.
So when they ask
why I believe in Hell now,
I show them this:
these words,
these wounds,
this gospel carved from grief.
I say:
Because he made it.
He lived in it.
And he called it home.
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