Chapter 4 Why She Hates God

Later that night, May sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the glowing city lights outside her window.

She hadn't cried in months.

Not because the pain had healed-but because crying felt useless now. Like watering a flower that was already dead. She wasn't sure if God listened anymore. Or if He ever did.

What kind of God lets wolves dress like shepherds?

What kind of God watches in silence when a sixteen-year-old girl is crushed in the hands of someone she trusted?

May clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms.

She had stopped asking those kinds of questions. Not because she got answers-but because silence became louder than any response could ever be.

Now, she just existed.

Survived.

***

She flopped backward onto her bed without bothering to pull the sheets over herself. The air was warm, yet she felt cold. Like her soul had been standing in rain for years.

She turned her face toward the ceiling and whispered into the dark, "I used to love You."

Her own voice startled her. It didn't even sound like her anymore. That sentence felt like something she'd buried a long time ago-something she never meant to dig up.

There was a time when falling to her knees in prayer was second nature. When she would whisper to God like He was sitting right next to her.

Now she couldn't even close her eyes.

She had bowed her head once-trusted once-believed once.

And it nearly destroyed her.

***

She was sixteen when it happened.

The memory burned behind her eyelids.

The pastor's office. The wooden chair with the cushion that squeaked. The air that smelled like books, aftershave, and old sermons. She remembered his voice-calm, fatherly. Just like on Sundays when he preached about grace and purity.

But this time, the door was closed. And the look in his eyes wasn't godly.

She had gone to him for advice.

She walked out bleeding on the inside.

And the worst part?

He said it was God's way of shaping her for a greater calling.

She hadn't screamed then.

But she screamed every night after.

***

She remembered stumbling home, her hands shaking, her heart hammering in her chest like it was trying to break free. She'd locked herself in her room, opened her Bible with trembling fingers, and landed in Psalms.

"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit."

She stared at the verse until her eyes blurred.

"Close?" she whispered. "Then where were You?"

Then she slammed the Bible shut.

That was the last time she opened it.

***

Anger didn't arrive like thunder.

It crept in like fog, slow and steady, until it covered every part of her.

She stopped going to church. Stopped praying. Stopped pretending.

She cut her hair. Took a job her mother would have fainted over. Learned to numb her mind with drinks and drown her heart in meaningless bodies. Men who didn't ask questions. Nights that ended without memory.

If God didn't care, why should she?

Some people drown in sorrow.

May walked straight into it and let it swallow her whole.

***

People asked her why she rolled her eyes when someone said "God is good." Why she changed the subject when anyone mentioned church. Why her smile vanished whenever she saw a Bible.

She never gave the full story.

Because it wasn't just about what happened.

It was about the silence.

The silence from the pulpit, where no one dared question their own.

The silence from her parents, who never noticed the change in her eyes.

The silence from Gray-sweet, loving Gray-who meant well but never asked why she really stopped going to church.

And the silence from Heaven.

When she screamed into her pillow night after night and all she got in return was... nothing.

***

She walked to her tiny kitchen and opened the fridge. Half a burger, two cans of soda, and an apple that had seen better days. She closed it again.

No appetite.

Just thoughts. Loud, unwelcome, choking thoughts.

Her phone buzzed on the counter.

Gray: Dinner Sunday? Cassandra's making rice and stew.

She sighed. He never missed a week.

She typed back: No preaching. I mean it.

Gray: No preaching. Just rice and love.

She smirked in spite of herself.

She hadn't told him how much she appreciated his consistency. His way of showing up without barging in.

Deep down, she missed that feeling.

The safety of home.

The warmth of belonging.

But every time she tried to go near it again, the wall of her past stood tall-like a locked gate wrapped in thorns.

***

May walked over to the window, rested her forehead against the cool glass, and stared out at the twinkling lights.

So many people.

So many stories.

Everyone carrying wounds they never speak of.

She used to love mornings. Loved waking up early to watch the sun creep through her curtains like a gentle promise.

Now, mornings were just reminders that she had to live through another day she didn't ask for.

***

Some nights like this, her anger softened into confusion.

Maybe she was the broken one. Maybe there was something wrong with her. Maybe she misunderstood the whole thing.

But what kind of God needs a girl to be broken to prove a point?

And what kind of God lets evil sit in the front pew and call itself holy?

She didn't have answers.

But she was tired of pretending she didn't care.

***

She returned to her bed and sat slowly, like the years were weighing on her spine.

She picked up her phone again. Stared at Gray's message.

Maybe going wouldn't hurt.

Maybe being around Cassandra's soft eyes and Gray's gentle quietness wouldn't set her on fire.

Or maybe it would.

Either way, she had nothing to lose.

***

She whispered into the air, "If You're still up there... don't expect much from me."

The words were cracked. Worn out. Bitter and unsure.

Not a prayer.

Not quite surrender.

Just... something.

Something in the dark.

And maybe, just maybe, God heard even that.