I have no doubt that they do.
I believe it was ignorance, after all, that was said to be bliss. Not clarity. Not Seeing. Not understanding. The lies hold a comfort that many a Proxy secretly desires. Some just break when they realize that our Father is not there to hug their troubles away. That He is not there to protect us. To watch over us. To love us.
When has there ever been a God so kind?
While it is true: He is not a God. Not... quite. But I hardly see the point in splitting hairs. He controls us each like puppets on strings. His Will Be Done. That's God enough for me. And it should be enough for each of you if you know what is good for you.
But I know: you don't want to admit it. Truth isn't a priority for you. For any of you. No. For all you care about is keeping up your images in the eyes of your fellow Runners. Fighters. Proxies. So, you talk like you own your own existence. You talk like you know what you're against. Like it doesn't terrify you.
You mock Him.
You come up with pathetic little nicknames for Him. Pretend like you don't see what the reality of your situation is.
It makes me... well beyond irritated. You're no better than a gaggle of schoolchildren. Comparing our Father to the villains of childhood fairy tales alongside the Wicked Witch and the Evil Step-Mother. All of you grabbing the ankle of your newest shining knights like an entire horde of damsels just waiting for someone to rescue you. Then you slowly come to realize that those knights are not going to change anything. That they are, in fact, just as blind and helpless as you are. That you are still alone. They will not help you, your friends or your family. They will help themselves, perhaps, because they're not waiting... but that in itself would only be temporary.
So then... some of you... blindly turn to our Father instead.
He embraces you.
Takes the pain away.
And then you are left confused when He doesn't tuck you into your hotel beds each night and leave a lipless kiss on your forehead.
You make me sick.
It takes a lot to wear on my nerves. I am a rather... easy-going soul, if it can be said I still have one. But this is something that I cannot tolerate. To think you are so special - so different - to be any more than a tool for His use... it's mind-numbing.
And the Highers sent me one.
An underling. A piece of filth that no more Sees than he does fly. An idiot. Incompetate in every way, shape and form... and this was supposed to AID me? Ridiculous. No wonder so many of us fail: The Highers themselves are delusional. Whoever thought this scum was suited for The Purpose deserves a few extra turns on the Rack. It didn't take long for his preaches of our Father's love and the glorious paradise that awaits us Children to get on my nerves.
Shriek has paid for their mistake. And lived up to his name rather well in so doing. I honestly think this scream/shriek thing is the only reason they sent him to me. Thought it would be funny. I certainly had a laugh as I watched my latest "recruit" walk up to the pathetic excuse of a Proxy. Oh, how he thrashed in his restraints. How he screamed. How he promised my demise for attacking one of our own...
"YOU'RE DEAD! YOU HEAR ME?! YOU'RE DEAD! FATHER WILL DESTROY YOU, YOU TRAITOROUS SACK OF PISS-SHIT!"
Father does not destroy those He wants as His Children.
He teaches them.
And now I'm "teaching" someone special in return. You see, I was bored. I get creative when I'm bored. So, I took control of a situation surrounding the latest Spook job
In one of the two sections in the basement, we have something of a living room. It is in this room I am now currently lounged in an armchair of. Across from me, I have the full pleasure of watching Shriek twitch and jerk from where he is lashed onto a chair. Eyes rolled backwards. Drooling. Blood splattered all across his face and shoulders... along with pieces of bone.
To my right, Logan and his mother are on the couch against the far well. Logan is rocking himself back and forth. Hands over his ears as he tries to block out the sounds he himself put into his head to never be forgotten for as long as he lives. I can watch his entire form shaking from where I'm seated across the room. The single parent has her arm wrapped around his shoulders. A helpless and useless attempt to comfort. Both are in tears.
Because it is not I who is covered in blood and bone splatter from taking a power drill to Shriek's skull.
No, that would be Logan's honor.
A sixteen year old boy turned Man of the House since his father split a few years back. He keeps average grades despite that and works after school at the local Wal-Mart to help his mother pay the bills. Suzanne herself works as a telemarketer, since the pay is that much better than other options. Even with the two jobs, however, it just doesn't seem to be measuring up judging by the "Last Notice" and "Final Warning" envelopes I saw in a pile on their counter upon my arrival.
A bird cage in one hand, I had allowed Shriek assist me in ushering the two into the basement. From there, I effectively took my so-called "minion" out of play by cracking his head against the edge of the door frame a few times. Blood came down the side of his face - making my ravens call excitedly, hungrily, from their cage - as I fastened him to a chair to keep him still, all the while chatting up my frozen-stiff guests. When I was satisfied with my work on Shriek, I focused in on Logan solely.
I gave the boy a choice. Either he drilled a feeding hole into my "partner"... or I shot his mother and let Kali and Loki tear into HER. Logan is a smart, loving boy. He gave Kali and Loki a very nice entrance to whatever brain matter Shriek had/has. When the boy was done, I let out my true friends and they tore into that fool of an underling in a frenzy. Shriek nearly had a seizure through it all.
Now... I think he is just about dead.
Logan has already thrown up once. From the looks of him, he'll be going for round two soon.
And poor Suzanne. So horrified. So devastated.
After all... she was the one who brought me here. She saw Him. Not Logan. Her. She was the one who was linked to the vlogs by a friend, which lead to the Community. A cluster of stories that no doubt made the cinders of her own writing career begin to smoke again.
And now, she has turned her precious boy into a murderer.
I think I'll be leaving these two alive when I leave. I rather like them.