No one knows when it started, an infectious disease began to spread around the world.
Soon, it reached your peaceful small town.
Out of concern, your family decide to go to the local church and pray.
Where the congregation packed in by the thousands. Among the sea of prayers, you couldn’t help but notice a man coughing, a small tremor of unease tickling the back of your thoughts.
Days later
You fell ill
Your family, undeterred by the signs of disease, reassured you with the most baffling of comforts. “No need to worry,” they said, with the serenity of the utterly convinced.
“We are righteous, and righteousness, as we all know, is an infallible shield.”
Feeling wretched, you, rather sensibly, suggested a visit to the doctor. This proposal, however, sparked a thunderous outburst from the head of the house.
“Doctors?” he roared. “Those quacks do nothing but fill our heads with lies!” And with that declaration, he offered you a cup of bleach. “The neighbor read an article that this will fix you up in no time.”
You refused, firmly believing that such a thing could not possibly have any healing properties.
Your mother anxiously leaned close and pleaded with you, “Just drink it, drink it, and you’ll get better. I haven’t slept in three days for your sake.”
Your grandmother chimed in, “Question your father, will you? You’ll bring down the wrath of heaven! Drink it, or by God, you’ll be struck down where you stand!
The neighbor also added his weight to the argument, “Look at this family, worrying themselves sick over you, and you refuse their goodwills? A bit of suffering builds character! This is part of life’s trials! Come, we’ll help you if you’re too weak.
And so, a group of crazed souls pinned your already weak body down Their hands held you fast, crushing your limbs with alarming zeal as they forced that wretched, noxious brew down your throat. You gagged and choked, but they took your struggles for rebellion, their grip tightening as though they meant to snap your bones in two
When it was over—if one can call such an ordeal ‘over’—you lay limp, utterly spent. The “medicine,”(let’s call it that) as they so charitably named it, had ravaged you. You were certain that if the illness didn’t claim you, your shattered ribs would do the job soon enough.
Your father breathed a sigh of relief, your mother cried tears of joy, and your grandmother clasped her hands in prayer
The good neighbor, however, was more practical. He accepted the dollars your father offered with remarkable speed, promising to fetch more bleach. “No trouble at all,” he said with a grin. “Happy to help. Good fellows shall look out for each other after all.”
To everyone’s astonishment but your own, the “medicine” had no effect—at least, not the kind they were hoping for. Instead of healing, you were overtaken by violent bouts of vomiting.
Your mother cried in despair,
Your grandmother continued praying,
The neighbor stood by, excited for the upcoming episode.
Your father, seeing this, said, “It’s fine, this means the medicine is working. A few more doses will do the trick.”
At this point, you were too weak to protest, too broken to resist. You drank again, obedient to the madness, and your mother, though still in tears, smiled through her anguish. “There’s my good child,” she whispered.
But the sickness only grew worse.
Soon, the house became a battlefield of blame. Your mother turned on your father with a fury only despair could muster. “Whatever it takes, you must cure my child!”
Your father, equally enraged, shot back, “What would you have me do? It’s not my fault he’s sick!”
Your grandmother as always chime in at the best moment, “It’s all because the child was disrespectful and angered the gods. Child, repent quickly, and perhaps the gods will show mercy and spare your life.”
The three of them argued, oblivious to the fact that you were at death’s door, in dire need of real medicine. The neighbor? He remained by the sidelines, ever hopeful, ever watchful, as if witnessing the climax of some great drama.
You see my friend, the cruelest evils in this world do not arrive in the form of snarling beasts or shadowy villains. No, they come cloaked in the most beautiful disguises—love, virtue, charity, and self-sacrifice. They use ignorance as their compass, brute force as their means, and the bonds of family as chains. They speak of duty and obligation, all while pushing you to the brink of destruction.
The tragedy is, many kind souls cannot see it for what it is. They fall in line, believing they act in the name of good. And so, they throw themselves into the storm, convinced their part in the madness is righteous, applauding themselves for their so-called service. It never matters how much damage is done—so long as they feel noble in the act.
This kind of evil grows unchecked, nourished by the very people it deceives. It spreads like wildfire, consuming everything in its path, unstoppable, until there is nothing left.
But fear not, for if the worst should come to pass, we will always find someone to bear the blame.
After all, in a world so full of righteous hands, it’s never the fault of those who hold the matches, but the ones who burn.