And, lashes rained, my arms crossed in front of my face, which I used to protect my head. What may you ask had bought this wretched retribution upon me? I dared, as a six-year-old child ask the Franciscan nun, "if God was so good, why would he do something so terrible as sending people to hell?". Her response was to unleash her rage, and so the lashes of the whip ripped, sluicing through the air: it screamed, preempting the pain about to lacerate the skin "one does not question the word of God". And, I should add, especially from someone as inferior as you. I guess as the Romans whipped Christ on his journey to the cross.

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