My past live part 3.
After six long years of suffering—struggling with hunger, hardship, and endless difficulties—God finally answered our prayers. My parents, my siblings, and I were blessed with a new beginning. We were sent to a bigger church with more members, given a free house where we wouldn't have to pay rent, and provided with a much larger church building. For the first time in what felt like forever, my father was genuinely happy. My mother was relieved, and even though my younger siblings were too small to fully understand what was happening, I could feel the weight lifting off our shoulders.
We packed up everything we owned—which wasn't much—and moved to our new home. But when we arrived, we realized we weren't the only pastors living there. Three other pastors were already settled in: a senior pastor, an assistant pastor, and a pastor for the teenagers. My father was given the role of a children's pastor.
The moment I heard that, one word flashed in my mind: Bullshit.
After everything we had been through—the hunger, the sleepless nights, the constant struggle—my father, who had suffered so much, was now being placed in charge of children? It felt like an insult. I could see the disappointment on his face too. He didn't say it, but I knew he wasn't happy with the position.
But then I thought about it—this place was still a thousand times better than where we came from. We wouldn't go hungry anymore. The salary here was almost fifty times what he earned before. And best of all, we had a free house with a big yard. So, despite his pride, my father accepted the role—for his family and for himself.
When we first arrived, we looked like walking skeletons—thin, weak, and exhausted from years of hardship. But after just three months of eating well and living in a stable home, our bodies changed completely. We grew taller, filled out, and finally looked healthy. Hunger was no longer a constant fear.
But while hunger disappeared, the fighting between my parents did not.
Now that my father had money, my grandparents—who had barely paid attention to us before—suddenly started acting like they cared. It was like Squidward from SpongeBob finally accepting SpongeBob… but only because SpongeBob had become like he wanted.
Except in this case, my father hadn't become like them—he had just gained wealth.
Relatives from my mother's side, who had ignored us for years, suddenly began visiting, smiling, and acting like they had always been there for us. I expected my father to shut them out—to remember how they had treated us when we had nothing. But instead, he let them in… though he kept them at a distance.
But something else happened—something I didn't expect.
With money came change. My father didn't become arrogant or prideful, but he became… different. Unpredictable. He started spending money in ways that confused me. He paid for women's school fees, gave them money for reasons I couldn't understand, and even began building a house in his hometown—without telling my mother.
When my mother found out, she accused him of cheating. The arguments started again—louder, angrier than before. Then came the fights.
Kicks flew across the living room. Slaps echoed through the house. Then, the knives came out.
And the cutting began. "Jesus!" I screamed, my voice shaking as I watched the horror unfold before my eyes. My father had just swung a knife at my mother, but she dodged just in time—only a slight cut on her hand. My heart pounded like a drum as I stood frozen at the door.
Before I could even blink, my mother moved like a ninja, swift and deadly. In one sharp motion, she stabbed my father in the neck with her own knife. Blood dripped from both of them as they staggered back, weak and wounded. The fight was over as quickly as it had begun. They glared at each other, breathing heavily, before finally stepping away.
I couldn't move. My legs felt like stone. My siblings had heard the noise and were about to come out of their room, but I quickly stopped them. "Go back inside!" I ordered, my voice trembling. I couldn't let them see this. I couldn't let them carry this nightmare in their memories like I now would.
As soon as my parents separated, I rushed to my father. He was sitting outside on the balcony, his face pale, his hand pressed against his bleeding neck. Tears filled my eyes as I approached him. He looked up at me, his gaze dark and heavy.
"Don't say anything, boy," he muttered, his voice rough. I nodded, too afraid to speak.
He took a deep breath, wincing in pain. "Listen to me," he said, his voice low and serious. "Never marry a woman like your mother. If you do, your home will never know peace."
I nodded again, my throat tight with fear and sadness. Then, slowly, my father reached up and pulled the knife from his neck. His face twisted in pain, but he didn't make a sound. He stood up, blood staining his shirt, and walked away without another word. I didn't know where he was going. I didn't dare ask.
One terrible thought haunted me: One day, one of them will kill the other. Or maybe they'll both end up dead if they don't change.
Exhausted, I decided to go to sleep, hoping to escape this nightmare, even if just for a few hours. But then—
"Peter!" My mother's sharp voice cut through the silence.
"Mom!" I answered instantly, my body tense.
"Come to my room. Now!" she demanded.
"Yes, Mom, I'm coming!" I replied quickly.
I didn't waste a second. My mother was like an angry beast now—any delay, and she might turn her rage on me or anyone else in the house. I ran as fast as I could, like lightning, and appeared at her door in seconds.
She sat on the bed, her eyes red from crying. She waved me over, and I obeyed, sitting beside her. Her hands gripped my shoulders tightly as she stared into my eyes.
"Don't become like your father," she said, her voice trembling with anger and pain. "He's a failed husband. A nonsense man. We've suffered together for years, and now that God has finally blessed us with money, he acts like he did it all alone. He doesn't give us money for clothes or food—instead, he gives it away to strangers! Don't be like him. Do you hear me?!"
Her voice rose, sharp and furious.
"Yes, Mom," I whispered, my body still shaking from fear and shock.
She sighed, her anger fading into sadness. "Your father was the worst mistake of my life," she admitted, tears rolling down her cheeks. "My parents warned me. They told me people from his hometown were no good. But I didn't listen. I married him because of one stupid feeling… love."
Her pain was raw, pure—like Batman realizing he was the only one in the Justice League without powers. She cried as she spoke, her tears breaking my heart even more. My mother—beautiful, fair, elegant, with a figure that could destroy any man—was sitting there, broken.
I couldn't speak. I couldn't find the words. So I stood up quietly and left the room, closing the door behind me.
As I stepped into the hallway, I looked up at the ceiling, my soul screaming inside.
"God… why?" I whispered, my voice cracking. "Why can't my home be like every other home? Why must they always fight? Even now that we're rich… Damn it all!"
To be continued....