Snap Studios.

I grew up sitting next to my brother in the church watching people be healed.

We nodded together in faith. As a preacher, preach no disease can face the power of our almighty God.

Good sickness is just another name for Satan.

Come out, Satan. I command you in the name of the Almighty God to vacate this

person, cancer! I cast you out in infirmity.

I saw people begging a preacher to please, please place his hands upon their forehead.

To please make the pain go away. They expected a miracle. A miracle. And later as a grown man, I stopped believing in miracles because instead I'm angry

for the time wasted in the company of charlatans with men who twist God and faith and healing into fancy cars and gold jury.

Liars telling lies.

I share this with my brother and he agrees we laugh at the foolishness of it, the stolen time.

Later he asked me if I have stolen from him.

The millions of dollars and jewels we had buried together under the sea.

I laugh again.

But this time, he does not laugh.

Later he grows angry.

Ask where I've hidden his secret daughter,

rages to know how I sneak messages into his food. He tells me he knows that I

edit his thoughts and promises revenge from my treachery, he calls me, preacher.

At first, I don't know the name of this melody, devouring him.

I beg him to remember I am your brother. I have nothing but love for you.

He screams back in rage thief.

...