IV of Pentacles

God never saved anyone. He was a liar and a fraud and only in it for the money. My brother died a rotting death; his skin turned green and yellow and black in the end. God never helped him. Jesus didn’t float down and bless him with release. He lay for five days, a lifetime of pain thrust into every screaming second.
If I could have killed him then, I would. He wasn’t human when they found him, just living waste.
He’d been cynical about the war, about soldiering, about bloody everything, the last time I met him, before they sent him downriver. But there was nothing else he could think of doing, he said, given the situation.
And what was the situation in the end?