I have come to the conclusion that God hates us.

This weekend I was told to go to a scene where an elderly woman was tortured for hours. The assailants drilled through her feet with an electric drill, they slit her wrists, broke some of her ribs, stabbed her in various places and also broke a knee.

Crazy to think the woman is still alive.

It was about an hours drive to the scene. We are in such a remote part of Johannesburg that I am pretty sure if you had to scream for help then the vastness would swallow the sound.

I have learnt to put on a mask. This mask is like a new personality that is slipped on. Nothing gets through and nothing comes out.

As I was playing a game in my head about what I’m going to see on this farm, I found myself looking out the window. The long green Grass was flawless as it was swaying in the wind. It was as if there was a ritualistic dance being done in the vastness of the plains. The wind being the song of the dance.

As I got lost in the movements of the grass I saw someone who I didn’t plan on seeing.

Last year, round about this time. I was sent out to do another Story in the same area. A family of four was massacred on their property. It was the massacre that made me believe that God isn’t on our side.

The scene was one out of a horror movie. The one bedroom little box they were staying in was covered in blood, it Looked like Jackson Pollack was using this room as a canvas.

I saw the little girl who was killed. She went to go hide in the garage behind a wall of cement bags. She was suffocated. The wire used was still there when I arrived. There were still tiny pieces of her flesh on it. But it was this little girl I saw in the grass, this little girl who was standing between the light green shades, her white little dress and her sandy brown hair swaying the same way as the grass around her. What felt like hours was actually just a few seconds. She was waving at me.I didn’t believe what I was seeing. She was looking straight at me as if she can see right through me I could feel the hairs on my neck and arms stand up. When I checked again she vanished.

There was no trace of her.

Do I believe in the supernatural? No. Is there an explanation for this? No. Am I going crazy? Most probably.

For the duration of the trip I was pretty confused. I felt like I was just functioning on autopilot.

When we finally arrived at the house the first thing I noticed was the dead dog. The assailants shot the dog and it was just laying there. It was covered in flies and its mouth was stopped up with mud. It looked like it was just finished by a taxidermist.

I remember looking in its black pools for eyes. There was no life inside of them. It looked like tar and had a certain shade of grey showing that it’s dead. The poor dog is already undergoing rigor mortis.

I was taken to the room where the woman was tortured. There was dried blood everywhere. Even the drill they used to drill into her feet was still there.

I have become so accustomed to seeing such things that the only thing that matters to me is that the story must be done. I have a job and it must be completed. There is no humanity in what I do. There is only fake empathy in order to get people to give you the best quotes for the story.

You might think it’s heartless and you will probably be right but a job needs to be done.

I have a story to tell.