Julian’s face flashes in my mind. The way he looked at me. The way he made me feel seen.
“No,” I manage through cracked lips.
The lights burn brighter. The speakers blare louder. Another video begins.
The endless cycle of videos pauses. Pastor Williams steps out, muttering about needing to prepare communion elements forthe cleansing ritual. Mother remains, pacing the concrete floor with erratic steps.
“Cleanse the demon, free the child,” she suddenly sings, her voice unnaturally high and melodic. “Cleanse the demon, free the child.” Her fingers trail along the wall as she circles me.
“Mother,” I whisper, “please stop this.”
She whirls around, face contorted with fury. “Don’t call me that! No son of mine would choose sin!” She screams.
Then, like a switch flipped, her expression softens. She kneels beside me, stroking my hair with gentle fingers. “My sweet boy,” she coos. “We’ll make you better. We’ll burn the evil away.”
I flinch at her touch, which makes her eyes harden again.
“It’s squirming inside you,” she hisses, digging her nails into my scalp. “I can feel it moving under your skin!”
Mother stands abruptly, grabbing the empty water pitcher. “The demon needs to be drowned,” she declares, her voice once again singsong. “Water cleanses all sins.”
She slams the plastic pitcher against the edge of the cart until it shatters, sending jagged shards flying. Her eyes gleam with frightening purpose.
“We’ll let the demon bleed out,” she whispers, lunging toward me with the makeshift weapon aimed at my throat.
Heavy footsteps thunder down the stairs as Pastor Williams bursts in, grabbing her wrist. “Margaret! This isn’t God’s way!”
“Let me go!” she shrieks, struggling against him. “The demon speaks with my son’s voice! It must be destroyed!”
As they struggle, I see her eyes—vacant, unfocused, pupils dilated to pinpoints. This isn’t hatred. This is something far worse, far deeper than religious conviction.
My mother is truly insane.
Pastor Williams wrestles the shard from her grasp, his expression showing shock at her violence. “Sister Chambers, compose yourself!”
The truth crashes over me with terrible clarity. She didn’t burn my gallery out of righteous anger—she did it because she’s dangerously unstable.
Pastor Williams eventually calms Mother, leading her to a corner where they whisper urgently. I catch fragments about “not being ready” and “escalating the treatment.” My parched throat burns, my head pounds from dehydration, and my wrists are raw beneath the ropes.
After what feels like hours, Pastor Williams approaches with a paper cup.
“Drink,” he commands. “We can’t have you meeting your Savior in a weakened state.”
The lukewarm water barely touches my thirst. Mother watches from a distance, her eyes vacant yet somehow calculating.
“A short rest,” Pastor Williams announces, “then we begin the cleansing ceremony.”
They leave me alone briefly. I try to flex my fingers, fighting the numbness spreading through my limbs. The silence is almost worse than their voices—it gives my mind space to imagine what comes next.
When they return, Pastor Williams wears a white stole over his shirt. Mother follows with a small bottle of oil. Their faces are set with grim determination.
“The demon of homosexuality has a strong hold,” Pastor Williams intones, dabbing oil on my forehead. “But God’s power is stronger!”
He places his hands on my head, shouting prayers while Mother circles us, mumbling her own incantations. The pressure of his fingers increases until pain shoots through my skull.
“I cast you out, unclean spirit!” he bellows. “Release this child of God!”
Mother joins in, pressing her hands against my chest. “Burn away the sin! Cleanse him!”
