“They called it an exorcism. What do you call it?”
“I can’t decide which they were trying to beat out of me first. The Devil, or the black. Like bruised skin is going to turn white or something. Either way, my faith left first.”
“Were they successful? At removing the unclean spirits, I mean.”
“… Define unclean. They were successful at breaking my spirit, but even that was reversed later. … The only devil I had at that time was the one they convinced me to believe in.”
“… At that time?”
“If they saw me now, they would declare me lost to heaven and earth. With the kind of rhetoric going around now, I really would not put it past them to call and pray for my death so I don’t pull others away from the One True God. You know what’s funny? If they hadn’t beat the fuck out of me every Sunday and Wednesday, I would likely have remained a dutiful, faithful Christian. But, ya know, blunt force trauma does tend to change the way one thinks.”
“… I suppose.”
“A question for you, now. Or two.”
“Sure. That’s fair.”
“Make that three. Who the fuck are you? Why are you in my shit? And why does the name ‘Cyprian’ sit on my tongue when you speak?”
“We’ll speak again… At a later date.”
I opened my eyes to find the sun still tucked under the horizon. It’s been a night of Southern Baptist Gothic nightmares and having that conversation at the end of it is not helping my bitterness. I don’t have enough coffee to deal with this shit.