Death of a thousand cuts

I felt sick. It was dark out except for the light post which held the basketball goal. I never should have allowed myself into the shadows with him, but I was naive. A boy of 10 or so years in age. The siding on the old barn was gray and weathered. The smell of mildew was in the air.

The voices were eerily familiar. I had heard them before. The odd languages. The speaking in tongues. The Gift. This time hands were all over me. Pressing against my head and chest and shoulders. Voices repeating the chants. "Let it out", I was instructed.

Let what out, I wondered. All I said was I was uncomfortable and wanted to leave. He made me uncomfortable. Now I wanted to cry. I couldn't let them see though, so I toughed it out. I firmly believed in angels and demons and in this moment I felt closer to anything demonic I had ever experienced. Was this a healing? A washing away of sins and transgressions? The development of a shield of Christ's protection around me?

I didn't want to be the center of attention. Yet there I was. A group of adults praying and speaking in tongues while laying hands on me. Then in a moment they were casting out demons from my body. My mother whispered in my ear "it's ok, honey, it's ok."

"Let it out".