I did it. Something really bad.

Becky Thorn seemed so tempting, so ready. That Sunday,
we kissed behind the church, in the space between the
house of worship and the Preacher's home. We used our
tongues.

"Pamela! Rebecca!" shouted the Preacher's wife,
catching us in the act.

At 15, I knew I could save 12-year-old Becky. I knew
about the abomination of homosexuality. Our Preacher
spoke often from the pulpit about homosexuals preying
on younger children.

"It's my fault!" I wept. "I forced Becky! The Devil
made me do it!"

I ran to the Preacher's wife, hoping for Christian
forgiveness. Instead she slapped my face--harder than
Mother ever did.

"Satan!" she screamed.

When she told my parents, Mother and Father looked at
me as if aliens possessed my body. In fact, I WAS
possessed. By Satan. Suddenly, I realized that my
feelings for other girls, my lustful thoughts, were
not my own.

The Devil made me sin. Satan made me kiss Becky behind
the church. To mock Jesus. To mock God.

"Father, please, I need a whippin'. Spank the Devil
out of me!" I sobbed, trying to embrace him.

"Do not touch me with your unclean body, child!"
Father shouted, pushing me away.

The Preacher, his wife, Mother, and Father took me to
the Preacher's house. They made Becky Thorn watch.

The Preacher's wife used large, sharp shears to cut
away my dress in back, then the seat of my panties.
Father cut switches from a willow tree and laid them
on the counter. 

The preacher and his wife held me flat against the
kitchen table. Mother took up a slender switch. She
whipped me for 15 minutes, until it finally snapped.
Father took a fresh, thicker one and whipped me for
half an hour. I wept and begged forgiveness. Something
wet ran down my legs. I prayed I hadn't peed.

When the Preacher's wife took to me with the third
switch, I left my body and hovered near the ceiling,
looking down, detached. I saw blood--my
wetness--running down my legs.

Cleansing blood.

I wanted to pray that the switches would soon drive
out Satan. But separate from my body and soul, I
couldn't pray anymore.

An hour later, after the Preacher took his turn with a
switch, I heard angels singing.

Now I float suspended over the courtroom, my face
turned away from heaven, while a young man tells of
his boyhood and where the Preacher used to put his
fingers. A doctor testifies that my little sister will
forever carry marks of our parents' discipline.

I want to confess my guilt and free those who whipped
me. They did it for my own good. A bright white light
burns against the back of my neck like midday sun. I
want to turn to Jesus.

But I can't. Because I was weak and sinful and
retreated from my body instead of fighting Satan for
my soul.

I died before they could whip the Devil out of me.