She sat in the back of the church, listening to the sermon. The
preacher spoke of gays infiltrating bathrooms, of Muslims infiltrating the
government. Somehow he never spoke about the children he raped. The fear and
shame he enforced filled his congregation. Each would transfer that suffering to the weak and helpless. She scratched her
arm, waiting for the worship to start. The music began. It was weak,
inoffensive. But it triggered what She needed from their souls. Yearnings,
pleas, grief and gratitude. Spilling from their hearts into Her Essence.
She stumbled out. A fix was a fix after all.
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