The Exorcisms

Every night for several weeks dad and mama pushed the devil outta me. It was mama’s idea after I’d come out as bisexual at 17. She and dad would consecrate the living room with a candle and prayers. The bible lay open to that night’s psalm on the green vinyl couch after she’d read from it out loud. The TV was off, and dad longed to get back to his boxing match, so the exorcisms were fairly quick.

Mama would call my name around 7pm. I was to drop my homework and meet them in front of the couch, where they were standing, holding hands, waiting for me. The lights were dim. The air conditioner brought a chill to the room. I would stand before them, they would encircle me with their arms so I was between them, close enough to smell dad’s beer breath and mama’s lipstick and hairspray.

London Bridge has fallen down, fallen down...the song would fight in my head while mama prayed like thunder so God and the demon could hear. “Lord, we’re here before you to push the devil from our son.” It would begin solemnly and proceed achingly. Mama prayed hard. She squeezed her face up to God, she shook dad’s hands and ended her most precious desires with amen’s. She spoke wind and storm. Her tongue whipping orders to the demon in me.

Her eyes vibrated with reddened anger as she opened them to stare my evil down, “Get out of my son, Satan! Out in the name of God, in the name of Christ. Out SATAN!” Mama’s voice gurgled like hot blood.

If there was a devil in me I wanted him to shield me from her cutting eyes. She said she’d love me always no matter what. But the devil was my only friend then, the only on on my side.

Mama’s frenzy always rose into her eyes and down her cheeks like raging snakes of liquid salt. Once she was crying, we were done for the time. She’d sit. Dad next to her. He would rub her back as she sobbed, and I’d go to my room. And I’d sit until I could finish burying the burning stone of hate.