Chapter Eleven
The Prophet
“I have—I know I have been harsh with you,” The Reverend said, his voice now . . . careful. “Your parents—”
Yes.
Of course.
My parents.
I felt a flare of anger at his mentioning them, something I had almost never before permitted myself: the beatings, the enemas, Father’s barely lubricated thumb thrust roughly into my bottom, the interruption—the annihilation—of my chance at college, of a different life, of any . . chance.
They took so long to die, my parents; their ultimate and most heinous crime.
They simply ate my youth—apparently viewing that act more as duty than treat.
For whatever reason, I harbored less—close to no—resentment toward my absent and invisible older brothers. They materialized briefly for the funerals of our parents; my wedding they
