I was twelve years old, an A student at school. I never got into any real trouble, and I helped with the nursery children at church every Wednesday night. I didn’t understand what kind of sin I had committed that would have me shut in in that room. The longer I sat there in the grits, the more convinced I was that the preacher was a mean old mister.

Because of the preacher, life went from me following Papa around the farm, helping him and being his fishing buddy to having to wear dresses, work the garden, and do chores to keep me too tired to be trouble. Except I was trouble. At least according to him and Mama and Preacher Manning. So here I was, on my knees, in this miserable, stinking room surrounded by grown men who were following this vile old reprobate as he tried to break my spirit.

After a couple of hours of being prayed over and trying not to talk back I had to pee so bad I wasn’t sure how much longer I could hold it. The preacher stopped and told the men they could take a break, so the door finally opened. I felt some stirring of a breeze. I tried to struggle to my feet, but he shook me hard. He spit on my face as his words echoed in my ears.

“Hold still. Don’t you move,” Rev. Manning said.

“My legs hurt so bad I want to cry and I need to pee.” My voice sounded high and shaky.

He motioned the men to go on outside. When we were alone, he slapped my face. When I shouted for Mr. Howard to help me, the preacher slapped me a second time. He leaned down, his voice rough and ugly this time.

“It’s my job as the man of God to teach his flock the way to go. I’m gonna break you tonight, girlie.” He squinted down at me and his lip curled up as his grin turned sinister.

I was really scared. I started to cry just a bit. I was so afraid I was going to wet on myself if he didn’t let me up. My legs hurt from kneeling in the dry grits, and I could feel my knees swelling.

“Please let me up. I promise I’ll do everything Papa asks me to. I can do better, I know I can.” I said.

The preacher was so hot, sweat dripped off him and I could see hair dye running down his neck in dark red rivulets. He wiped his face and neck with a huge handkerchief, took a swig from the glass on the table against the far wall, and came back. My body was trembling there on the floor, and my dress was wet with my own perspiration. He leaned over me, and this time the grin was evil.

“I’ve told you before, girlie, you need to be quiet, you don’t do anything unless I tell you.” he said. He bent over and slapped me again, then knelt in front of me and put his hands on my head and pushed even harder.

“Please give me the strength to teach this child the way she should go. Show her the way of obedience, humility, and submission.” His hands began to move over my head, down my neck and onto my shoulders as his voice buzzed on. I knew if he didn’t let me up soon I wouldn’t be able to hold my bladder.

The men traipsed back in and the smell of unwashed bodies, cigarettes, and moonshine hit my nose. Preacher Manning rose from his knees, motioning the men to come back, and they pressed in even closer than before.

“Mr. Jackson, please let me go home now, I promise I’ll behave.” My voice broke and tears ran down my face. I tried to look up at the men. The preacher took off his belt, picked me up, pushed me over the table and beat my bare legs. A rush of warm urine flooded the table under me and soaked the front of my dress. I lay there crying. The preacher-man picked my limp body up, folded me back on my knees in the grits and commenced to praying again. I was trembling, confused, wet, and terrified. Sometime long after midnight, with the sour smell of urine and sweat permeating the air, he offered me some water. I nodded my head, afraid to open my mouth. He held the glass to my lips and after a couple of swallows took the glass away

“Mr. Howard, please help me. Take me home. I can do everything Papa asks,” I whispered.

Mr. Howard always smiled and offered me gum when he arrived at our house to fish with Papa, but he ignored me now. The men’s legs were so close I couldn’t move. The preacher shouted at me again to be quiet, and his hands pressed even harder on my head. Trembles overtook my body. Mr. Howard shook his head at me, and put his fingers to his lips as he frowned at the preacher, but he didn’t stop him.

Time slid into a black bottomless abyss of shadow and pain. Sometime later the men took another break, and the preacher closed the door to the conference room. I was sagging there on the floor, my legs had long since gone numb. I felt myself starting to drift off.

The preacher put his hands on my chest. Then he went under my dress. His fingers found my budding breasts in my training bra. He pinched hard and said it wouldn’t be long before I was a woman.

“Have you started bleeding yet?” He pinched my nipples really hard this time and when I tried to push his hands off he pinched hard enough to make me moan.

“Answer me, girlie.” His voice shook, and he stood up behind me. He moved in really close, pulled my dress up over my head, and I could hear him fumbling with his pants zipper. He pushed me forward on my knees with my bottom up in the air and I felt his hands tugging on my panties. As I opened my mouth to ask him why would I bleed, the men opened the door and several rushed in.

“Oh my God, Horace, what are you doing?” Mr. Howard yelled.