FEAR SLINKED UP YOUR LEGS like bladed worms as you scanned the assembly that evening. Anticipating eyes feasting on you were like fiery darts bolting on a test mission.
Gazing ahead, you saw them, three other girls who hadn’t denied their faith, kneeling, trembling, unsure of what plague is to come.
You could feel indecision tugging at the door of your heart as you picked your steps one after the other, edging towards the crucifix.
Expectations pervaded the atmosphere. The thoughts of what your friends would think when they eventually hear of your decision rammed your head again. But this was survival.
Deep in your mind, you convinced yourself that you weren't denying Christ, even though you were going to do the exact opposite before the eyes of everyone. You convinced yourself that you and your God alone knew what was going on in your mind; that this would only be a make-belief, conjured only to deceive the eyes of your persecutors.
Now strengthened by this conviction, you stiffened your jaws and balled your fists. You rammed your eyelids tight so that they ache. Then you spat on the crucifix—like it meant nothing—and uttered those words of profanity, numbing your mind from the guilt that followed.
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