Evie knelt in front of the great wooden crucifix mounted on the Church wall. Her fingers clasped together, knuckles white. She focused on Jesus. His eyes looked hollow. Maybe he wasn’t there – maybe he was tired of listening to selfish whims. But this was important. Grammy always said Jesus would be there for her.

Her jeans were threadbare on her knees. So much praying. Sometimes she prayed so much that her legs cramped. Was this how she would be immortalised? On her knees, ignored?

She didn’t deserve this – there were so many others — Slutty Sally, Blasphemous Borris, the old guy she saw kick a cat once. These were the sinners! Why should it be her confined to this Church every day?

She stared up at Jesus’ face, pleading for him to spark into life and embrace her, protect her — fuck her.

No! She wanted his help! Not his –

Fuck you. Fuck fuck fuck fuck –

Evie shrieked. The priest came running from the confessional booth. His hands touched her back –

Burn burn burn, little whore! Little whore wants Jesus’ –

“Get rid of it! Get rid of it!”

The Priest asking what is it?

Her muscles spasmed. Her whole body was flung upwards; back folded in half; hair sweeping the floor. Her hand tore the golden cross from her throat.

A thousand voices were shouting from her throat: ripping at her vocal chords, tugging her tongue. They erupted in one scrambled declaration – laughing, cackling, roaring. She felt her neck snapping to look at the trembling priest.

“ME! THE LITTLE WHORE WANTS RID OF ME!”

Her mind had been kicked out of the way to make room for several others. And, gazing feebly at Jesus’ empty face, that was when she knew — he wouldn’t help. Grammy had lied.

Her world exploded into pain.