My chest was stretched out, spread out with my breasts jutting out obscenely. My legs were bent and raised in to the traditional position designed to create the horrible dance for breath of the cross. My ankles were tied together, but not tied to the cross. Strange. The cross was lifted up. I remembered the sensation from my first crucifixion. It was the most arousingly helpless feeling - the ultimate in humiliation and pain, to be raised up in front of the crowed. My body slid down the cross as the angle went higher and steeper, the strain beginning in my arms as they stretched out. The cross was high, and as I went up in the air like an obscene decoration, I saw I was facing the novice. With a sudden jerk, the cross slid down three feet or so, jerking and almost ripping my arm joints apart. I screamed from the pain, and tried to find something to help lift me up and relieve the pressure on my arms. I found the platform for my feet - I knew there had to be one. But it was tilted. My mother was a cleaner at the local hospital. She was divorced and I never knew my father. Unfortunately for her she got to know this nurse how sold her ninety-five proof medical alcohol, which she diluted with some juice, and soon enough mom became a weekend drunk. You know the type. When Friday afternoon comes they drink themselves into stupor. They take care of job and obligations during the week alright, but during the weekend it's as if they change into someone else. Mom did just that. At the beginning she didn't want me to see her drunk so I think she waited to start to drink seriously until I had gone to bed and that was easy before I was a teenager. In my preteens I never was much for late nights. Early to bed and early to rise is and was my motto.It all started when I reached puberty. Twelve was bad and thirteen was even worse. All I wanted was to see and feel a woman. I was obsessed with the thought of women. I couldn't stop thinking about them. This was in the early.
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