We were in a drugs and incest drenched Fife village when I was told that. They were making porn behind the back of the pub and in the graveyard and wanted to involve me. All hell broke lose, people showing up or phoning then disaprearing again. Violence everywhere, me doing my best to keep drugged to that fine degree where fighting and not crying were possible. I knew there would still be rape and death but it meant I was free from one set of rituals at least. The most memorable ones at that. The ones that had seemed in the Glen in the eighties to be at the centre of it all. They were all over Jersey at that time to. Free from masonic conspiracies to keep me quiet. Left to the street, a dysfunctional family and the relationships that grew beyond what was instructed. But the longer I go without them, the people in whoes arms I woke up, came round or became lucid, the more the memories start to twist becoming something that fits in easier with everything else, something ugly. Can I keep a hold of the safety and love I felt in those moments without denying all the memories of them hurting me. It has torn me in two. Maybe it wasn't there fault but i makes no difference as my flesh wont forgive. My flesh wont walk away from safety either.
It's been more or less quiet since then. Execpt for that new year.
At least I am not asking that same old question as often as usual - Can I go home now?