Mom used to be happier before dad left. That was before she started watching the television so much. Every morning I would wake up and I could hear it blasting in the other room while mom banged around in the kitchen trying to find something to throw together for breakfast. I remember sitting next to the couch every afternoon and every weekend playing with my toys and having my ears filled with words of encouragement and praise to the lord Jesus Christ.

I was so naive back then.

Mom started talking to herself. I could hear her soft mumbling over the television, usually at night after we had eaten dinner, and the room was only lit by the lamp beside the couch. I didn't pay much attention to it. I was too young to understand that what she said under her breath could have any effect on me. The days wore on and I continued to play with my toys beside the couch. I heard it creek under mom's weight when she got up, and I heard it groan when she sat back down. Every time she did so, I would make my toy soldiers drop down to the ground for cover.

I think it was sometime in November, when the nights were starting to get especially cold and the trees were bare. I remember the couch creaking and my soldiers falling prone. Then my mother was above me. Without a word she scooped up my soldiers and blocks, and smiled at me. "Yes Lord, I will be obedient," I heard her say. I looked up at her with confusion as she walked towards her bedroom. She was in there for a few moments before emerging and taking her usual spot on the couch. As it gave under her weight, I softly padded over to her, my bare feet barely making a sound on the cold floor. "Mommy, where did you take my toys?" My mother looked me in the eye, her expression emotionless and cold. "I need to cleanse you of your sins, my son." I stood there, more confused and staring into her face, waiting for my mother to explain herself. But she turned her gaze back towards the television. Hell is not a place we talk about often. I hear the man on the television. But it's time we stop sugar coating our message.

A week has gone by, and I've taken to sitting quietly by the couch or in my room. My mother has confiscated all my toys, my crayons, and my books, leaving only my bed, furniture, and clothes to keep me company. A long time ago, my father taught me the importance of imagination as I helped him plant the roses that now thrive in our front yard. "You have to let yourself create your own world sometimes, Isaac," he said, wiping dirt off his nose but leaving more in the process. "This world, the earth, isn't a place you want to be all the time. It really weighs down on ya." I smiled as my little brain tried to understand what he meant. He picked up the shovel laying next to him and thrust it into the dirt. "Isaac, just remember that what you see around you doesn't have to be all there is."

I don't go to school anymore. My mom told me it was all "part of the process". The days went by so slowly as I sat by her side on the floor, or as I sat by myself in my room. Sometimes, I would close my eyes and try to imagine things like my dad taught me, another reality, another person to keep me company, anything to pass the time by. I wasn't happy anymore. I understood when my dad left. That didn't bother me as much as this did.

One morning, my mom came into my room and demanded I undress. By this point in time, I knew my mom would not answer any of my questions. So without a word, I slipped off my shirt, pants, and underwear and placed them in her hands. She walked over to my closet and gathered the remainder of my clothes, piling them on top of the clothes I had just removed from my body. I was already beginning to feel the chill of the cold outside eat at my bare skin by the time she left my room with all my clothes. I didn't even have time to feel ashamed at my nakedness.

I tried finding warmth underneath my blanket, but only a couple days later, some men came and removed all the furniture out of my room while I waited in my usual spot by the couch. That was when I cried for the first time since this ordeal began.

Mom and I sat side by side for another couple of days after this. This was about the time I realized that the only thing my mother ever watched were Christian broadcasts from churches all over the nation. I don't know how I never noticed this before. My toys and my growing imagination must have prevented me from really paying attention. My mom still mumbled, but now her mumbles were louder, and often she had full blown conversations with the man or woman on television.

He wants us to clear our lives of anything that may be hindering our walk.

"I will do whatever it takes, my Lord," my mother said in reply.

You must be prepared to follow Him, no matter what he asks of you.

"I will do my best to serve you, my Lord."

He doesn't think your faith is as strong as it should be, oh child.

"What must I do, Father?"

The television went black. I looked to my mom, who put down the remote and lifted herself from the couch. She headed for the kitchen. I heard a drawer open and slam shut. Then my mother emerged from the darkness, holding the big butcher knife we only used for steaks and shredding cabbage. My heart jumped in fear.

"I must sacrifice Isaac. Whatever you want from me, MY LORD!" I felt a piercing scream leave my mouth as I got up from the floor and ran to my empty bedroom. I slammed the door shut and turned the lock. I heard my mother's heavy footsteps following me down the hall. I didn't have much time. I frantically opened my window, my breathing heavy. My mother had reached my door and was pounding. "ISAAC, I MUST OBEY THE LORD." I forced my window open only to be greeted with metal bars that must have been put there by my mother. I couldn't escape this way. I fell to the floor, feeling hopeless and wondering how bad a knife would hurt. I started crying hysterically, doubling over as my tears made little puddles on the floor. My door was starting to come loose from the hinges.

Through my blurred vision, I saw one of the tear puddles become smaller as it seeped through an unusually large crack in the floor. I reached out to touch it. The crack was about three feet long. I dug my fingernails into it and lifted.

It was a trapdoor, leading to a dark place underneath the house.

I wiped my tears with the back of my hand. I could either venture down into the unknown, or I could wait for my mother to carve me like a Thanksgiving turkey. I took a deep breath and threw myself through the trapdoor, just as my door flew open and my mother's red, puffy face appeared. The last thing I heard was my father's voice. "Just remember that what you see around you doesn't have to be all there is."