“The Exorcism”

by Jessica Koppinger

Hidden among the rundown slums of the city, I spotted the sign. 

“Turn here,” I said.“Are you sure?”

“Yes I’m sure. I was here last week, remember?”

“It doesn’t look like there’s anyone here.  Are you sure this is the right parking lot?”“Yes, I’m absolutely sure,” I reiterated, rolling my eyes as I turned my head away from him. 

It had always been that the two of us could not avoid sarcasm, or condescending stares in any given conversation.  I suppose any exceptions or accommodations should not have been made for my sake on this day. As we walked from the secluded parking lot to the building, the fence that had been rectified stood as a barrier between two types of human beings.

The ones who stood outside of the barbed fence urged no others to go inside them and the ones going inside showed no emotion, covered their heads, and hurried on through.  I had never really identified with or had any sort of affiliation to either, though I now felt obligated to choose a side. 

I had not envisioned such a choice could signify much about a person.  Did it really?  Would the people outside the gates ever know the truth of my existence, from this one incident?  Even if it could be determined, I had made up my mind. 

My eyes could not divert from the rebellious outsiders, who looked at me with scorn.  I should have worn a sweatshirt, labeling myself “Sinner,” so that the outsiders would have known I had condemned myself, that I did not need persecution from they who deemed themselves holy.  And what did they know of holiness?  I had come here to be exorcised.  There was a demon inside of me, inflicting physical ailments on my body. 

How badly I wanted it to be a demon, and wished to be purged of its evil.  Deceiving myself, I knew, would be the remedy for my mind’s insanity.  I covered my infuriation with a blanket of mirages.  If I felt sorry, if I was not bitter, this thing, this unnatural thing could not happen.  Under the guise of a justified young woman, I entered the gates, to relinquish my former existence.  I was about to be purged.  The one following me through the gates couldn’t have phrased it better.  “You are doing the right thing.”We entered the waiting room, all the walls colored an institutional white.  As I looked around, women of all races, all ages were waiting to be purged as well.  Their demons could not have been as evil as mine though. 

I kept searching for reasons to justify my feelings of anger and discontent with myself.  I couldn’t have felt dirtier or more debased, surrounded by the white walls, adorned with photos of Ku Klux Klan members, holding signs.  It was a replication of what was lurking outside, only this room instilled more fear in me.  My imagination roared with psychotic thoughts as I squinted at the pictures on the wall. 

Angered because I could not feel guilt or sorrow in this room, I foreshadowed in my mind, the guilt and sorrow I would feel on the outside.  I could only feel hatred around me, in this silent, jail cell of a waiting room.  My name was called, first name only, last names were not safe here.  Uncomfortable, nauseous, I awaited the next mentally excruciating process.  I did not know how much more anxiety I could handle before my heart would surely explode in my chest.  I was led by a woman to a changing room, where I was ordered to strip of all clothing besides my socks and put on a paper gown.  As if the whole idea of being stripped of everything was not dehumanizing enough, all those waiting to be sent to the next and final room waited in the frigid hallway, with a gaped white gown, to match the walls. 

Lifeless, industrial, and cold was the hallway, reflecting what was inside all of us.  Girls sat in metal chairs in a line, each one looking the same, except for socks.  But what did socks ever tell about a person?  Clothes sometimes could make a statement, sometimes shoes, but never socks.  They were meant to be covered, and now were exposed for all to see.  I sat next to a young girl of Indian descent.  I remained silent, as I looked down at my socks, though the others could not help but to veer about the hallway.  I did not feel any need to connect, I had to keep my focus on the exorcism.  I felt a glare, burning through my skin, from the girl sitting next to me.  It singed the tiny hairs on my face, until I could stand the burn no more.  I had to glance up in acknowledgement. 

Reluctantly, I gazed into her deep brown eyes, enveloped by dark brown skin, and she gazed into mine.  No bare physical similarities existed between us.  Suddenly, I felt emotionally bound to her, as she to me.  The white gowns must have spoken to each other, secretly at the peak of our bitter silence.  They recognized our uncanny resemblances for us. 

Our blank faces acquired strange expressions of sadness and sympathy.  “I’m scared,” she murmured, as she reached for my hand.The comforting touch awakened my senses, and I felt as if I had been revived by some sort of angel.  I smiled vaguely at her and said, “I’m scared too.”

Her hand clenched tightly in mine, I assured her that everything would be fine, and we would both make it out of here without any complications, physically, I meant.  Those were the last words we said to each other.  We sat a few more minutes, hand in hand, until her name was called, “Jesminda, we are ready for you now.”   

She stood up slowly, and loosened her grip from my hand.  We had experienced the warmth of each other and now, and as she walked away, my hand gradually reverted back to its cold and numb state. 

Shortly after I watched her walk to her destination, I was called to Room 2.  I had previously felt glorified in my pride, dignified and full of justification.  I no longer felt that way after my enlightening experience in the hallway.  Doctors and nurses filed, mechanically, into the room after me, and asked me to lie down. 

Still silent, a needle was inserted into my arm.  I would soon fall asleep, my arms and legs felt numb, and I would speak no more.  I sought out reconciliation from the masked entities standing over me, as if their wavering, blurred figures would accept my decision and deem me worthy of the procedure.

The last needle was shoved into my vein.  “Did that hurt?” asked the mask.  My eyelids weighed heavy on me and I struggled to stay awake.  “I mustn’t go to sleep,” I urged myself.  “No, it doesn’t hurt.”  “So, what do you do, go to school, work?” asked the mask.

I could not go to sleep just yet.  I suddenly felt I had so much to explain, so much to justify.  In my state of intoxication I thought, “This is my only chance to redeem myself.  They must know why.”“No,” I jolted. 

Then I had come into a new realm of serenity, and only heard an echo of myself.  I did not need to explain anymore.  I was comfortable in my skin, there was nothing to fear.