I was the child who scampered across open cotton fields, sporting grass-stained knees and a wicked smirk, crossing the threshold just in time for supper.

I was the granddaughter who played hangman on the back of the church program every Sunday, who snuck spoonfuls of buttercream frosting right out of the mixer when Grams wasn’t paying attention.

I was the frightened girl who extended her trembling hand to a stranger and never saw home again.

I was the member of the notorious Blood of Christ Baptist Church who became the target for cruelty and sinister ritual.

I was the daughter of the damned, the collection of ragged breaths wedged between the shadows of ancient lore and an uncertain destiny, and the possessor of a darkness more depraved than any of my enemies.

I was the lethal cocktail of untapped power and willful ignorance, who untethered herself from the pious ties of Brushy Fork, Kentucky, to plunge head-first into a life of normalcy.

And I was the fool who believed she could outrun fate.