As always, it is shockingly cold, flooding through the thin white robes. The minister – or is he a preacher? Pastor? – almost lets go. It’s symbolism, I think. Or maybe his hands are cold.
I am at the bottom of the pool. Please, I think, please stay down this time.
His hands pull me up, up, and I breach the water. The congregation claps. I clear the water from my eyes.
“Didn’t take, Padre,” I say, and snap his neck.
As I slaughter the sheep – his “flock” – I wonder if I should try Buddhism next.