A/N: I find most literature i/r/t Born-Agains (BAs) to either be terribly dogmatic or overly critical. I mean to take the middle view, exploring some of the complexities that go along with the non-denominational sect including personal relationships with God, the possible absence of free will, the total absence of liberal politics, Calvinist predestination, social activism, along with the seemingly "social-let's-have-a-Bible-barbecue" attitude, works righteousness and what I'd term a severe guilt complex.

            There are two real groups of BAs: Genuinely reborn followers of Christ, who either strayed from the faith, have been part of another religion (not very likely) or had never been familiar with the teachings of Christ at all; and the second group, who have led lifelong strict Christian lifestyles and often bring the first group into the fold.

            This story will offend some. I apologize in advance. The story will contain zero Bible verses, as well, as a point. There will be Bible reading. No quotes. I'll leave it to you to consider why.

            The story will span a Friday morning through early Sunday morning.

            Please read and review. Scream, argue, quote me verses, do whatever.

            This first chapter is merely a tease, nothing more. From there, there will be three chapters, one for each day. They'll follow in the next month.

            Enjoy the appetizer!

            -- aspenjerome.

            In the morning mirror there was sin. Sin, sin and sin.

There, sin, on her lips. Cracked and charred from sixteen cigarettes, twelve of them reds, old artifacts, buzz-ready upon inhalation, found at the bottom of her purse, the Cracker Jack prize amidst the clutter -- department store receipts, her beeper, out-of-fashion lipsticks.

 There, sin, in her eyes. Worked over by five fuzzy navels. Her absolute, dead-end, self-imposed limit. Plus one.

 There, sin, masquerading as her tongue. For she'd talked shit all night long, cursed and rambled like her college years, even ventured, in the company of no one as she peed, to take her Lord's name in vain when she found the toilet paper roll empty. 

On certain nights she would rage, uncontrollably rage, smoke and drink and curse her way back into the second floor apartment of her college boyfriend, when she held open a warm house for her demons, twisted and shouted with them until dawn and then permitted herself, spent and wrecked in the back of strange taxis, to weep them away in shame.

            Her fists clenched. Her lips pursed. The mirror. But not to weep. No. Now, the other kind of rage. She could scream at her sin.

Scream, "Who the fuck are you?"

Scream, "The hell, you honor Him."       

Lainie would scrub her cheeks instead. Damn near raw.