(Part 2) My Own Mother Asked Me to Bathe with 7 Mad Men
The First Night
Seven men waited there. They looked dangerous and unhinged — covered in scars and strange tattoos, eyes burning with fanaticism. My mother called them “the Chosen,” men who had surrendered themselves to ancient spirits.
“Mama, I don’t want to do this,” I begged as they helped me into the cold water. “Please don’t make me.”
The chanting started.
One by one, the men poured bowls of dark herbal liquid over me. Each time the mixture touched me, the baby moved violently inside. I cried through the entire night — loud, broken sobs that disappeared into the darkness of the swamp.
That small relief planted a dangerous seed of belief in my mind.
The second man was even more frightening. He had long gray hair and screamed at the moon like a wild animal while performing the ritual. I began to question everything. Was this real? Or was my mother simply desperate and mentally unstable?
Night Three — The First Warning
“This ritual isn’t to help you give birth. It’s to keep the child trapped inside you forever. They’re preparing it for something much bigger.”
I looked at my mother. She was smiling peacefully, eyes closed in prayer.
This was not a healing ritual.
The full truth came out slowly over the following nights.
The endless pregnancy was their doing. My mother had given me a cursed tea right after I conceived, disguised as a “blessing.” It prevented me from giving birth while strengthening the spirit inside me.
They were about feeding and strengthening the entity growing in my womb. On the seventh night, under the blood moon, they planned to cut the child from me in a final ceremony. I would not survive. My mother would gain power and favor from the spirits.
I was trapped — heavily pregnant, weak, and surrounded by dangerous fanatics in the middle of the swamp with no way to call for help.
I had survived poverty, hurricanes, and heartbreak before. I knew that sometimes you have to save yourself.
I changed my approach. I pretended to fully accept the ritual. I drank their potions. I chanted with them. I hugged my mother and thanked her for helping me.
The Seventh Night — The Blood Moon
All seven men were present, chanting louder and more frantically than ever. The moon glowed deep red. My mother stood at the front, dressed in white ceremonial robes, holding a long, sharp dagger.
I screamed and lunged forward.
I didn’t kill anyone, but I created enough confusion to escape the clearing and run into the dark bayou.
I ran barefoot through the swamp for hours — branches cutting my arms and legs, mosquitoes swarming, the sounds of animals all around me. But I kept moving toward the distant lights of the highway.
Three days later, I gave birth to a healthy baby girl in a hospital in New Orleans.
The doctors called it a medical miracle. I never told them the full truth. Some stories the world isn’t ready to hear.
I nearly lost my life and my child that week.
What I Learned
I still have nightmares about those cold nights, the chanting, and my mother’s cold smile. But every time I look at Hope’s innocent face, I remember that I fought back and won.
When the full moon rises, I sometimes still feel like something is watching. But now, I watch back — stronger and more aware.
Run.
Protect yourself and your child.
Because no curse is stronger than a mother’s true love — the kind that chooses life over darkness.
