Mother put biscuits on a tray. Father joked with our neighbours. Lots of sandwiches and tea were out when Father O’Neill, the parish Priest, came to visit our house. I would be sent into the shed with Father O’Neill to learn my prayers, become a good little Catholic boy. In the solitude and peace of the Lord, Father O’Neill always said. Without question my parents believed him in 1940s Catholic Ireland.
Years gone on, I think of the dark horrors I endured in that shed. I still have my faith. But I’m ready to expose the hell of my childhood.
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