.・。.・゜✭・.
𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐭𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧
𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐬.
.・。.・゜✭・.
cassiopeia kitster is the
newest recruit to the
BAU. spencer reid is
not happy about it.
extended desc...
cw: religious trauma, hopefully accurate and non-offensive depictions of obsessive compulsive disorder, descriptions of a corpse + decomposition + bugs + dead body smell, and a brief mention of gagging (NOT THE FREAKY KIND!!)
p.s: new layout incoming 🤭
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CHAPTER FIVE
❝ god says wash your hands ❞
I LOVE MY DAD. He is my rock, my role model, my childhood superhero, and, sadly enough, a good friend of mine. He's been my biggest supporter my whole life; he was at every graduation, every meaningless awards ceremony, and every belt testing. However, he's also the reason that from 1988 to 1989, I fully and wholeheartedly believed that there was some kind of demon inside of me.
The hard-workin', tough-lovin', superhero single Dad Trevor Kitster knew well enough to get his little Cassie into anger management therapy at a young age, but something stood in the way of getting me checked out by a psychiatrist after complaining about the voices in my head that told me to wash my hands fifty — yes, fifty — times a day or else everybody I loved would die. And that was just the beginning.
Maybe he was too prideful, and believed he could handle it himself. Or maybe he was just too Texan, too much of a God-fearing Christian to believe my problem was anything other than the work of demons plaguing my innocent mind to carry out the Devil's work. Either way, I spent far too long terrified that one day, whatever demon was inside of me would take over and have my head spinning around like in The Exorcist, all because Trevor Kitster believed in Pastor Dean from New Life Christian Church of Modesto over a licensed psychiatrist. (Why did I even know about that movie anyway? I was four.)
People love to romanticize the 80's, but nobody ever wants to talk about the Satanic Panic, especially not what it meant for four-year-old Cassie. One minute I'm watching Duck Tales on my living room floor, the next I'm being doused with Holy Water to rid me of my thoughts by the old women who live down the street. (Now that I think about it, I don't think I ever saw those women again. Maybe they died. Or maybe all they were interested in was borrowing fresh butter from my Dad and throwing Holy Water at a four-year-old. I wouldn't put it past them.)
After his efforts proved unsuccessful, my Dad sought a second opinion in Sacramento, an hour north of my hometown of Modesto. A week before Thanksgiving 1989, my sister and I piled in the backseat of our Dad's 1985 Buick Regal, and embarked on the journey for answers.
Pastor Nicholas, a younger man, much younger than Pastor Dean and the head of a very large and prestigious Christian church in Sacramento, told me I should be grateful for that little voice in my head, "for it is the voice of God!" I believe his exact words were: "You lucky girl, you've been gifted. God has chosen you to speak to. You are blessed. Listen closely to the voice you hear, for it is the voice of God!"
