I was never very superstitious, so you can imagine my irritation every year when I had to drive back to my backwoods hometown in Texas. Sadly, my family living there meant having to witness "crazy" in its raw, unhinged form every Christmas.

However, this year felt more bizarre than usual. My only safe haven in a land where free thinking and short skirts were the "devil's devices" was the dusty garage in my parent's house. It was the only escape for me and my friends where we could just be teenagers.

You can imagine my shock when I realised that this little piece of heaven had been converted to a communal hall that hosted Bible studies. My parents were blissfully content when the town's newest religious nutbag, Pastor Will, asked them to give up the place for "God's Work."

Our argument seemed to bring the entire town to our doorstep. Although my parents loved God, they loved their family land more. As their sweet, numb replies fanned my rage, I felt my body let go as sickly-sweet air wafted into my nose.

I couldn't move; the chains hugged me fiercely. Everyone I knew stood before me, their silent, serene faces making the poorly lit room even more gaunt.

Pastor Will stood over my body.

"Rapture's coming, son. We best be happy when we embrace the Lord," was all I heard him say as he pushed a needle into my arm.