So I was maybe seven or so years old. And my aunt and uncle were looking after me for the weekend, and so on Sunday, they took me to their church.
Now the church my parents, well, parent, went to was a pretty chill one, simple.
My aunt and uncles was very much not chill.
So after a bunch of signing and stuff in a language I didn't understand, we were on our way out, as was everyone else, when I saw people dipping their fingers into little pots by the doors.
So, being seven and relatively inquisitive, I reached into the small pot, trying to find what it was that everyone was touching.
My fingertips came out covered in soot, or dust or something.
As I stand there, staring at my fingers, trying to work out what had just happened, a hand came from behind me and made me make the sign of the cross, I think, with the soot covered fingers.
To this day, I don't know who it was, my aunt and uncle were ahead of me. I think my distrust of religion started there,
Coincidently, half the family hates me now, can you possibly guess why?
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