Sundew

Chapter 27

The man recalled only vaguely his name. Ronnie? Swanny? Swanson? Something like that. While the man could recall perfectly his entire life (as they made him relive it over and over as part of his penance for not overcoming his darkside), he couldn't remember much of anything regarding his name or who he was before they had taken him through to the other side, but he recalled what their intention was. "Fight that inner darkness!" they'd shout at him. "It's nothing but a demon, it's not the real you! Fight it!"

He couldn't recall everything they did to him, and he supposed that was for the best. To be able to remember absolutely every torture would be torturous simply by nature, the weight of the memories crushing his already broken—no, shattered—mind. He couldn't think of the worst part, at first, but then it hit him, and the thought he'd just had—of the weight of memories that would hurt him—became a reality. He recalled one thing they had done that was the worst—the cruelest of all. Every time he came close to death—something he yearned for, his psyche so ruined that the survival instinct no longer had any power over him—they healed all of his wounds.

Physically, they would patch up his body as if he'd just fallen into a healing pool of cool water, but his mind was slightly different. He realized they were deliberately messing with his memories. Not only so he would believe the darkside was an actual demon to be expelled. (He still believed this even now, he realized, similar to Winston Jones believing that 2+2=5.) They were shielding him from most of the harmful memories, but still leaving just enough—a barely noticeable fraction in his mind so that he would not only have lasting psychological damage, but question things he knew to be certain. There was one thing he could be certain of, however, something even they could not disprove: he was cured of his darkside. And that was the terrifying part. They were right. He'd been made to believe in such a silly doctrine as that of the shadow being a demon to overcome. Even now, as he sat in this white room wearing an even whiter hospital gown devoid, both devoid of any color, he knew, on a conscious level, that this doctrine was simply untrue—the shadow could be used in positive ways—it could be integrated and subsequently make you psychologically whole.

This, however, was again only something he could know to be true on a conscious level—in what they'd left of his rational brain. On a deeper, unconscious level, however, he noticed himself tempted to buy into the brainwashing they'd given him. Even as he sat there, knowing he'd been broken down, thrown away, and remade, he smiled. Why wouldn't he smile? After all, he had conquered his inner darkness and was now pure and good. Physically incapable of violence, anger, or assertion, he could no longer do or say anything that others stated to be true. He'd emasculated many times physically, but now he'd been emasculated. Though the thought was ridiculous, he thought that he would've been spiritually defeminized, were he a woman. He couldn't pinpoint why, but something in him vaguely said this was wrong—a passing thought, but one he still noticed. Why would it have been unnatural or wrong again? Oh, well. He didn't see why it would be wrong for him to feel nothing but happiness and to be purely good with no trace of evil in him. Either way, he felt much better now. He noticed vaguely some inner voice at him screaming to wake up, but ignored it. He was actually surprised (though he couldn't remember why he should be surprised) that he took pleasure in reveling the death of his identity—the one they had not given him. Again, he couldn't remember why, but something in him vaguely told him that taking such pleasure in such things was unnatural, but then he was pleasantly surprised. Ordinarily, such a voice would've dominated among his other emotions and made him feel despair, but now he was relieved at being numb—at being unable to feel anything.

He reflected on his old life, and remembered something—one of the few things they allowed him to remember definitively. In his past life, behind-

"Allow us to finish that thought for you. You know, given that there's no longer anything you can hide from the way you tried and failed to hide from the apin—the responsibility you feel deep down—for Cory. You were going to think that behind all the bravado, all the facades both—pleasantly formal and abrasively recluse, behind all the addiction with which you attempted to mask your pain, you're just a scared little boy in man's clothing, crying for Daddy to come save him—to magically solve all his problems for him! Maybe it would actually be funny if you weren't so pathetic. Not only that, but if you weren't so helpless, so childish, your father would've actually loved you. Now look at you. You can't even be certain as to what's true and what's not anymore."