Page 39 of Out of the Dark

An "us versus them" mentality.

It all fits perfectly.

The class lecture starts, but I’m falling deep into the rabbit hole and have no plan to pay attention tonight. I think about how my father would preach about how the worldly, secular people were damned and would happily drag us awayfrom God if given the chance; how we should avoid them if unable to convert them (not that we had much contact with the outside world anyway). The Bible was used practically as law, but when I would ask about certain passages in a critical context, I was brushed off.

I click on a related article, the voice of my psychology professor lecturing about operant conditioning somewhere in my periphery.

But what I read next makes my blood run cold. An article about methods of brainwashing used in cults. It lists the same things that were practiced in our enlightenment ceremony: sleep and food deprivation, isolation, repetition through prayer.

It’s so much worse than I thought.

It’s hard to know what’s considered "normal" in the outside world when you’ve been so isolated your whole life, but this transcends any beliefs I had about my previous situation being normal or acceptable.

Part of me wants to break down and cry, but to my surprise, my body floods with something else: anger. Pure, burning rage. At my parents, at my community, at the fact that my entire childhood was lost to this screwed up way of living. Those are years I’ll never get back, and I spent them keeping my head down, staying quiet, and fearing punishment.

How could any parent put their child through something so terrible in the name of love? It’s like a knife in my chest knowing that the people who were supposed to protect me and love me managed to become so entrenched in their belief systems that they’d rather oppress me instead of allowing me to grow into my true self.

I close my laptop, knowing that if I think about this anymore right now, the tears pricking at my eyes will start tospill.

I force myself to focus on the lecture with the comfort of knowing that I’ll be writing about this and letting the tears out later in the safety of my bedroom.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

MARK

I’m sitting on the couch watching a basketball game on TV when Claire gets home from class. Over the past few weeks, she’s retreated a bit emotionally again—undoubtedly my own fault—but right now she’s wearing an expression that’s charged with emotion. Frustration, maybe even anger. She makes no effort to hide it when she pins me with a stare before walking down the hall to her room.

To my surprise, she returns a few minutes later after having taken off her shoes and jacket, and she passes me on her way to the kitchen.

"I’m cooking dinner. Do you want some?" she asks. We still eat meals together most nights, but sometimes I end up eating on my own before she gets home from class, especially lately now that things have been more awkward between us.

"Sure, I’d love some," I tell her.

"Is it okay if I drink some of your wine as well?"

Nowthat’sa new development. I don’t think she’s drank at all aside from the couple times we’ve drank together on holidays. Something must really be bothering her.

"Of course. Is, uh, everything alright?"

She huffs a sigh, pops the cork on a bottle, and fills a glass. After a moment, she appears around the corner.

"Actually, no, everything isnotokay." She takes a sip and stares me down.

Shit, I didn’t think she’d admit to anything. And as much as I want to know what’s wrong with her, talking about feelings is sort of uncharted territory for me.

"What’s wrong?"

"What’s wrong is that you kissed me then ran away all pissed off, and I have no clue what I did to make that such a terrible thing for you! And, as if that wasn’t enough, I ran into one of your hookups in the hallway and felt even more like an idiot, because of course that kiss didn’t mean anything to you and—"

"I didn’t hook up with her," I interrupt, because she’s starting to ramble and I’m a little worried about what might come out of her mouth if she continues. She’s already so wrong, though I can’t blame her for assuming any of those things.

"You’re telling me you didn’t have sex with the woman who was still fixing her clothes as she came out of your room?"

I blow out a slow breath. "Yes, that’s what I’m telling you. I did have intentions of sleeping with her because I desperately needed to blow off some steam and thought that would help, but I couldn’t go through with it. I asked her to leave before anything actually happened."

"Why did you need to blow off steam?"

Fuck, here we go. "Because I kissed you."

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