*** Caution strongly advised for sensitive readers ***
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Around 2003 I attempted to compose an outline for a fiction novel (the premise of non-fiction being too implausible) that followed a similar thread as in the Manchurian Candidate story. I wrote one sample chapter based upon my aunt, with her former beautiful movie-star looks and her passionately adoring American engineer husband. The story illustrated child mind-control by a pair of attractive parents preparing a doll for the night’s ritual in their large, roomy, private basement. As they insert sparkler-candles in the life-like baby doll’s eyes, the dad drools over his wife in anticipation of the night’s culminating sexual frenzy, and the mom calmly discusses the prime moment to light those sparklers when her five-year-old son, prepared and wide-eyed in a chilled catatonic stupor of open and programmable sub-conscious altered state, would be most susceptible to the indoctrination of “this will happen to you if ever you tell anyone about what you see here – or — if you don’t eat [this] or do [that] and obey us, your eyes will burn out just like this baby’s …”
My college book-writing classmates’ critiques ranged from primal disgust to ‘What is this, porn?” to “good writing about nightmares.” My professor inhaled a deep, fortifying breath upon beginning the critique to the class, and an underground press was suggested. However, one young man, writing a violent fantasy story which included slicing open a captive pregnant woman’s belly, loved it.
No, I chose not to revisit and saturate myself in those lurid memories and imageries that would predominantly serve to titillate the sadistic voyeurism in our populace. However, to fortify credibility, I tell the following in regards to the three-inch length-wise scar on my right wrist.
In actuality, during my “normal day” life, as a four- or five-year old accompanying my maternal grandma in tending the roses on her property, for some reason, I abruptly withdrew my little arm too close to a thick, thorny rose stem and raked my wrist open lengthwise. It was a long bloody slash. It mended into a three-inch scar (that’s the adult length). Shortly thereafter one middle-night as I was indoctrinated for nth-time to never ever, ever, ever tell anyone what I witnessed during the rituals, they laid a small rectangular wooden box along my wrist over the scar. “You are a bad little girl, that’s why you have that ugly scar. We gave it to you by our magic to remind you that are worth nothing except to do what we tell you to do. If you ever say even a single word about us to anyone outside, we’ll send worms inside you and they will eat you up alive.” At which point they slid out the false bottom and I felt the wriggling worms “boring” into me through my scar. Also by their “magic,” worms came out of my belly button and head orifices.
Such ridiculous lies are implanted into a young child’s mind, a terrified mind wide-open in an altered, programmable sub-conscious state; it doesn’t take much slight-of-hand to convince.
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