Story of a Failed Mind Control Subject

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Chapter 3

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Chapter 3
It Really is Life or Death

The next thing that strikes me is not actually about me. It was something that was done to another kid who was living with Ava and Bill. His name was Kevin. I don’t even know how to relate the depth of how deeply his experience bothered me.

Kevin was chained to the wall in his room, or to the floor in other places that we lived. The point being, he was chained in his room. He would claw to get away, trying to climb the wall to the window in one place that we lived. It was a small window, and very high. He would bleed, and he cried and yelled a lot.

I would sing to him. Nonsense songs. Kid songs. Sometimes songs with no words. But I had to be careful not to get caught. He would calm down when I sang, and sometimes even talk to me. It became something I did often, and for a while it helped me.

Until they let him off of his chain one day (as they sometimes did, when he got “time off for good behavior”). I didn’t want to watch what he was watching on TV, and so he beat me so badly with an electrical cord from a toaster that it ripped big chunks out of my ribs. I quit singing to him then. After that, I was afraid of him. I cried sometimes at night, because I missed comforting him.

They beat me, too. He told them what I’d been doing. He called for me often after that, and I cried, but I never went. I gave up on him out of fear, and even then, found it difficult to forgive myself for doing so.

He wasn’t the only one to beat me with electrical cords, though. Bill and especially Ava would beat me with pretty much anything that came in handy. I tried to hide as much as possible. Usually, though, it wasn’t very possible.

The worse part was that I wasn’t potty trained, and so when I came to them, they began to punish me whenever I didn’t use the potty. A typical punishment for wetting myself was a freezing bath. They would run the cold water, throw ice from the freezer in it, and make me sit in it until long after I was shivering so hard my teeth were chattering and I couldn’t hold a washcloth.

Then I’d get beaten for dropping the washcloth.

I have several over-lapping memories of getting put into “time out” and asking to go potty. They wouldn’t let me go, and then would beat me severely (usually with a piece of wood) for peeing myself because after several hours, I couldn’t hold it anymore. It was after one of these that the episode at the swampy pond behind the house happened.

Ava became infuriated that I had wet myself, so she took me out back to the pond there. She made me strip myself, then gave me a sledgehammer and told me to break the thick ice. When I couldn’t, she beat me, kicked me, and slapped me until she was tired. Then she broke the ice.

I had to bathe in it and wash my clothes. I slipped and fell. There is a current there, not a big one, but there is one. It swept me into the water and under the ice. Ava caught me by the hair and dragged me back out. Another time someone who wanted to kill me saved me.

It was during this time, with Ava and Bill, that I started to predict things, and see people. I know the official stance would be that I’m crazy, that I was schizophrenic. But I didn’t see them with my eyes; I sensed them with my mind. And I predicted things regularly.

I was too young to keep my damned mouth shut.

I told them, and when I was right, I got rewarded. Mmmm, bacon.

When I was wrong, I got punished. But I got punished in a very specific way upon these events. When I predicted something, and it was wrong, they would strangle me until I died. Then they would resuscitate me. I don’t think that it’s possible to know a greater terror than that which seizes you as you slowly lose all ability to gain oxygen.

But as time went by, something very strange began to happen to me. I lost the fear. I still struggled for my life– and lost, of course. I still fear drowning or strangling today. But I don’t fear the actual dying. In fact, for most of my life since then, I’ve wanted it. Hoped for it. I’ve even tried for it.

Clearly, since I’m here, they were successful every time in bringing me back. They were clearly trained for it. But… I don’t think they ever realized that they destroyed utterly any fear I have of dying.

Because it’s better there. It’s peaceful; it’s calm, yet it’s like the happiest moment of your life. Better, in a way, because you don’t remember anything until you come back. I had, and remember, many NDEs during these experiences. They sustained me through much of what happened to me.

You’d think that dying would be a terrible thing. It is. But being dead isn’t. So for all those years where I was suicidal… I didn’t so much want to die, as I wanted to be dead. It’s a subtle difference, but I’m sure you can see it.

There’s this part of me that’s horrified that anyone could do this to a young child. There’s another part of me that wants me to believe it was all a big lie. Imagined. That no one CAN do that to a child.

But children are killed every day, and not resuscitated. For Ava and Bill, this was just another form of punishment.

I try not to wonder what dying so often did to my brain tissue. Then again, I have learning disabilities and other problems… maybe I don’t really need to ask, hey?

If you’re asking yourself the question right now, I can’t say that it really did much for my psychic accuracy, honestly. In fact, sometimes it made me lie and make something up just to have an answer– any answer. If it was wrong, they’d do it to me anyway. And yes, it’s a very strange and surreal feeling to consider typing… “If I was wrong, they’d still kill me, even though they claimed they just wanted me to try.”

Somehow, it’s something that you shouldn’t ever have to write. Once you’re dead, you should be dead, and stay dead. I tell myself that I wasn’t really dead, just unconscious. Sometimes it works for me, but most of the time I have to be honest with myself. You don’t have to have mouth-to-mouth and get bruised ribs from resuscitation when you’re just unconscious.

And I watched them have discussions about me, too… while I was dead. Talking with the doctor a couple of times, while I was dead. Their upset that I was, and would stay, dead. Then I chose to go back to my body. Not just to spite them, though.

It was many years before I stopped taking “I’m going to kill you if you…” comments seriously. I still find the phrase distasteful and not overly funny or cute. It could really just go away. Death is kinda cool, but like I said, dying sucks.

And then again, there’s another insidious thing about this. I mean, who’s going to believe me? I’ve only told one person about this. I got heavy silence and then the pronouncement that it’s not possible. Funny how toddlers have been proven by science to be able to regrow fingers and toes… but apparently they can’t be resuscitated?

This, for me, is the great struggle. I find myself both desiring to talk about it… yet living with the perpetual knowledge that no one would ever believe me. It’s too fantastic. It’s too unimaginable.

When I look at my daughter who’s 3 years old, I cannot, for the life of me, fathom ever doing any of those things to her. I couldn’t kill her once, even if I thought I could resuscitate her. How could anyone do it? It traverses the limits of imagination that anyone could bring themselves to do such a thing to a precious child.

Written by sandit4glp

July 30, 2010 at 1:44 pm

Posted in Chapter 03