Hope-al

SJ Shoemaker
Word Count: 2,355
2/1/2018

Dearest family:

I know this is the first time you’ve heard from me in quite a while, but this will also be the last. I don’t know how I’ll get this letter to you; we aren’t supposed to have correspondence with anyone outside the camp, but I can’t have you searching for me. If you were to come here, everything would be ruined. This is my choice. It might not sound like it at first, especially when I mention… well, just hear me out. Before you do anything, read until the end. Hopefully, by then, I’ll have proven my desire to stay. I don’t know what you’ll tell everyone else—I don’t know what you already told them. Maybe you already assumed I was dead. Bought a gravestone. Held a funeral. Said goodbye. Maybe it was a bad idea writing this, but I… You won’t believe my story, but if words don’t fail me, you might understand it at least.

     First and foremost: I’m cured. Mostly. Sort of.

I spent years looking for a cure to my extreme mysophobia, a treatment that would allow me to spend time in the real world without rubbing my hands raw with sanitizer and taking evening-long showers. It must have been a year back when I finally found an experimental treatment that promised to answer my prayers—if only my pocketbook was large enough. I could never afford such a costly treatment, especially an experimental one. I had all but given up hope until I was contacted by Mr. James Carlyle. His name is Jim… which you won’t find amusing until I elaborate.

     How Mr. Carlyle found me, I do not know, but he was intrigued by my condition. He offered to pay for my treatment if I would work off the debt under his employ afterward. At the time, he was guarded about his profession, only mentioning that the job would require getting my hands dirty (literally). Initially, the proposition made me queasy—me willingly putting my two hands into a pile of dirt. Could you imagine? But, after treatment, I wouldn’t have the same trepidation. I could work off my debt while simultaneously proving that I was cured. How could I refuse? We shook on it (metaphorically, of course), and I received treatment the next day. The whole process was a blur—I can’t recall anything beyond the excitement.

Then, I was boarding a plane. You read that right; I was boarding an enclosed tube of compressed germs and sickness alongside a hundred strangers. It was the most exhilarating nineteen hours of my life! My destination was Mount Kilimanjaro. Mr. Carlyle owned a mine there, extracting the craziest crystals I’ve ever seen. They appear bluish-purple while they’re in the mine, like oil diffused on water. But when carted outside, they turn a deep forest green. And when carried indoors, they shift again to Valentine’s day pink. It was back-breaking work for sure, but every second I spent underground, bounded on all sides by filth and grime, was proof that this treatment worked. One dose and I was completely cured. I knew that I should be screaming for a scalding bath with the coarsest loofah on earth, but I… I enjoyed myself. It was a week of liberation beyond words. You are no doubt questioning my timeframe at this point. I’ve been missing for far longer than a week. Well, let me tell you about my eighth day.

It started off like any other. I woke up with an almost uncontrollable urge to dive into the mine and work. I wanted to mine. I needed to mine. So that’s what I did until about two-o-clock in the evening. Then, something in me changed, not all at once, but noticeably progressive. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and a shudder went down my spine, as if in mortal danger. Then my skin heated to unbearable levels. My stomach rumbled in rebellion. Only then did I realize that the treatment was wearing off. I became aware of my surroundings. I was under the earth, dirt and soot surrounded me, but worse. It wasn’t just close, it was on my hands, my face. Every inch of skin began to crawl. It was in the air I breathed, coating the inside of my mouth. My throat and lungs. Three men had to carry me out as I screamed and spasmed. I vomited. And vomited. And drank water to clean my gut before vomiting again. And then I scrubbed. I scrubbed the black until it turned pink and then red.

I don’t know how long I was in that shower—how long it had been since I barred myself in one of the public facilities—but I was all at once brought out of my convulsions by the metallic ring of a fist against the facility door. It was Mr. Carlyle. I begged him to stay away; there were already too many germs in my recently claimed cesspool. To his credit, he obeyed; despite what I will shortly say about the Mr. Carlyle, he is not a bad person. He explained that the treatment was experimental, after all. There was no guarantee that it would be perfect or even long-lasting. And he had a nearby lab if I wanted a second treatment.

It sounded ludicrous. The stones we were mining were rare and expensive. Even after factoring in the cost of shipping them offsite, then cutting, embedding, and appraising each gem, we were making a salary that would make most blush. But the cost of the treatment would make most die of shock. I still had nearly eight months to go on my contract. Another treatment would cost an extra four weeks, but if I need more, if I need another treatment every week… you don’t have to be good at math to know that this was a losing proposition. So I did what any man in his (relatively) right mind would do: I told him no.

Do you know what he did? He chuckled. Genuinely chuckled. And he left me with ominous words: “Give it a day or two. You’ll change your mind, like all the others.” Others? What others? I worked with plenty of other miners, but they couldn’t all be reformed mysophobes, right? The condition is nowhere so common as that, right? So, there I sat, alone in a public facility made home, with nothing to do. Nothing beyond scrub every inch of the place multiple times, inspecting and cleaning each tile individually. I’m sure the miners appreciated my work. But, I forget myself. I left. It took three days, but I left. It is hard to explain this next part, so please forgive me if I stumble.

As time passed, my compulsion for order and sterility never faded in the slightest. If anything, it fortified itself. But another thought—no, more like a feeling—slowly grew to overwhelm it. I enjoyed my work. I REALLY enjoyed working. Working until I was sore, with fellow workers by my side every step of the way to show me the ropes, to encourage me to persevere until the job was done. I hated germs. I hated the mine. I feared my potential experience if I ever went back, but I also knew how much I loved the experience thus far. Sorry, I’m probably not making sense right now.  It’s so hard to describe, feeling contradictory emotions. I needed the mine. Well, I wanted to need the mine. And I hated to want to need the mine. It was an unbearable conflict. I just wanted it to stop… But it could. Everything was perfect while I was cured. No conflict, no fear, no pain. And I could be cured again!

I ran—and I mean RAN—to Mr. Carlyle’s tent and begged for another treatment. And, just like that, I was back in the mines. It was ten days until my next episode and subsequent treatment. Then eight. Then fourteen. Receiving the treatment became a habit. The second I felt I might be reverting, I rushed in for another… actually, I had no idea what they were doing to me. I walked into the clinic, then I was back in the mines, happier than ever. It was like a high, a fix. I never saw my old self, but I feared to. Oh, how I feared it. So I shoved him into the darkest pit I could find and put a new lock on the cage every twelve-or-so days. My new self was better anyway. And I was having such fun.

I quickly became a model employee. I was even recognized for my achievements once or twice. A few times, Mr. Carlyle invited me into his meetings, where I learned quite a bit about his operations. Mr. Carlyle owned many mines similar to the one where I was stationed. Apart from Alexandrite, those crazy color shifting stones I mentioned earlier, he also maintained Diamond, Tanzanite, and Red Beryl mines. All of which were cleaned, cut, and sold to highest bidder—with the occasional stone being withheld for Jim Carlyle’s personal Gem Collection, which toured the wealthiest establishments every four years (now the humor in his name should be obvious).

It was also during these meetings that I met Randy. He was another American, a rare sight in those parts, so I was naturally—and curiously—drawn to him. He too had been approached by Mr. Carlyle over in the states. An expensive treatment led to a new acquaintance and a temporary career change; it was a familiar story. But when I asked about his mysophobia, he seemed confused. I explained what it was, and he said he never had such an issue. He always loved dirt, even from a young age. So, when I asked the obvious follow-up: what was he receiving treatment for, his reply frightened me.

“I don’t recall.”

We spoke for a long time after that. Although I’ve alluded to it twice now, it was only during this conversation that we realized neither of us recalled anything about our treatment. Nothing beyond the clinic doors. Randy had been receiving treatment for six whole months longer than me, and he couldn’t recall a single detail. He didn’t even know why they were treating him. Was it the treatment that was making him forgetful? I couldn’t dismiss the possibility that maybe Randy had always had issues with his memory. After all, I knew full well why I was receiving mine. On the other hand, I couldn’t recall anything about the treatment either. I needed answers.

If I could not remember what I saw during treatment, I would have to record it, somehow. Without a camera or smartphone—truth be told I had lost my phone soon after I arrived, but it never seemed important until now—I found a pad and pencil. I secreted it away in my jacket pocket, intending to blindly record any happenings during my next treatment. Maybe then I’d have information of some sort to act on. I could confront Mr. Carlyle with my findings, perhaps.

I must stop here to remind you to read to the end. What I’m about to tell you will sound crazy, fantastical even. It will be cause for concern, no doubt, but I must stress that it is my will—nothing else—causing me to stay where I am.

A week later, I held a pad full of scrawls I don’t recall making. My notes were mostly illegible. They went something like this:

A12… Dr.???… chemicals… susceptible(?)… IV… blood ???…

Beyond that is impossible to decipher, despite many evenings attempting just that. All except for one word, in all caps: BRAINWASH.

Brainwash? What do you do with that? That could explain Randy’s forgetfulness. It could also explain why I suddenly love my work. But it could also be the drug-induced ramblings of a man attempting to write during a delicate treatment procedure. Were I a smart man, I may have considered it for longer. Perhaps I would have told Randy my findings, and together, we’d plan a daring escape from the brainwashing internment camp. But smart, I am not.

I kicked open the door to Mr. Carlyle’s quarters, interrupting a meeting with a handful of shareholders. I demanded an explanation in front of everyone, holding up my scribbles as proof of my conviction. And, for the second time, he chuckled at me.

Why, of course I was being brainwashed. What on earth else did I think would immediately cure mysophobia? They implanted an idea, a deep desire to dig, to get dirty, in my frontal lobe, offsetting my already existing desire to avoid the same. It’s no secret. He never tried to hide it from me. It was I who never asked. Can you believe that? And with a third chuckle, he offered to help me leave, providing I pay my balance, of course. But that would mean, never receiving another treatment again. Never feeling the effects of that brain-altering suggestion. Never enjoying a life apart from the burden of my mental disorder.

If you know you’re being brainwashed to do something, and you still do it, is that programming or is it choice?

I can’t go back to how things were. I mean, I can but… More than my personal fear of germs, I have a human fear of loss. I’m happy. I can get out of bed in the morning with a smile on my face and know that I have a purpose. I am treated well, three square meals a day, plenty of breaks. I am free. I can leave anytime I want—but I don’t. I can’t leave this behind. I can’t revert to a life of being shut in, scared of the cracked window or the space below the door. I cannot smell the odor of hand sanitizer for another second, not even for you.

Please, do not come looking for me. And do not expect me to return. Just know I’m fine. I’m in a safe place.

Love,

… A stranger