#gravesby

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Gravesby saw but didn’t see the man getting out of the passenger side of the car parked along the main drag along the north side of campus. Looked like a townie, maybe an alum. Not old at all, but definitely not young enough to be an undergrad. Grad student? Assistant prof? Maybe--hard maybe. Shitty place to park, though. He thought no more of it or him and walked on. 

The man walked along behind him; no big deal, people walk all over this campus. But it was that speed, that irritating speed where you can tell someone is behind you and you wish they’d either slow down or just fucking pass. But, no, they’re just going to walk right there in your blind spot at the same speed as you and just a little too close. What the hell?

There was a car pulled nose-out into the alley beside the taco shop. Another shitty place to park. Gravesby passed in front of it, gave the driver a wave of thanks for not running him over, and walked on. The car pulled out just as he passed.

That guy was still walking behind him. The fuck, guy?

The next alley up was too narrow for anything beside a bicycle (maybe a moped) to get through, but down at the end, perpendicular to the alley, pulled up as close as it could be, was a car. Weird. Gravesby looked at it, turned away, looked at it again. Blue car again?

There’s lots of blue cars in this town, damn. Way to be fucking paranoid, my dude. 

Yeah, but blue with tinted windows? Taco alley car had tinted windows, like, maybe too dark to be legal. Harder to tell with this one but definitely tinted windows.

He reached for his phone.

The man behind him finally decided to pass him, thank fuck. But as he did, he slammed against Gravesby’s shoulder, knocking him off-balance, knocking his phone out of his hand, and sending him a few steps closer to the mouth of the alleyway. 

“Ooh, wow, sorry about that,” Gravesby said, holding up his hands.

The man smiled at him. “No, no, my fault entirely.”

Gravesby nodded, giving a stiff smile in return, and turned to walk away.

And at that moment, the man rushed him, pushing him back into the alleyway with the flat side of a laptop case, driving him backwards into the dark of the alley.

Someone grabbed the strap of Gravesby’s bag and pulled. He turned to see the driver of the taco alley car holding on to the strap and someone else climbing out of the car. They pushed him against the brick wall and stood around him. Murals of jungle leaves and puzzle pieces soared above them.

Gravesby held up his hands, abject surrender. “If you want money, I’ve got basically none but you can have it. Phone, laptop, whatever--you can have it. PIN number. If you want me to withdraw everything in my bank account--” He was babbling, and shaking against the wall.

The three men around him all seemed so well-dressed, so professorial with their oxford cloth shirts. One was wearing wire-rimmed glasses. Another one was wearing an honest-to-fuck necktie. They could be adjunct professors or librarians, easy. Not the sort of people you’d think would corner anyone in a dark alley (holy shit, that is exactly what happened).

The one wearing the tie pushed him back against the wall, hard. Gravesby pressed himself against the bricks, palms flat against them. 

The one wearing glasses finally spoke. “Mr. Gravesby, we need you to come with us.”

“I don’t know who you are,” Gravesby answered, barely above a whisper.

The one in front of him jammed a hand against his throat, slamming him back against the wall. His grip tightened and Gravesby began to struggle and kick in earnest. 

But as soon as he kicked out, one of them caught his leg by the ankle and hoisted him up onto the toes of his other foot. The other caught up his other foot behind the knee and took him completely off his feet. He flailed, trying to catch hold of anything, with the hand still around his throat, but all he caught hold of were the tweed lapels of one of the three men, who quickly and calmly caught Gravesby up under the arms. 

Now pulled between them, caught arm and leg, he twisted, he wriggled, more like a caught fish or a worm. He should have screamed, he knew that, but struggling took up too much energy and too much thought. They carried him between them towards the car at the end of the alley. The one who caught him by the throat (finally letting go) hurried ahead of them and opened the back door of the car. Feet first, they pulled and jammed Gravesby into the back seat.

Now--and Gravesby tried to catch hold of the car’s roof, just above the open door, to try and pull himself out, to try and pull himself free. But there was nothing to hold to there; his fingers slipped across the metal with a squeal. 

The driver was back in the front seat, starting the engine. The back seat was more confined, and Gravesby was pushing against the man who had his feet, reaching for the open door, even pushing up against the roof, anything to make himself too much trouble to keep. No good: the man who held his feet was wrapping his ankles in duct tape and the back door closed and locked.

Still: Gravesby sprawled across the lap of the man beside him, reaching for the door handle, only to be pushed back, down, and away.

The car pulled away, down a side road, and away.

Gravesby was still kicking at the man taping up his ankles and didn’t pay enough attention to the one on his other side who caught hold of his arms and twisted them up, around, and behind him. A quick pull and Gravesby shouted at the pain, and stopped struggling (for a moment). Long enough, though, to find his wrists being wrapped in zip ties. He still wriggled against them.

The man with the tape caught Gravesby by the shoulders and shook him, shoving him into the middle of the backseat and holding him there. Everything was still for a moment: Gravesby, panting with the effort of it all, stared at the man who held him by his shirt-front and face. In the meantime, the other one had taken out a pair of silver scissors and started hacking at the strap of Gravesby’s bag--which broke the stillness.

Gravesby whirled around to see the scissors working away. “Hey, don’t cut my bag--that’s my shit!”

The other one gave him a quick slap across the face--enough to surprise, not enough to hurt. 

They tossed his bag into the front seat of the car.

Nearly to the interstate now. And Gravesby finally felt adrenaline turn into fear. “What the fuck. What the fuck.” He looked down at his taped-up ankles, breathing hard, trying not to vomit. “What the fuck. What the fuck.”

One of them was rubbing the back of his neck gently. It did nothing to soothe him.

“Nothing to worry about,” the driver said. And Gravesby looked up to meet his eyes in the rearview mirror. 

“You’ve got a long road ahead of you,” he went on, “so we’re going to need you to calm down. All right?”

“Here,” the man beside him said, holding out a paper cup with a pale blue pill in the bottom and a bottle of water.

“The fuck is it?”

“Just Xanax,” he said. “Nothing to be afraid of.”

“Bull fucking shit.”

“Mr. Gravesby, it could have been Rohypnol,” the driver said. “And I’m completely prepared to prepare something that require injection if that’s what will be required.”

“Just take it, son,” the third man said.

“Fucking--no?” 

The third man shrugged, reached over and covered Gravesby’s mouth with one hand and pinched his nose shut with the other. Gravesby twisted under his hands: no air, no breath, and no chance to take a breath before he’d clamped down his hands. 

Just as his chest began to burn, the man took his hand off Gravesby’s mouth. Gravesby gasped for air, mouth wide open, and suddenly tasted something bitter and chalky--the pill; he’d thrown the pill in his mouth in that split second, followed by a fast splash of water. The hand went back over his mouth, but now, at least, he let go of Gravesby’s nose. 

“Swallow it,” he said, calm and patient, into Gravesby’s ear and Gravesby shook his head.

“Swallow it,” he said again, beginning to pull along Gravesby’s throat like he was a dog refusing to take his medicine. “Come on now. Swallow it.”

Though he fought as long as he could, he did, finally, swallow the pill and the mouthful of water.

“Thatta boy,” the man said, finally taking his hand off Gravesby’s mouth. He gave his shoulder a shake, paternal, friendly.

“Need another drink?” the man with the bottle asked, holding it in front of Gravesby’s nose.

Gravesby eyed it suspiciously: bottled water, commercial label. Fine: he leaned over and put his mouth on it, took a drink, another, a third. 

“Got enough for now?” the man asked. 

Gravesby eyed him sidelong and nodded.

“You did add the Rohypnol to the water, though, didn’t you?” the driver asked.

“Of course,” the man with the bottle answered.

Gravesby looked at each one of the three of them in turn: the man with the bottle, the man beside him, the driver. His mouth hung open; nothing to say. 

“Then we’re off,” the driver said.

They still knew their positions, but now they’d glance up for approval. They’d watch the instructors as they moved around the room. They’d still whimper when they were corrected, and now the switch was larger and sometimes replaced with a leather crop, but they didn’t scream and, best of all, they didn’t swear. 

8204, for example, had been terrible for swearing when he’d first arrived.

Now three of the five Night Shift had passed through and over and were beginning their new lessons. And, for the time being, the interrogators were present during the earlier lessons, in large part because, now that they were broken, it was imperative to set the breaks, metaphorically speaking. One had to make them permanent, and then to take out whatever pieces did not suit the whole any longer, and replace those pieces.

The lovely Japanese technique of kintsugi was another apt metaphor: a shattered piece of porcelain repair with nothing less than gold. That was more accurate. Set the breaks and gaps with the better material.

One couldn’t start from absolute zero (or beyond the zero, as Dr. Pointsman might say). Imagine trying to toilet train these creatures. Imagine trying to teach them how to eat with silverware. No one would receive their delivery in any kind of decent timeframe. One had to begin with a basis, the porcelain, break it, and then mend it with gold, the new habits and thoughts. And it did help if the porcelain was of high quality to begin with, metaphorically speaking again of course.

It was a shame that 634027 wasn’t with them yet, but he was progressing. 734862 didn’t seem close to breaking at all, which was the real shame. He may be a lost cause. Still, if he was, nothing of great value lost. (Perhaps electroconvulsive therapy? Did quite a number on memory most of the time)

They were lined up facing the wall now, at the end of their positions lessons. No blindfolds, no muzzles, no handcuffs or ropes or chains. And they were even permitted to kneel and rest against their heels (“position 2” as it was sometimes called in some of the mass-production outfits). They sat still, unmoving (save for some trembling) and waited.

8204 was newly broken, the one with the least of his new mind built compared to his classmates, and his trembling was easily the worst of the three by far. He was so deep in these seas of uncertainty, of lost identity, of hunger. And every time he was struck by the instructors for twitching or moving, he would try to stop his shaking by his own will (all the muscles in his back would tense, precious thing), which would only make his shaking worse. He knew or perhaps remembered the expectations they had for him. Muscle memory, some demand deep in his brain.

In the new late lessons, which were sometimes so much calmer than before (sometimes; there was weeping on occasion and raised voices from the instructors), he would gaze up at the interrogators-turned-instructors with desperate eyes. He wanted so much to be good. He wanted so much to be accepted, reassured, perhaps even praised. He would sit in the chair before them, slightly hunched, willing himself smaller (than he already was), but looking up to his teachers with those desperate eyes. But he knew better than to ask for reassurance--or anything, for that matter. The growing quiet that had overcome him in the last few days before his true breakdown had fixed itself in him.

So he was quiet and if he spoke it was only when spoken to--or, it could be said, he spoke with his eyes (yes, perhaps the client had requested blue eyes, but 8204’s stormy gray eyes were at least as beautiful as blue eyes, and perhaps more rare and exotic than ordinary blue).

With silence in place, they could teach him grace, fragility, elegance, ways of moving, ways of carrying himself, not the basics of positions but the best versions of each one for him. And, of course, the higher number positions could be taught too.

He would learn to be a beautiful object, a haunted doll, whose tastes would align with his owner’s, who would answer his owner’s every request. Though he still had quite a journey before him, considering that the shadow of the House already loomed over him.

But, already the interrogators left the mystery of their future owners over their heads: remember that your owner is out there, waiting for you. Your owner already desires you with every moment and you should desire your owner. Your owner has been waiting for you for so long; don’t make them wait too long. Think of how pleased your owner will be when they see how well-trained you are. Think of your owner and try a little harder.

8204 was as stupid as any of them in these raw days after their breaking, but he was a fast learner. He still had the habit of biting his lips, though. Could it be turned into a sort of “charm point” perhaps? Some unexpected and charming quirk? Something to make him seem nervous and vulnerable? Or perhaps even desirable? 

They might need to read the client’s requests again and see if there was anything that could be inferred one way or another. And 8204’s upcoming time at The House might make the habit worse.

One of the positions instructors started towards him with the stick again, but an interrogator stopped him. Instead, the interrogator himself went to crouch next to 8204.

He set one hand flat against 8204’s back and whispered, “You’re doing well.”

[Excerpt from report given to Box Dreams executives by Box Dreams development department:

--as has been stated elsewhere.

Given the limited success of the Dream Machine(tm) to this point, my colleagues and I believe a return to the work of Dr. Henry Murray at Harvard University in the early 1960s will be more effective.

We do not intend to abandon the work on the Dream Machine(tm), but as demand grows for our products, we will need to find methods of preparation which are effective.

Dr. Murray carried out a series of human experimentation sessions at Harvard in which undergraduate students were submitted to what Dr. Murray called "vehement, sweeping and personally abusive" attacks. Specifically-tailored assaults, based in part on essays the students wrote in preparation for the experiment, to their egos, cherished ideas, and beliefs were used to cause high levels of stress and distress. The subjects then viewed recorded footage of their reactions to this verbal abuse repeatedly during which their reactions were questioned and attacked. These interrogations and/or arguments were repeated, as were the viewings of recorded footage.

Although Dr. Murray's intention was to examine individuals' responses to extreme stress, in particular in light of the Cold War and a fascination for "brainwashing" at that time, the psychological effects and repercussions of this process have been proven to be long-lasting. 

As such, we would use a slight variation on this method: to wit, rather than having products still in production/preparation write an essay, we intend to use the research conducted by the Acquisitions department together with materials gathered from intake forms, contracts, and any materials volunteered by products. Many products are unaware of how much materials and information has been gathered, and can still be gathered, about them which will put them at a psychological disadvantage against the interrogator, who would, naturally, one of my colleagues or myself. Please see the attached documentation regarding set-up of processing rooms and etc.

The intention, in short, is to demolish the ideals and beliefs held by products during their previous time as commonplace citizens. After this demolition or breakdown has occurred, we are then able to rebuild a product's mind as the company and client prefers. This technique is also related to Dr. Murray's idea of "personology," though only tangentally, namely that personality continues to develop throughout life and is influenced by all the events that occur to an individual throughout life.

Anyone can learn to be docile if it benefits them. Anyone can learn to fear punishment and strive for rewards. Anyone can obey rules if obedience leads away from punishment and towards reward. Consider inmates in prisons, as an example. However, this kind of docility and obedience is a conscious decision made on the part of the person or product and it cannot be guaranteed to last. Everyone can be said to have a "breaking point." We intend to push products to that breaking point purposefully and with specific intention. A true psychological breakdown, such as is will happen in this procedure, can be used to create a "naturally" even temperament, a "naturally" docile nature, and a "naturally" obedient product. In short, the product will be reborn.

Additionally, we see no reason that this process would be detrimental to 4-digit products and their eventual preparation at The House. Time spent at The House could be considered a part of the rebuilding process.

Although the Dream Machine(tm) may yet prove an efficient, elegant, and successful method of product preparation, --]

I don't remember what happened. I remember the taste of iron in my mouth. They didn't use sticks or switches on us. I know because I never had any bruises I didn't remember when I got back to my cell. 

When I started forgetting what happened in late lessons, I started trying to figure it out. I couldn't, so I needed something to know what hadn't happened. I’d check for new bruises. I’d check my clothes. I’d check all over.

There was screaming. I heard that the first night I was there. There was screaming and sometimes it was angry and sometimes it was just desperate and raw. 

Sometimes my throat was sore when I was back in my cell, so I must have screamed too. And sometimes I realized I was crying without knowing it. I wasn't sobbing, it was just crying. Sometimes I had a headache. 

I'd always kind of "wake up" on the way back to my cell. It was a lot like waking up: you'd just kind of jump back into your body, which was awful if you were blindfolded or if your hands were tied. There were times I'd wake up and then gasp and fall over. One of the instructors would catch me or one of the guards. It happened to all of us. It happened to me and I saw it happen to the others. Sometimes you'd wake up before everyone else, sometimes you wouldn't wake up until you were back in your cell. And you had no idea how you got there or what had happened in between. 

And they'd close the curtain over your cell door and you'd go wash your face and clean up and go to sleep. If I dreamed it was usually chaos and dirt. That's the only way I can describe it. It was just desolation and ruin, but it wasn't empty. I might be running through mud and wrecked houses and climbing over chainlink fences to try and get away from someone or something. I can remember a dream where I was trying to get out of this shack and jump across this ditch behind it, which was full of mud and trash and my feet were bleeding so I didn’t want to put my feet in the mud, but I was going to have to if I wanted to get across to the hugely tall fence on the other side, and there was someone after me anyway and then someone on the other side who was also after me. It was just ruin and mud and running. 

But I didn't dream a lot of nights--days. I fell asleep and stopped existing until they woke me up again for laps, positions lessons, Quiet and Still, showers, food, then late lessons, and then sleep again. That was the day. That was every day.

I know I remember what happened at late lessons, but it's like I can't bring it up. I can feel it there and sometimes I can get flashes of what happened--like a color or a light or the corner of a room, but it never makes any sense. 

Sometimes I want to know what happened, but when I get close to turning up those memories, I think it's best that I can't remember.

And it wasn’t even the same interrogator every time. There were at least three of them, though towards the end, they all began to blend together to 8204. They all knew everything about him. They had photographs. They had emails. They had blog posts. They had chat logs. They had bullshit BookFace posts. They had text conversations. They had his fucking college application essay.

“You can’t honestly think that.”

And 8204 would grit his teeth and hunch his shoulders. He’d look down at his hands, which were usually clenching into fists. He’d shake. He’d cry. He’d get up from the chair and turn away to face the blank wall behind him. He’d try taking deep breaths. He’d come back to the discussion--which was what the interrogators always said: “We’re only having a discussion. Why are you getting so angry?” 

Then there might be yelling and screaming, the desperate streams of something like explanations or defenses getting more and more irrational. Then there might be more crying, then more shouting. 

And if the interrogator needed to shout, then of course he would. But he had no real need to shout. Once 8204 got it out of his system, more or less, then the interrogator would be back in control and could direct or redirect the conversation.

“I don’t want to talk about it any more!” 

And the interrogator would answer, “You haven’t talked about it at all. You’ve only shouted. And you haven’t even proved your point.”

All of it recorded on camera: the calm, impartial eye of the camera saw all. 

It wasn’t a perfect alternation between interrogation and review--got to keep them on their toes, got to keep the rats guessing in the maze. Nor were the reviews entirely solitary--sometimes it did one well to see the reactions of one’s peers to see one’s failings, of course. 

“What do you think, 634027?”

And, say, 634027 would answer quietly, “I think he’s being, um, really emotional. Like, unnecessarily emotional?”

Then turn the conversation back on 8204 and ask him why he was being so unnecessarily emotional. Turn on him, ruin him.

Not that 8204 wouldn’t take his turn pointing out flaws in his classmates’ arguments. Turn them on each other.

It took time, but it was worthwhile. And it took longer with the ones who didn’t sign their contracts quite so immediately or, let it be said, voluntarily. It took time, but once they broke, the better work could begin.

And 8204 had just broken.

He had been getting quieter and quieter in each session--not out of spite, which was a technique he had tried at one point; the old-fashioned silent treatment (it hadn’t lasted: when they were all kept in silence and isolation, even an argument is welcome human contact). But genuine quiet was an encouraging sign. He had been rather vocal when he’d first arrived, though he seemed to hold his tongue fairly well during positions lessons and so on.

But he was truly listening now, not arguing, not trying to defend. His walls were coming down--by force now, but soon with the gentleness of demolition with an eye to reconstruction. Not even reconstruction but the creation of a whole new identity, a whole new personality, a whole new mind. The astonishing work of building a mind--that was what Dr. Pointsman had said of it.

And now, tonight, 8204 was curled up on the floor, sobbing--perhaps with the relief of surrender, perhaps with the air of one welcoming death after a long illness. There was an entirely different tone to this crying. There was no anger, no frustration, only relief, only liberation.

8204 tipped forward and now curled up with his forehead against the linoleum floor, still sobbing. 

There was a sharp knock and the door opened. A second interrogator looked down on 8204 shaking and sobbing.

“There comes a point at which they all break,” he said, and he shook the first interrogator’s hand.

8204’s file was open on the desk. The second interrogator glanced at it as the first interrogator left and waited.

After a while (perhaps half an hour? perhaps more?) 8204 was still crying, but more quietly now. He knelt down beside him on the floor and set one hand on 8204’s arched back. The sobs were still rippling through him. He leaned down beside him and whispered: 

“Congratulations, 8204. You’ve done so well. You’re so close to finishing now.”

He collected 8204 into his arms and held him--the first real contact that was not the far end of a switch or a prod that 8204 had experienced since processing. 8204 went on crying, but quieter now. He was limp, loose, a doll and the interrogator held him like a child and rocked him and hummed to him.

8204 opened his eyes. The interrogator took his face gently in one hand. 8204 turned his eyes away--already catching on, good boy. The interrogator pressed his forehead against 8204’s and whispered again, “You can let go. You don’t have to fight anymore. You can let go. And we’ll catch you.”

8204 closed his eyes again. The interrogator went on holding him and humming. 8204 drifted towards an exhausted sleep, but he realized, dimly, half-asleep, that the interrogator was humming a song he knew.