The Perception Experiment
His town is perfect. A shining example of morality. The kind of place you’d raise children in. The kind of place that breeds happy, productive citizens.
In another part of the house the front door opens.
He is an exemplary member of the community—goes to Church every Sunday, always punctual and organized, never misses a day of work.
But to achieve perfection, sacrifices have to be made.
This is a world of mandatory mind control.
When one man is forced to confront the holes in his worldview head on, what starts with skipping Church becomes a full-fledged battle for sanity.
Now they’re coming for him, to put him back in his place, restore his status as a sedated slave.
In this gripping and suspenseful psychological thrill-ride, you’ll follow the narrator’s remarkable journey of awareness and self-discovery as the world he once knew is torn apart around him.
If ignorance is bliss, then knowledge is torture.
The Perception Experiment is a poetic and imaginative work of literature, a modern allegory of epic proportions that will leave you emotionally shaken.
I never lock the door.
The creaking of footsteps across the floor of my house is so surreal. I can imagine the shadows dancing in the light of torches and can see the pickaxes waving. Just like some old monster movie. The mob must eradicate the freak of nature, search it out and destroy it. Fists raised, voices shouting. I put my head into my hands and rock back and forth, pinned down with fear. He is here, there's no escape. I can't let him catch me. He knows I've been questioning everything. Somehow he knows. A voice reaches my ears.
"Hello? Hello? Anyone home?"
My ship is going down and I am sinking with it, into the jaws of some concealed force. Some faceless menace. A whirlpool in the Bermuda triangle. Lost at sea in the bleak waves of insanity. I have no place left to go.
"Come now, I know you're here. Why weren't you at Church this morning? We were worried about you. We prayed for you."
More footsteps, echoing footsteps creak-creak-creaking through my lovely home. He knows I'm in here. I look for a weapon with which to defend myself. I've never hurt anybody before.
This can be new.
This can be different.
There's a large flashlight I keep next to the bed. In case of emergencies. I rush over and grab it, clutching it like a club. My life resides in this cylindrical metal object. My hands are sweating and it's hard to hang onto. My lifeline. I don't want to go back to the blue place.
I'd rather die than give up my pain.
More footsteps, the voice is coming closer to my secret shelter. Where I lie, somewhat safe from rancid radioactivity.
"Why are you hiding from me? I love you, and God loves you. I am only here to help. I brought some of our friends from the Church. They love you too. They want to help you. I know you did not ask for this, I am not angry with you. There is something evil inside of you. Let me help."
More footsteps, approaching, encroaching, coming ever closer to my room. I can hear him—the priest, the agent of the Lord—just outside my door. His breathing heavy and holy, frantic and rolling.
"Oh, I see. You are in here, aren't you."
His hand is on the door handle, the cold brass knob, rattling it, shaking it, testing the lock.
"Now why would you want to keep the Father of your Church out of your life? Trust me. Have faith. I will heal you. It is very foolish to refuse my help, you know."
Why can't he just leave me alone? Just leave me here to piece together the jumbled patterns, to sew together the fabrics of my life into one, all on my own, forever alone.
Please, just let me be.
"Look out your window. It is silly to resist. We only want to help you."
I turn my head slowly towards the window across the room, near my bed. I forgot about the window. How could I be so stupid? I stare through the panes of glass, and there they are. Waiting for me.
There they are, nice little constructive citizens.
At least fifteen members of my parish are standing on my front lawn, dressed in their best Sunday clothes. Dressed to save me. They stare through the window, and the glass seems ever so delicate. Fragile and simple to demolish. Would these people resort to damaging my property? After all, possession is nine-tenths of the law. Would they resort to violence if it meant succeeding in taking me away? Would they resort to violence to help me? Somehow, I feel they would do anything in order to accomplish that goal. Anything, if they thought it was the will of God. I'm sure I would have three days ago.
Their eyes hurt me, burning me, scorching my skin, reducing my mind to ashes and changing my body into cinders.
Dust to dust. I wish they would just go away.
There is a tapping at my door.
"They are all on your side, you know. No one wants any harm to come to you."
Lies. Lies. Lies.
The window is so frail, so breakable.