Camp Damascus(38)

That acknowledgment could arrive after several decades, or it could happen tonight, but the time will come. Eventually, I’ll have to fully contend with this simple fact: the love I was promised is conditional.

That’s why I’m so fearful to open this drawer and see what’s inside.

Just because Dr. Smith offered a placebo from this particular cabinet doesn’t mean a trove of unholy secrets lies hidden within. I had a drug-induced vision on the verge of death (something I never thought I’d get to say about myself, but here we are) and for all I know those images were nothing more than a surreal expression of the blood and oxygen draining from my brain.

It’s called a hypoxic-anoxic injury, and yes, it causes hallucinations.

If this is the case—and Dr. Smith has nothing to hide but his questionable credentials—I might be forced to slow down and accept the feeling of loss that lurks above me like a patient vulture.

Vultures are bald to reduce the risk of bacterial infection while plunging their heads inside rotting carcasses.

I need a way to fight back against whatever’s going on: a clue, a sign, a fork in the road. I need a way to keep moving forward.

I take a deep breath and pull the top drawer open, gazing down at rows and rows of plastic pill bottles and tiny tinctures. I recognize the little white containers immediately, a massive supply of the Cebocap Dr. Smith is currently prescribing me and I’m happily ignoring. It appears the placebo strategy calms a wide range of patients.

Another swath of containers remain a mystery, however.

I reach inside and extract one of these tiny glass flasks, holding it up to the faint moonlight that streams through a nearby window.

“Holy water,” I read aloud from the vessel’s tiny engraving.

Looks like this is what the other half of Dr. Smith’s patients get.

I continue to the lower drawer, opening it up and discovering a neatly organized rack of manila folders. Each folder sports a patient’s name, listed in alphabetical order and running the length of the bin. I immediately scan for my own folder and pull it out, opening it wide and running my eyes over pages and pages of notes.

Dr. Smith’s writing is fairly stream of consciousness, documenting a scribbled impression of each session and marking a date at the top to keep things orderly. That’s all well and good for a therapist, but within seconds of reading through the freehand pages it becomes clear something unusual is going on.

These notes seem deeply preoccupied with my connection to the church, rather than any internal connection to myself. Dr. Smith also appears completely unaware of my place on the autism spectrum.

My conscious mind was ignorant to the fact that I’m gay, but even I knew I was autistic.

Stranger still is Dr. Smith’s constant mention of “the assignment.”

One passage reads: Rose Darling has consistently shown resistance to the assignment, which gives reason to keep an eye on other assignments tethered using Ligeian breeds Delta-4 and Delta-5. It should be noted these breeds are also displaying an unusually resilient lifecycle.

Another entry: The assignment of Rose Darling is particularly aggressive. It’s difficult to determine whether this is a product of Rose or the assignment itself. L and L have been advised.

I read the last sentence four times before moving on. At first I assumed he was referencing some school project of mine, or a task for the congregation, but it dawns on me “the assignment” is something much more pressing.

Reaching the end of the folder, I discover several invoices between my parents and the church, each one in the form of a charitable donation. These gifts are three hundred dollars a month, transferred directly from my family to Kingdom of the Pine. I was told my therapy is a free service for all congregation members, but it appears that’s a lie.

I follow the dates backward until finally reaching an initial payment, then gasp aloud at the enormous number staring back at me in faded black printer ink.

“Half a million dollars?” I blurt. “What?”

I snap a few photos with my phone, then slip the paperwork back into its cabinet. I’m just about ready to shut the drawer, satisfied with my discoveries, when another folder catches my eye.

This is the first manila envelope of the bunch, gazing back at me with one simple word printed across its label: ASSIGNMENTS.

I’m just about to reach out and grab it when, suddenly, I freeze.

The faintest shuffling tone crosses my ears and forces me to glance at the door. I hold my breath in the darkness, watching intently for any sign of life and praying my ears were just playing tricks on me.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

4, 3, 2, 1.

3, 2, 1.

2, 1.

1.

This little pattern of tension in my fingers is the only movement allowed.

I’m seconds from relaxing when the hallway light pops on, faintly glowing under the doorframe. Panic surges through my body as I’m flooded with thoughts of a silent alarm that must’ve been triggered at some point along my journey.

The security room is down here in the basement, and as soon as the guards realize this alarm trigger was legitimate, the police will be on their way.

I grab the ASSIGNMENTS folder and scurry over to Dr. Smith’s desk, climbing onto it and stretching out to reach the window. These are the same small, high-perched openings that wrap around the whole basement, and fortunately I already know I can fit through them.