At first, I’m deeply concerned about the missing file my therapist is certain to notice, but my fears are gradually quelled when I acknowledge anyone could’ve taken it. Unlike the other folders with specific names, this selection likely has information on several patients, if not all of them.
But I’m already on their radar.
I shake my head, dismissing the thought. There’s nothing I can do about it now, and if things get serious I’ll just deny it up and down. Based on what I’ve already learned, it’s unlikely Kingdom of the Pine is free from enemies.
I continue on through the deep woods that surround the outreach center, eventually stopping in a small clearing to catch my breath and rest my throbbing leg as it burns with deep, internal pain. I pull off my mask and flop down on a fallen tree, rubbing the sore flesh of my thigh and clenching my teeth in a grimace of both satisfaction and discomfort.
Once the ache has been subdued I pull out the stolen folder and open it up, gazing down at a single sheet of paper under the light of the moon.
I’m looking at a grid of fifty or so names that run down the left side of a table, followed by a column of complex numbers and another column of mysterious words.
I recognize some of them as Latin names.
On the far right side of this page are two small pillars of checkmarks with the titles RETETHER SUGGESTED and DECEASED.
Across the top of the sheet a headline is emblazoned in bold lettering: CAMP DAMASCUS ASSIGNMENTS.
Here in Neverton, it’s hard to ignore the way the camp’s presence weaves through daily life. It is, after all, the central cog of our local economy. Without much else to export, having the world’s most effective gay conversion therapy program in our backyard has been a boon to the community. Folks fly in from across the globe to change the lives of their lost children.
I’m well aware that Dr. Smith works at Camp Damascus, but I’m struggling to understand how the rest of this data applies to an ex-gay ministry.
“What the heck,” I murmur, struggling to make sense of the informational cascade.
Relax, I remind myself, slow down.
I drum my fingers across the page in a deeply soothing pattern, allowing this peaceful exercise to work its magic.
Meanwhile, the forest around me respires to its own natural rhythm, a faint breeze rustling the leaves as insects chirp and hum.
Starting again, I carefully scroll down the list of names to see if I recognize anyone. While most people who attend Camp Damascus are out-of-towners, it’s not uncommon for Neverton residents to make their way through the program.
They certainly don’t like to talk about it afterward, but it happens.
When I reach my own name, I stop.
I back up, then read it again, and again.
My hands are shaking, and I do my best to keep from succumbing to the wave of nauseated anxiety that washes though me.
“I’ve never been to Camp Damascus,” I say aloud, my head spinning. “Why would I go to Camp Damascus?”
Because you’re gay, an inner voice quips.
My visions from in the ambulance come swirling back like a vicious tornado, tearing through my thoughts. I remember the way that hard cement slab felt against my back, the drone of the chanting figures as it vibrated through my inner ears and crept into my skull.
I still have no recollection of how I got to that place, nor how I left, but I now have a pretty good idea where it’s hidden.
As I’ve allowed myself to blossom and change, breaking the chains of this community that tightly wrapped around my heart for so long, my perspective has also shifted. My outlook creeps along with me, lurking in the background until it’s time to gaze out some familiar mental window, at which point I find myself shocked by the view. What once seemed so cut-and-dried has warped into an absolute nightmare.
Growing up in Neverton, I rarely gave Camp Damascus a second thought. As a devout follower of the Lord, it felt good to know this organization was giving people their lives back.
Now that it appears something even more sinister is going on, I’m forced to reassess these feelings and confront the horrific truth that will likely haunt me for a very, very long time: there was always something sinister going on at Camp Damascus.
Another wave of aching repulsion sweeps through me and I’m forced to lower the paper, bracing against the log below as I let out a slow breath. After growing up a member of the congregation, guilt is an emotional reaction I know all too well.
Pushing forward and following the clues has been a wonderful distraction. It’s kept me from confronting my grief, but it’s also kept me from confronting my regret. The more I separate myself from the villains in this web of lies, the easier it gets, but the raw truth is that I’m a huge part of this system already. In my own small way, I helped build this town.
I recall participating in car wash fundraisers for families who couldn’t afford the program. One year we raised almost ten grand to help with renovations on the north cabins.
The roiling emotions within me are finally too much to contain, and the next thing I know I’m erupting in a long, tormented groan. I drop my head to my hands and let it all spill out, losing myself in the moment.
It feels good to expel my feelings in such a visceral way, but I can’t express them for long. I’m still too close to the outreach center.
As usual, however, my curiosity gets the best of me.
I open the folder again, blurry-eyed yet determined to understand the full weight of this information. I return to my own row, then slowly read across. The numbers appear to be a system of complex coordinates with twelve points: X, Y, Z （labeled SPACE） and A, B, C （labeled TIME） are each stated twice, a unique numerical string for every variable.
Next to this information is an ancient name that doesn’t surprise me in the least.
“Pachid,” I read aloud.
Glancing up and down this column I recognize several other names from my studies, minor demons spanning the biblical and occult canon.
Empusa, Leyak, Megalesius, Gressil.
The sudden crunch of a footstep over dry leaves prompts me to glance up in alarm. Someone is headed this way, finding the security footage and following a vague direction of my escape through the woods.
I close the folder and keep moving, forcing my aching body to pick up the pace.
It’s not long before I emerge onto the road where my car is parked, climb in, and tear out of there without a moment’s hesitation. The guilt is still gnawing away at me, but there’s plenty of forward momentum to keep it at bay.
Now that I have this page, something much better than a means of distraction simmers within.
I was taught the importance of perseverance by Kingdom of the Pine, so I suppose they brought this upon themselves.
I was also educated on vengeance.
If I sharpen My flashing sword, and My hand takes hold on justice, I will render vengeance on My adversaries, and I will repay those who hate Me. I will make My arrows drunk with blood, And My sword will devour flesh, With the blood of the slain and the captives, From the long-haired leaders of the enemy.
Luckily, I’m a little less fire and brimstone than the Word of God. I’m hoping for justice rather than retribution, but the heart of the matter remains. I was a cog in a terrible machine for years, and now I’m honored to be the monkey wrench dismantling it.
I marinate on this as I speed through the darkness toward home, focused on my new identity as a ferocious warrior.