The whole school were taken to corrections after that.
The TV called it intensive therapy. We were told that Dylan Morgan had set
himself on fire as the ultimate protest against the New English way of life.
After six weeks of hearing it we almost believed it. We were systematically
hypnotised and probed for ‘repressed memories’, we were beaten and caressed and
photographed and sprayed with hot and cold water… They told us we only believed
what we wanted to believe. That we needed to admit the truth before we could be
allowed to leave. Three of the weaker girls confessed to conspiracy to subvert
the state and had confirmed under oath that Dylan had abused them. They put
their confessions on a 24 hour loop. Gave us injections that made us feel
drowsy. Dylan’s name was mud and eventually we all went along with it. It’s
like a dream now. Corrections made it seem like it was almost the truth but the
memory technology was in its infancy then. It was like being on a strong pain
killer rather than being completely knocked out. We all knew that Dylan had
been murdered, pretty much in cold blood, yet when we tried to talk about it;
it came out as hatred for his ideology and horrified wonder as his selfish and
flamboyant suicide. But deep down we couldn’t forget. The image of him burning,
arms out and passive as they set him on fire was burned into my eyes and it
coloured all I saw, just as if I had stared too deeply at the sun.
They
released us in the summer. Then two of our teachers disappeared, then several
of the girls disappeared. I made the decision to disappear myself before they
could take me away. They’d already trained us in survival so I just stole a
rifle, a tent and some supplies and went out into the wilderness.
Figured that
if this was society I’d quite happily live my life outside it.
I’d be even
happier to watch it burn.
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