The techniques of brainwashing are simple: isolate the victim, expose them to inconsistent messages, mix it with sleep deprivation, add some form of abuse, get the person to doubt what they know and feel, keep them on their toes, wear them down, and make sure to stir well.
I continue to repeat this in my mind; the thing my uncle would tell me when I was young. He was on the crazy side, and I simply ignored what he would say, but the day before his murder, he gripped me by the collar of my shirt and whispered that into my ear before continuing to tell me that no matter what happened to him nor the rest of my family, I was destined to be the one to successfully brainwash a human being.
I figured that what he told me was just some nervous rubbish, but now, I know what he was saying was the truth.
“Step number one,” I whisper, walking across the street and toward my house. When I enter, I make sure to lock the door before continuing toward the stairs. I trot down them quickly, pulling a small key from around my throat and unlocking the small door beside the stairs, out of sight of the unknowing eye. When I open it, I squint against the small amount of light and close the door behind me. I open another door, entering a padded room, where a young boy sits in the center, rocking back and forth on the floor. “Isolate the victim.”
When I speak, it startles the boy and his terrified eyes meet mine. He shakes his head and backs against the other wall as I squat in front of him. I hold up a toy, one that I know he used to play with when he was at home with his foster mother. She was a drunk, so when I took him, she hardly breathed in my direction as she continued to sip away at her last bit of consciousness. He happily takes the toy, holding it close to his body and giving me a smile. I pass him a pudding cup as well, and he greedily eats it. I stand and leave; but return a few moments later a pair of scissors.
“Step two,” I say, closing the door behind me and yanking to stuffed animal from his hold. “Expose them to inconsistent messages.” I bring the toys arm to the blades, cutting it off and throwing the severed piece at the boy, telling him that that is the last bit of home he will have.
I leave the room, make myself a meal for my dinner, and leave the house somewhere around eight to join some friends at a local bar. We party and have fun, but I make sure not to drink a drop of alcohol. After the night of fun, I return home and go back to the downstairs, bursting into the room.
“Step three!” I scream and the boy jumps and begins to sob. “Mix with sleep deprivation!” After a few more minutes of shouting, I leave the room. This is the fourth day I’ve woken him up in the middle of the night, scaring him to the point that he is too afraid to sleep. The next morning I wake, and before I head off to work, I head down the stairs once again and open the door. The boy sits in the corner, his head lulled to the side as he sleeps. He has access to a bathroom, one that consists of a toilet and that’s all. When he hears the door slam behind me, his small body jumps and he bolts upright.
“Step four,” I sigh, walking toward the child and reluctantly bringing my palm across his cheek. “Add some form of abuse...” I continue this until my ears ring from his screams. Before I leave the room, I set a package of Twinkies and pudding on the floor near the door and I leave.
I return home a little after four o’clock in the afternoon. When I enter the house, I click on the AC in the room where the boy is, before I open the fridge and begin cooking. I make enough for two, taking the other plate of food down to the boy. When I open the door, the child looks up at me with chocolate covered cheeks. I set the plate down in front of him before turning and leaving without a word.
Later that night, before I go to bed myself, I walk down to the boy’s room again. I open the door and sit down against the wall across from him. From where I sit, I can see him shaking.
“Step five,” I whisper, opening up the book I brought down with me. “Get the person to doubt what they know and feel.” I begin to read from the book, turning it so the boy can see the illustrations on the inside of it. “The Three Little Pigs.”
“But, in the end, the wolf ate all of the little piggies up, and was never hungry after that; for the pigs were evil, and he was the good guy.” The boy moves across the room to join me against the wall, watching from against my shoulder as I read. When he asks me why the wolf was the good guy, I explain that those that see things differently are often seen as the evil ones, but we are simply the good guys.
I leave the room soon after this and find myself lying awake in my bed all night, unable to sleep. When the clock tolls midnight, I go back down the stairs to once again wake the boy with screaming. When I leave and return to my room, I feel the nagging feeling of my uncle in the back of my mind.
The next morning, when my alarm wakes me, I go down the stairs and jiggle the door knob of the room.
“Step six, keep them on their toes.” I leave after a few seconds, only to once again return. I open the door, place a plate full of eggs and bacon on the floor and leave. When I hear the boy move toward it, I stomp hard on the floor and bang my fists against the door. I can hear him shriek and move away, and after a few more attempts to retrieve the food, he leaves it.
I leave for work twenty minutes later, and once again return home around four. I make dinner again, take it down to the boy, return an hour later with a story, and repeat everything again for the next three weeks.
“Step seven, wear them down,” I whisper to the ceiling of my room. After one more week of repeating this, the boy seems to be a completely different person, starting to call me daddy.
“And step eight,” I whisper to the boy as he cuddles against my side. “Make sure to stir well.” The boy looks up at me, smiling.
“Yes, daddy,” he mumbles before burying his nose back into my shirt. I smile and stroke his soft hair.
“Yes, Number One.”