CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The second semester at Dawnridge brought with it endless rain and merciless deadlines.
Students splashed through puddles, black coats and flimsy umbrellas raised above their heads as they sprinted between classes.
Some mornings, there was snow—a blanket of white draped over the grass. By the afternoon, it had melted.
I was enrolled in four new classes, one of which was an elective subject where I was once again competing against Nathaniel Carrington. For someone enrolled in a medical degree, he sure seemed invested in psychology. And good at it, too.
Psychological Manipulation proved to be a rather difficult subject.
A surprise to me, really, considering the course outline listed seemingly simple topics such as ethical versus unethical psychological tactics, human vulnerability to manipulation, the Milgram study, gaslighting, cult psychology, propaganda and psychological manipulation theories, to name a few.
Science and statistical analysis—which I found somewhat more challenging in other subjects—were not required.
And yet, I received a disappointing seventy-six percent on my essay: Foundations of Manipulation.
A Distinction. It was a blow to the gut.
I needed to secure a High Distinction for the remainder of the semester, or my second-year scholarship was as good as gone.
Despite the low mark, there was only one student ahead of me. Nathaniel, of course. He’d received an eighty percent, just falling short of a High Distinction. Clearly, I wasn't the only one struggling.
We were warned Psychological Manipulation would be a challenging subject during our very first lecture, but it was obvious Nathaniel had never received such a low mark before.
His fingers raked through his black hair until it was sticking up in all different directions, teeth nibbling on his bottom lip until he tore skin, blood staining his teeth.
He didn't relax until our Professor, Helen Haywood, announced the course ranking—as was the Dawnridge way—and he was crowned first place.
My name followed his, and when it did, Nathaniel glanced over his shoulder to look at me.
I met his gaze, unflinching. We had two more assessments until our final grade was etched in stone. Two more opportunities to replace him at the top and secure the scholarship for myself.
Or he will defeat you, like Alexander did.
The Devil's voice slithered into my thoughts, but I ignored it. Nathaniel wasn't Alexander. And Dawnridge wasn't Trinity College. I was going to succeed. I was finally going to be good at something.
***
Sunlight poured in through the stained-glass windows of the lecture hall, heat radiating off the wooden pews as spring chased away winter.
I rolled up the sleeves of my black-buttoned shirt, my jacket discarded on the back of my chair as Professor Haywood entered with a stack of books and a joke about the psychological manipulation she underwent to make it to class on time.
Haywood was young compared to most of the teaching staff I had encountered thus far.
She couldn’t have been beyond thirty-five, her dark brown hair always tied neatly into a mid-length ponytail, her high-waisted trousers matching the colour of her blazer.
She was nearing the end of her doctorate, specialising in, you guessed it, psychological manipulation.
Her research focus was the criminal mind.
And this week's topic: The Psychology of Cults.
I opened my laptop and created a new word document, fingers hovering over the keyboard as the Devil whispered, speaking of cults, remember when you were briefly part of one?
I swallowed my retort, gaze flicking toward the empty front row. Where was Nathaniel? The door opened. And there he was—Mr top-of-the-class know-it-all with his band of loyal kiss-ups.
The large group shuffled into their seats, filling up the entire first row.
Their incessant laughter echoed along the walls, the Devil and I scowling with displeasure.
University required a level of sophistication and professionalism that Nathaniel and his friends seemed to lack.
This was not high school. And yet they smiled and kicked back in their chairs as though none of this really mattered.
Except Nathaniel, I observed, who sat up straight with his attention on Professor Haywood like a magnet to iron.
I studied the back of Nathaniel’s rustic knitted vest and the white collared shirt he wore underneath.
His sleeves had been rolled up to his elbows, the silver chain around his wrist dangling every time he lifted his arm.
He always dressed the same. Brown, black or grey trousers.
A knitted vest of various colours. A white collared shirt.
I had never seen him in a hoodie and sweats like most students who had morning classes, arriving in whatever they had worn to bed.
“Cults are the shared beliefs and practices of a small group, often religious or spiritual in nature, that is directed toward a particular figure or object," Professor Haywood began her lecture.
"There have been many famous cults throughout history, you may have heard of the Manson family, the Peoples Temple, or the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.”
As Professor Haywood went through her slides, my mind wandered to the God’s Soldiers Church. It had been a long time ago, and yet it was hard to forget. There were many attributes of a cult that I could apply to Joe and his devout congregation.
1) Social isolation. Outside of our immediate family and the Church, my mother didn’t interact with anyone. Uncle Brady was banned from the house. And I didn’t even know Great Aunt Vera existed until long after my mother had left.
2) Leadership control. Joe was God’s ‘special soldier’, a leader who claimed to have had frequent communication with Him. This gave him authority over his members.
3) Unreasonable fears. My mother believed Auden and I were possessed by the Devil. And Joe only perpetuated this belief.
4) A belief that the leader was always right. My mother hung off every word Joe said. Without question.
Throughout the lecture, it was becoming increasingly apparent that I had, very briefly, been a member of a cult. And my mother most likely underwent significant psychological manipulation that led to that fateful night in North Lane.
Do you feel guilty for hating her now?
The Devil’s voice was mocking, as though he enjoyed the questions and doubts circling my mind, unable to find purchase.
I did not know how to feel. She was convinced of my possession long before we joined the cult. Even if she was manipulated into conducting the exorcism, it didn’t change the abuse she inflicted on me prior to meeting Joe.
But maybe we should have tried harder to find her. To help her escape Joe’s grasp. Why hadn’t we ever found her? Did she want to leave, or was it all manipulation?
“What makes a cult so appealing?” Haywood’s question cut through my spiralling thoughts, returning me to the present.
A raised hand caught her attention, and Nathaniel answered, voice as smooth as a slow current, “Cults provide a sense of community.”
“Yes,” Haywood nodded, flicking over to the next slide. “Cults often appeal to people who are lonely, a victim, an outcast, part of a minority, etcetera. They want a community of like-minded individuals because humans, at our very core, crave belonging.”
“And,” Haywood went on, “people are easier to manipulate when they’re desperate to belong.”
I raised my hand, a question burning my tongue. It wasn’t like me to speak up in class, but this topic had piqued my interest enough to overpower my anxiety.
“Yes, Mr Saint?”
“Many religious groups fall under the definition of a cult,” I said, “are we categorising all cults as dangerous organisations that prey on the vulnerable?”
“That is a good question,” Haywood said.
“The word ‘cult’ does have negative connotations and there are indeed many harmless religious organisations that fall under the broad definition, but when we discuss cults in this class, we’re referring to groups that display the attributes we discussed earlier.
Leadership control, social isolation, etcetera. ”
Nathaniel raised his hand. “What is the difference between religious institutions like…the Catholic Church, for example, and your local deranged cult?”
“The Catholic Church doesn’t socially isolate you,” I answered before Haywood could. “That would be one difference, for starters.”
Heads swivelled in my direction, but my gaze was on Nathaniel whose eyebrows shot up with interest. “That is debatable. What is your definition of social isolation?”
“Oh, that’s easy. An absence of belonging, engagement with others, and social contact.”
“The Catholic Church fails to create a sense of belonging when you’re, I don’t know, gay, for example,” Nathaniel said, and I could have sworn his jaw clenched.
“But that’s not what we’re discussing,” I said, “a cult would isolate you from friends, family, and coworkers because they have a different worldview. The Catholic Church might not accept you into the community, but they won’t keep you from yours.”
Nathaniel shook his head. “The lines blur when your family places significant value on the church.”
He’s got you there.
“It’s not the same,” I said.
“How is it not?” Nathaniel challenged.
“By definition, cults are typically small groups,” I defended my stance calmly. “The Catholic Church is a large institution. It is not a cult.”
“You make an excellent point,” Haywood cut in before Nathaniel could respond. “There are over one billion Catholics in the world. By definition, it is not a cult but a religious institution.”
I smiled, satisfied with my small win.