Mind Matter Manipulation Pt. 2

Believed to be dead, Xavier Wilson finds himself seated inside a confessional booth with one final opportunity to tell his story.

As secrets are laid bare and long-buried truths come to light, the man once accused of manipulating minds must confront the consequences of his beliefs—and the people left in their wake.

Will Xavier finally find redemption, or is this just another layer of his deception?

Welcome to the Podcast of the Estranged.

Written by Eye Q
Story Consultant: Jamaal Zyad
Produced by CLUBS Productions

Transcript

SPEAKER_01 0:31

This is storybook radio. A month after my most courageous adherent, Sam, had pretended to be me, after he'd been scrutinized and executed in prison as ex, I professed my identity to Father Dale inside a forlorn confession booth in St. Mary's Church. It had been fourteen years since I breathed sin through its almond-shaped holes. And as I tuned into the rhythm of Father Dale's opening prayer, his voice void of sentiment, as he pronounced his righteous petition for a two-minute span, I documented my confession on a voice recorder. The idea to record my confessional came to me suddenly, as if commanded by God Himself. The repercussions of such an act felt fitting. I commenced with the usual, Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been fourteen years since my last confession. Go ahead, son. I cleared my throat, stealing a moment to reflect. Recording this confession was like kissing a pinless hand grenade. I had mere seconds to decide whether to continue the recording or silence it before confessing. So I proceeded, listing my sins with deliberate precision. Father, I hold murder on my soul, I hold burglary on my soul, and I hold rape and adultery on my soul. Would you be willing to expound on your sins? asked Father Dale, eagerness in his tone. I chuckled softly. If you must know, Father, I led an empire to freedom, but did so through manipulation, at least according to the law. My followers committed every crime imaginable, and I, as the law claimed, brainwashed them into reenacting their obsessions in the real world. Their actions defied social conformity and were deemed uncivilized. I also watched a man die in my place, executed by lethal injection. He pretended to be me. As far as the world knows, I am dead. Father Dale stumbled over his words, his tongue and mind seemingly tangled. You wouldn't be. No, he's dead. They caught that man because he surrendered. You know whom I'm talking about. Now, by any chance, your name wouldn't be X, I interrupted. I thought you'd come to grips with yourself. They killed the wrong man in Hape's prison, and you're bringing it to light now. His statement clung to me like a roach beneath a stiletto heel. Like his allies who presided in cathedrals across deadbeat America, men who shoved their values down my throat for amusement. He too had challenged my ethics. I answered, When is not important, because a man seldom changes overnight. There's a process to spiritual evolution, and mine concluded thirty days after my adherent died. So now you're a changed man and you are finally seeking cleansing? Is that so, X? Yes, but I said, interlocking my fingers, I will change my lifestyle permanently under one condition. What's that? I leaned closer to the grid, shut my eyes, then reopened them. If you remain an unchanged priest at the end of this confessional, I will stay a changed man. I spoke of the power of speech, how Father Dale's teachings harvested good truths in people, while my therapy extracted the hidden darkness within them. I assumed he grasped the basic concept that words wielded the ability to attack the truth within people, then reframe their rationality through positive yet assertive language. Then I unveiled my plan. Believe it or not, Father, I was in prison with Sam, the man who died for me. Before his execution, he had an intellectual conversation with the guards. Father Dale's voice wavered. How did you get free? I tittered at his sudden shift in tone. He sounded like a ten-year-old witnessing Houdini's illusions for the first time. I said, The guilt I endured was far more important, and quite taxing. I rubbed my eyes in anguish. Sam died in my place, embodying me with perfect precision. As he faced death, I watched him succumb to all the nuances of life, missed futures, untold stories. It made me question everything. My practice was meant to free people from fear, shame, and guilt, not deviate them from their dreams. I heaved a sigh. In retrospect, I recall nights inside my cell with Sam. He was a thug, his pale skin a canvas for tattoos. Like me, he was an outcast before he was inspired. For months I searched tapes for a disciple like him. Someone hardened on the surface, yet a delicate gem beneath his 27-year-old shell. I rubbed my weary eyes, eyes that had carried too much suffering, too many misled souls. I met Sam during his 18-month sentence for violating house arrest. It was his first time in prison, thanks to his persistent DUIs and suicide attempts. Since the day his twin brother, Richard, died, he had challenged death itself. Alcohol became his refuge, the catalyst for his downward spiral. Father Dale, ever inquisitive, pressed further. What led Sam to follow you? What convinced him to become you? I licked my lips before answering. He read my book, X. It gave him a new law to follow, his own. It freed him from judicial constraints, from societal norms, from the fear of death itself. Father Dale's voice was urgent now. How was it so easy to convince a man to abandon his old ways and embrace yours? I twirled my pinky inside my ear, inspecting the wax at its tip. His obsession with death made it easy. During recreation time, we sat together in silence. He, engrossed in the Republic, enthralled by Socrates' discourse on justice. A thug lost in Plato's wisdom. I knew then he would make the perfect disciple. I revealed my methods. I gave Sam my book, but pretended to condemn it. I wanted to see if he would defend my ideas on his own. Father Dale stammered, breathless. You still gain followers after rejecting your own work? I smirked. People defend what they fear losing. I described the process of mental tension, my technique for breaking societal chains. Father Dale's frustration was mounting. You say you regret Sam's death, so why didn't you stop him? Because, I said, doing so would have contradicted my teachings. So Sam's death changed you? Completely, I affirmed, glancing at my watch. And now, Father, I must go. Father Dale whispered, What must you say, son? I recited my act of contrition, my voice steady. Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee. Father Dale declared, Your sins are forgiven. Go in peace. I smiled. Thank you, Father, under one condition. I stood, my tan prison guard uniform stark under the dim light. My slender frame and red hair came into focus. I held up my badge and voice recorder, watching realization dawn in Father Dale's eyes. My name is Xavier Wilson, also known as X. I am a prison guard at Hapes Prison. I placed the recorder in Father Dale's trembling hands. Here's proof to put me behind bars forever. Let's see who truly stands with God. As I left, I heard the crack of breaking plastic. Father Dale had destroyed the recorder. I was free.

SPEAKER_00 7:48

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