I Remember

Yohan's life had always been full of faith and hope. This might seem beautiful to many, but the more faith you need, the deeper into the abyss you are, and the amount of hope is always proportional to despair. Yohan remembers when and how it all began. His father had died when he was around seven years old. His mother worked in telemarketing and earned very little. She mourned my father for a few days, but had determination and didn't let herself sink into grief.

She worked hard for a few weeks, but when payday came and the bills didn't add up, I could see desperation in her eyes. At five years old, I already understood many things and knew not to worsen the situation. I had always been a well-behaved student, but not worsening isn't the same as improving.

I remember one day my mother came home late from work, but when she arrived, she brought a pizza box and had a smile on her face. I hadn't seen that smile in a long time. Later, I would come to know that smile had a name, it was hope.

In the subsequent days, my mother told me about a god and a worship she had visited, and how our lives would improve. She took me with her a few days later, and I witnessed many people like my mother, with smiles and even tears of gratitude. I didn't understand the reason for so much happiness, but I was glad my mother was happy. All the priests and temple staff were extremely polite and had words of wisdom to offer my mother. I saw how peaceful she felt in that place, she felt accepted and welcomed.

My mother continued to work, and after work, she would pick me up at home, and we would go to the temple to offer our prayers to the god. At that time, I didn't understand the concept of worship and faith, but I was grateful that my mother was happy. To me, those days of sadness and despair were like an illness, and the temple was the cure. I was grateful.

Time passed, and I began to notice many things. The subscription channels I used to enjoy watching could no longer be seen, as the subscription had expired and my mother couldn't afford to renew it. I didn't bother her with the matter, I didn't care much for TV anyway, I preferred reading books. I also noticed that some of my father's old things disappeared. She didn't touch his old laptop or his clothes. But one fateful day, everything was packed up and sent somewhere.

I noticed the disappearance of some things, like the stove. When I asked my mother, she said that times were changing and the microwave was more than enough. I noticed she spoke with a sense of authority, as if she were quoting someone, some advice she had received. During our visits to the temple, my mother always carried an envelope in her purse. On a certain day, it didn't take a genius to realize that it was money, but even so, I didn't find it strange, I was just a child.

During those visits to the temple, we would arrive, greet all the familiar faces, and go inside to offer our prayers to the god. Then, my mother would leave me in the playground outside with the other children and go inside. We would be under the supervision of one of the priests. But one day, I decided to follow my mother. She entered a room with a sign that read 'Guidance'. She didn't go to that room often, only once a month, but whenever she did, something would disappear from our home, and money would become scarcer.

Years went by, and it didn't take long for me to realize that it was a dark and greedy cult, taking advantage of the psychological vulnerabilities of its believers to fill the pockets of the fat and greedy high priest. I read books about it and talked to my mother about it. At first, she freaked out and even told me that I needed more faith, but I showed her the books and even an article I found in the library about a similar cult case decades ago. It was at that moment that I saw my mother's eyes lose focus while reading the article. She had that look all the time when my father died, and then when the bills came, she had that look for months before finding the cult.

She started denying it, and I remained quiet. She went to her room, and I could hear sobs behind the door. People often think that parents should protect their children and be responsible, but apparently, that's not a rule. Sometimes, parents are just people who also need protection.

I let things calm down, and on our next visit to the cult, my mother came back calm again, with the same 'hopeful' look that I used to think of. We didn't talk about the argument or the cult, we just continued with life. I was twelve when my mother fell ill, she started with coughs, and soon she was bedridden. We went to a public hospital and found out that she had advanced-stage cancer.

I still remember how I ran that day. I always knew what kind of temple and cult those were. I always thought of myself as intellectually superior; I was someone who was visiting that place for my mother's sake. I knew that place was draining her money, but I began to believe it was an equivalent exchange. They took the money and gave hope, for some, it was terrible, but I saw the changes in my mother, and if paying some money could keep my mother away from despair, I accepted it. But I never believed in that god, those smiles, or those prayers. I knew why I was there, and it had nothing to do with faith.

So, when I ran with all my might from the hospital to the temple, I arrived breathless, every cell in my body screaming. I realized the feeling I had wasn't fear for my mother; it was hope. I didn't hope that the god would save my mother, but I had 'faith' that all the money my mother gave them would make the high priest feel indebted to her and help with the treatment financially.

When I got there and explained the situation to the priest, I made sure to speak in front of the believers, as if it were accidental, acts of a desperate child, to force the priest's hand. Imagine my expression when that damn obese man loudly announced that everyone would spend the next fifteen minutes praying for my mother's recovery. All the believers knelt down and began to pray, as if it were normal. I looked exasperated, and I could see fervent looks in each of them. Some even said that the god would help. Damn sheep.

Something broke in me that day. I remember swearing and shouting; I remember the high priest's expression changing from a smile to a nervous face, the believers murmuring, and some even yelling at me, some women crying. I must have spoken some truths. I was dragged outside, and I think I was lucky not to have been beaten up.

I remember it was raining on my way back to the hospital. I didn't know what to say to my mother. Tell the truth? What was the truth? Did telling the truth do any good? Would telling the truth cure my mother? What would I do? Terminal cancer, what could I have done?

I remember passing by the reception and talking to the nurse. I remember walking to my mother's room, each step heavy, slow. I didn't know what to say. When I entered and saw my mother lying in that hospital gown but with a beautiful smile on her face. When she looked at me and asked about the good news, I smiled.

"The high priest said he's going to help, mom! God spoke to him, said you passed the test of faith."

I saw my mother cry tears of happiness that day.

Ever heard that everything in excess is bad? I thought that only applied to medicine and food. On that day, I realized that happiness, faith, and hope could also be poisonous. The next day, I went to talk to the doctor, and he told me that even if I had money, my mother's stage of cancer was beyond treatment. The odds were minimal, and he told me that if I wanted to keep her at the clinic, it would cost a lot. At the time, I didn't understand, even though I was intelligent, but he was hinting at something. Something between the lines.

I realized that I didn't realize and said that there was a faster, painless way. I got it. Have I mentioned how mature I thought I was? Responsible? The last time I cried was when my father died, and later, in front of that doctor, there were no shouts or moans, just tears and a sob. The doctor offered me a tissue and said he couldn't do anything more.

I knew it wasn't an official or morally accepted solution. It was a doctor's solution, from a man who had seen a patient die slowly, from a man who knew I couldn't afford anything better. It was the most pity he could offer me.

Years passed, and I finally graduated in psychology. I fell in love with the strengths and weaknesses of human emotions and the mind.

But I learned another hobby.

At first, it was just a search for faith. I wanted to find the true god. Not a god from a backyard cult. I went to various religions and various super cults. I visited churches and monasteries. Over the years, I found myself studying their systems, hierarchies, methods, words, and prayers. I learned a lot about how religion worked, how faith was a powerful weapon.

This became second nature to me. Going to churches and listening to advice, learning, understanding. I remember becoming a partner in a therapy office with an elderly man who had always worked alone but was ready to retire. He wanted to leave a successor in the office and only collect his dividends. He supervised me working for two years, how I dealt with patients, he taught me so much that college couldn't teach.

The old man was a master of the mind, but he didn't understand the power he had. He had a lot of morals to try something. Over the years, I always toyed with an idea: starting a cult. But I wanted to be different. My mother suffered because the cult only offered hope. I still believed in the equivalent exchange of money for faith. Whom I blamed wasn't the god, it was the high priest and his greed.

My cult would actually help. That was my idea. With time, I did various subtle experiments on my clients, small triggers here and there, subtly changing their way of thinking, their likes, what they watched or didn't watch. I studied the possibilities. I also self-taught a lot about finance. I wanted to create a cult that was more than just spiritual. I wanted to help financially. The only way I deemed possible was through a pyramid scheme.

I lost some hair studying the articles and stories about pyramid schemes. But, like with the cults, I believed the problem was the greed of those at the top. And I had 'faith' that I wouldn't be like that. When I decided to start my cult, I had already gathered funds for something like this. Everything would be a gamble, of course. I started going to places where addicts gathered. They were the easiest. I spoke, preached, without any ceremonial vestments. Just my words were enough for them.

Over time, it became common for all the addicts to gather and listen to me speak. I didn't talk about a god. I talked about society, about how the world had been unfair to them, how no one gave them a second chance. And gradually, I suggested the existence of someone, or rather, something: the God of Reincarnation. The general idea was a God who would give them a second chance in life. That upon entering the cult, the person would automatically 'rebirth' as a new person, with a new life.

I remember how these same addicts became my first believers. And later, my first followers. I taught them how to treat the believers who would come later. And how to dress, what to say, and how to comfort people. I gathered a lot of money for this moment and finally had my first followers. I rented a small estate on the outskirts of the city. Not too far from the center. It was a neglected plot, and the cottage in the middle was run down. I had two buildings built: a wooden temple and a large dormitory.

Since everything was made of wood, it was cheap. I furnished everything appropriately and went after the appropriate religious items. Soon, the temple looked just like a religious center. Then I went after my followers, who were former addicts. With my brainwashing, they stopped using drugs, although they were still homeless. I explained about the second chance and that there was a new place for them to live. When I saw the look in the eyes of those men and women after taking a shower and getting a good night's sleep, I knew I had them. It was like seeing my mother again.

I explained to them that the second chance they received, others also wanted. And it was up to them to help guide them as I did with them. The logic was flawless. I bought appropriate clothes for everyone and religious 'uniforms'. I had them clean up the place and trim the grass and weeds in the estate. The place looked amazing. When I started my cult, there were only ten people, but they had families. I still remember a father with a child in his arms, the look on his face, and on the child's face. It was very nostalgic. I would make sure their ending was different.

Getting donations was a delicate process. It was necessary to know each person's situation to know how much to ask for and what to say. So, I set up a 'Confessional' system, where I would basically give a therapy session. A method that would only be valid in the early stages when there were few believers. Otherwise, I would have to look for followers among the psychology graduates. I tried to take as little as possible from each person and sought ways to help the most needy. To some, I said it was good to get rid of the car because the debt that came with it was draining the family. To others, I insisted on better money management. I taught some to write down their expenses.

I remember the first ones I really helped. It was incredible. I looked at the statue of the 'god' of reincarnation that I had made, and it was as if I had achieved something. The cult grew, rumors turned into news. I helped many people, those who were truly desperate, while those who weren't helped, of course, complained. But I knew well who those who really needed help were. It wasn't about helping everyone, but the most desperate.

All of this was only possible because I placed myself under the restriction of earning only enough to survive. I would never allow myself to fall into the temptation of greed. Soon, my cult reached five years of existence. I had many followers and numerous believers. One estate was no longer enough. I used various means to raise funds. I sold blessed water, sold icons of the god, clothes.

'But everything that's good...'

I began to be accused on social media of running a pyramid scheme. Times had changed. When my mother was involved, the internet barely existed. And in a mere 30 years, the world had changed so much. Now, my photo was online, and they were saying so many terrible things. I helped so many people, and yet still. Of course, those who were helped stood up to speak. But in the face of 'canceling', there was nothing they could do.

Soon, it became a police case. I was brought in to testify without any evidence of any crime. They called me all sorts of names, and this became an anchor that I seemed to carry. I remember one of my followers continuing the cult in my name. It wasn't good for the organization if I dragged it down with me. Everything I did couldn't go down the drain. I chose the most loyal of my followers, the one who saw the good things I did. He was one of the addicts; I could see his 'faith'. The cult was in good hands.

Or so I thought. When I was in prison, I found out that he had made a video slandering me and saying terrible things about me. And he said he was the one who stood up to reveal what I was doing on the internet, so everyone would know. In prison, I learned that he himself had been a witness to many of my trials. I can't say I was surprised. I was disappointed in myself for not seeing this coming. I drowned in my own faith that I was doing good and that everyone wanted good.

'Everything that's good, is better if it's mine.'

My defenses were useless. He was the cult leader now. Various pieces of evidence started appearing. Tax receipts that never existed. I was finished. I spent a few months waiting for him to visit me and tell me about his grand villain plan, but it never happened. Until one fateful day, a new inmate arrived. He found me, and as soon as he laid eyes on me, I knew. I wasn't very athletic. When he lunged at me in the small cell, I couldn't retaliate much. I remember that between the punches he was throwing at my face, he was shouting things, saying my cult had ruined his life, that it was all over.

One of the punches made my vision darken. I remember feeling a sense of peace. I had done everything I could.

When I opened my eyes again, I was surprised to see the golden statue of the God of Reincarnation that I had invented.

"You didn't invent me, you rediscovered me. At least, one of my concepts," the voice said.

It took me a few seconds to process this. I didn't take long to accept the situation. I died in peace, albeit violently, my heart was at peace.

"Yes, I see that. You did indeed help a lot of people, reincarnated many lost lives, Yohan. And now it's your turn to reincarnate. Because of your actions in my name, I'm going to allow something I rarely allow. I'm going to allow you to retain your current memories. You'll be reborn with all your wisdom and be able to live your life without making the mistakes a person needs to make to achieve such wisdom. Goodbye, Yohan."

I couldn't speak. The aura of peace he emitted... I couldn't waste my time talking. I wanted to memorize his voice, not my own. I barely had time to process his words. I know that when I woke up again, I was in an alley, lying down, looking up at the sky.