Chapter 11: Listening to the Abyss

“Should happiness be the end goal of society or not?”

“What kind of a stupid question is that?” Adrian asked.

Adrian and Miranda were studying in her small apartment. Discarded dirty dishes were sitting on Miranda's coffee table. They had made spaghetti with cooked chicken, and drank cheap red wine. It was the very definition of a comfortable evening. And now, as with most evenings, the real world had caught up. School, at any rate. Perhaps not the real world just yet.

And now, they both were studying. Well, Miranda was studying. Adrian was just reading. Miranda swiped the prompt over to the surface he was working on. Adrian read it. “I'm glad to see your psychology professors aren't wasting your time,” he said, mildly.

“It's just a simple response paper,” said Miranda. “We've been studying abnormal psychology, and I guess they're trying to get us to think critically about the larger issues. If it's true that someone can take exquisite pleasure at, say, violent murder, then should happiness really be the end goal of society or not?”

Adrian turned to look at her. “Do you think someone can take exquisite pleasure in violent murder?”

“No! That's messed up, Adrian. Do you think that?”

Adrian smiled at her. “Of course. Why else would people do things like that if they didn't enjoy it?”

“I don't know, they get off on the power, or something.”

“And what does it mean to 'get off'? Enjoy something? Take pleasure in it? I think your prompt takes this premise as a given, and asks you to think about what society should do about it. Which is a far more interesting question.” Adrian said.

“I don't take it as a given. I can't imagine the type of person that would feel something like that.” Miranda has her arms crossed.

“And if you can't imagine it, then it must not exist,” Adrian said. “No, I think if you can't imagine that type of person, then I don't think you're really fit to be a psychologist.” Adrian said this without looking up at Miranda.

Miranda couldn't believe what she had just heard. “Excuse me?” She said, still in indignant shock.

“In order to help somebody like that, I would imagine that you have to understand it. How can you fix something if you don't know how it works?”

Miranda didn't have anything to say to that. She had always wanted to help people, but people with normal problems. Couples going through a divorce, daughters who had strained relationships with their mothers, things like that. Not people who sadistically tortured other people.

Adrian stood up. “You have homework,” he said, and swiped over an audio file onto her surface. “This is a recording called 'Thee Last Supper.' It's from the Jonestown Mass-Suicide in the late seventies. It was a communist colony established in South America during the Cold War that the United States was not comfortable with. One night, they all killed themselves by drinking a mix of Flavor-Aid and cyanide. Mixed with other chemicals, of course.”

“This is a recording of people killing themselves?” Miranda couldn't believe what Adrian had just given her.

“About nine hundred people, yes. It's specifically a recording of their leader, Jim Jones, who convinced them all to do it. I'm saying you can't be a psychologist until you understand what was going on in Jones' mind enough to figure out how to fix it.”

Adrian put his surface in his bag, and started to walk out of Miranda's apartment. Miranda stopped him. “Adrian,” she said. “Have you listened to this?”

Adrian smiled, said nothing, and closed the door behind him.

Miranda shook her head, and flicked the audio recording off of her surface. She didn't want to listen to it, and continued thinking about the prompt instead.

Part of the problem was that it seemed self evident. Of course human happiness should be the end goal of society. But she realized that Adrian's point, even if it wasn't true in the large-scale cases like serial killers, was still true in the smaller cases, like bullies. What should be done if someone's happiness infringes on the rights of another? Stop them? Teach them that you can be happier sharing your toys and stuff like that?

Miranda's phone started ringing. She looked at it. It was the boy from the anti-modernist literature class again. She picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Miranda, it's Alexander.”

“Hi, Alex.” She laid back on her couch, and looked up at the ceiling.

“Call me Al, actually. Listen, the last time we talked, you mentioned that you would be fine with going on a date if we did it in advance. Is that right?”

She put her hand over her eyes. What had she gotten herself into? “Yes, that's correct,” she said, letting a bit of exasperation creep into her voice.

“Well, look, I understand that you might not want to do that considering the only time we've really talked to each other was that one time after class.” Miranda sat up. That was surprisingly considerate, as well as surprisingly accurate. At the same time...

“I wouldn't be opposed to it, actually,” she said. “That kind of thing can be fun. But it would be nice to spend some time with you a little more before we actually made that kind of a commitment.”

“I have a solution for you,” Alexander said. “My sister and her friend are having a dinner party next week Friday. It's going to be a sort of murder mystery night. We will all have characters that we will play, one of whom will be a killer. By the end of the night, we need to figure out who that is. Don't worry, we'll get you your character soon, if you're interested, I mean, so that you have time to prepare.”

Miranda thought about it. That could be very, very interesting. She should see whether she could get the part of the killer, and wouldn't that show Adrian who could understand psychopaths, and all that. Plus, it would be nice to hang out with Alexander, especially in a situation which couldn't really be that awkward. Blind dates could sure be awkward. Even semi blind dates. Especially semi blind dates.“I would love to.”

“Great! And, uh, if you can think of other people to invite, feel free to pass their names along.”

She could invite Adrian. He probably would enjoy something like this as well. And it would be nice to have someone there she knew in case Alexander and his friends turned out to be weird. “Yes, I can think of someone who would be interested, actually. I'll just mail you his contact info, and mine as well so that you can get us our parts.”

“Awesome! Thanks a lot, Miranda.”

“No problem.” She hung up, and sent Adrian a quick mail about it.

Well, if she was going to be a killer, or a psychologist for that matter, she might as well listen to the audio. She got herself some hot chocolate, curled up in a blanket, and turned it on. After it started, she decided to turn off the lights as well. It had been a while since she had been properly scared, and some part of her thought that it would be fun.

It was scratchy, with audible pops and cracks in the sound. Obviously the audio was very old, and it was very low quality. There was a background murmur of the crowd, and one man in particular who seemed to be doing most of the talking.

“I have loved you, how very much I have tried my best to give you the good life,” the man said. What did Adrian say his name was? Joe Jones, or something? “In spite of all that I've tried, a handful of our people, with their lies, have made our life impossible. There's no way to detach ourselves from what's happened today.”

The man continued talking. Miranda didn't really understand what the context for any of this was, but it was clear Jones felt trapped. Abandoned. With no options remaining. And from the cheers and applause of the crowd, it was evident that they felt the same way.

There was some talk about evacuating everyone to Russia on a plane, or something like that. Jones had his doubts. “Do you think that Russia's gonna want us with all this stigma? We really had some value... but now we don't have any value.”

A woman interjected. “I don't see it like that,” she said. “As long as there's life, there's hope. That's my faith.”

Jones did not agree. “Someday we're gonna die. Someplace that hope runs out, because everybody dies. And I'd like to choose my own kind of death for a change.”

The crowd shouted the woman down. Jones' talking continued. Miranda drank her hot chocolate. She didn't really see what the big deal was. It wasn't too scary; it was just a bunch of people talking. She got up to turn the lights back on. Perhaps she could get something else done while she finished listening to this.

Then the screaming started.

Miranda stood utterly, utterly still, one hand frozen, outstretched towards the lights. Her heart started beating faster and faster. The screams were high pitched wails. Frantic, shattering cries. They were coming from children.

But Jones was still talking. “They're not crying from pain,” he said. “It's just a little bitter tasting, but they're not crying out of any pain.”

Miranda turned reached down to her surface frantically, and turned it off. She sat down and put her head in her hands. She felt nauseous. She couldn't believe what she had just heard. They're not crying in pain?

“You sick bastard,” she growled. “They're screaming because they're dying and they don't want to die. And they're sure as hell crying because of the pain.”

Miranda felt like she wanted to burn something, or break something. She felt like she wanted to pour acid into her ears, or rake her fingernails across her arms and rip the skin off. She needed something visceral, something physically painful to erase what she had heard from her mind. That, or she wanted to curl up on the couch and pull the blanket over her head.

She called Adrian on the viewer instead. His face appeared, and he started talking.

“I'll totally accept that invitation,” he said. “That sounds like a blast. Do we know who gets to be the killer yet?”

Miranda spoke over him. “Adrian, that was the most horrifying thing I've ever listened to! What is wrong with you?”

Adrian looked straight at her through the viewer. “What did Jones want?”

“I don't know! He was crazy and he was killing children! Adrian, why the hell have you listened to this?”

“We had to for a history class,” he said. “But, seriously, if Jim Jones was brought to your couch and you had to talk to him, what would you do?”

“I'd call the police and they'd take him to jail and they'd... I don't know, put him in solitary confinement or something! I know we don't do capital punishment anymore, but maybe we should for people like this! This was sick!”

“It wasn't just Jones,” Adrian said, calmly. “Those children had mothers and fathers that were feeding their children the poisoned juice. Do you think all those parents hated their children? Do you think Jones hated all those people? What was the first thing that Jones said?”

Miranda stared at the viewer, open mouthed.

“Miranda, what was the first thing Jones said?”

“I don't remember,” she whispered.

“I do.” On the viewer, Adrian closed his eyes, and recited slowly and softly. “I have loved you, how very much I have tried my best to give you the good life.” He opened his eyes, and looked at Miranda. “He loved them, Miranda.”

“Adrian,” she said. “That's wrong and you know it.”

“Those parents loved their children. They wanted their kids to escape.”

“Stop talking.”

“There was so much pain in the world; so much pain for them.”

“Adrian, shut up, shut up!”

“He was helping them escape. It was better, Miranda, death was easier, it was a relief. It was nothing more than a long sleep at the end of a very rough day.”

“Adrian, listen to yourself! What are you saying?” Miranda felt her eyes filling with tears. Why was her friend saying these things?

Adrian cocked his head. “You're not convincing me, Miranda,” he said softly. “You keep telling me that I'm wrong, but you're not listening to my side of things.”

“Because your side is messed up and crazy!” Wait, his side? Adrian didn't really believe that, did he? “Adrian,” she said. “Please tell me what you're really thinking. I can't handle this right now.”

“I'm thinking that if you can't even convince me, who you're friends with, that killing children is wrong, there's no way you could help Jim Jones. And I'm thinking that it's important for you to understand that.”

“But you don't really believe that killing children is ok, do you?”

“No, not children. Don't be silly, Miranda.”

Miranda wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “I'm not being silly. You can't just give me something like that to listen to and pull that on me. That was horrifying, I don't need you to rub it in like you're some sort of crazy person.”

“If I apologized, would that make you feel better?” Adrian sounded genuinely curious.

“Not really.” Miranda breathed out a heavy sigh.

“What would make you feel better?”

“I don't know,” she said. “I want people like Jim Jones to not exist.”

“But they do, Miranda,” Adrian said. “And all your wishing won't change that.”

“I wish that this recording doesn't exist, then, or that I never listened to it.”

“But it does, and you did. And all your wishing won't change that either.”

As he said that, she remembered an important detail. “They made a record of this,” she said.

“Yes. And the larger group that these people were apart of released it.”

“They sold this? For money?”

“I presume,” Adrian said.

Miranda was quiet for a bit. “That might be the most evil thing I've ever heard in my life.”

Adrian nodded. “I'm guessing you no longer want to be the killer in the murder mystery night?”

Miranda guessed that he was trying to change the subject for her sake, and she was grateful. She did really want to talk about it anymore. She just wanted to forget it.

“Yeah, I don't think so.” She ran her hands nervously through her hair. “I mean, we might not even have a choice in the matter, you know? But even if we did, no, I don't think I would. Do you?”

“I wouldn't mind it,” Adrian said. “But the fun would be not knowing who the killer is. So I'm not going to say whether I would prefer it or not. Plausible deniability.”

“That's fair,” Miranda said. She hugged her knees to her chest. Adrian took the hint. It was nice to know a boy who did figure out those sort of things.

“It looks like you're pretty tired, so I'll let you go,” Adrian said. He smiled at her. “Sleep well. I hope you don't have nightmares.”

The viewer went black. Miranda shuddered. Why did Adrian remind her of that? She hoped that she wouldn't dream at all tonight. She usually didn't.

Seriously, why did she put herself into situations like this? Last night it was the Observation Walk, tonight it was the insane Jonestown Mass Suicide. It was like she was gravitated towards death, or some creepy stuff like that.

She tried as best she could not to think about the recording. She wished Adrian hadn't given it to her. That was cruel.

On the other hand, perhaps Adrian had made an important point. There were real people out there who were really suffering. They needed help. And maybe, just maybe, they needed Miranda's help.

But even after listening to the recording, even after listening to Adrian's 'devil's advocate' arguments, she still couldn't believe that Jim Jones was truly happy about what happened.

Chapter 11: 2,807 | 23,373/50,000

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