Page 33 of Atlas
We stopped talking when two large plates with waffles came out.
“Here you go. Syrup is on the table. Let me know if you need anything else. Enjoy.”
For a moment, we ate in silence.
“This is good.” I sighed and chewed on a large piece of waffle dipped in maple syrup and vanilla ice-cream.
He made a sound of agreement and kept eating.
“You’re not going to tell me what your agenda is for the research, are you?”
“It’s just a general fascination with the subject of mind control. By educating myself, I’m taking precautions never to let it happen to me.”
“Why would it happen to you?”
He shrugged, giving me nothing, so I ate the rest of my waffles before I pushed the plate away and tried a new angle.
“You know how we talked about identity disorder?”
“Refresh my memory.”
“It’s when traffickers or cults take away your old identity by giving you a new one. They use tricks like a new haircut, a tattoo, change of name, and they make you wear specific clothes, right?”
“Yes, what about it?”
“Well, in all the interviews I’ve done so far, it’s been the case, but it makes me wonder if these people made it out because they were adults when they joined.”
“I’m not following.”
“When you join a cult as an adult, there’s your original identity to return to; a memory of an alternative version of yourself, if that makes sense.”
“Could be.”
“Yes, but if that’s the case, it would mean that a child born into a cult or brought in at a young age would have less of a chance to escape, wouldn’t it?”
“They wouldn’t know any different.”
“Exactly!” I leaned forward. “I would like to speak to someone who made it out of a cult while they were children or just people who grew up in a cult in general. Do you know any?”
Atlas avoided looking at me, but from the way his right hand on the table folded into a fist and his Adam’s apple jumped in his throat, I knew he felt pressured.
“I might,” he admitted in a soft tone.
“Who?”
With his eyes closed, he took a deep sigh before opening them and looking straight at me. “Me.”
I didn’t move a muscle but waited for him to find his voice and tell me his story.
He finally did in a slow pace and with a grave expression. “I grew up in a cult where my father was the leader. Eleven years ago, my parents and everyone in that cult died. The only people who survived were Charles Robertson, his wife Liv, and we five children who lived there. Charles and Liv ended up adopting us so we could stay together as siblings, and I’ll always be grateful for that.” He paused, but I remained quiet, giving him my full attention.
His chest lifted in an intake of air, and he spoke on his exhalation. “I don’t like to talk about it.”
“But would you answer some questions?”
“Depends on the questions.” He pushed his plate aside. “With you and me working together, it might be better if you ask my siblings your questions instead of me. They were children, too, and they don’t have to work with you. I’m your boss, after all.”
“Okay. I’d love to interview them, but don’t they live in Europe?”
