Gaslighting: the art of destroying sanity

The problem with asking yourself if you’re insane is that you’re the only one who can answer, and why would you listen to someone who could be crazy?

I must have asked myself a hundred times over the last week. It started with little things — I spent almost an hour looking for my stapler before finding it in the break-room fridge at work (software company, boring stuff). I’d get the wrong day for a staff meeting, or have the wrong information for a client and accidentally ask him about his wife (who had been dead for a year).

My shoelaces never seemed to be tied, although I don’t suppose it matters, because somehow my shoes were also two sizes too small. The worst was when I couldn’t even recognize someone at work. She swore we’ve known each other for years; apparently I went to her kids piano recital last month.

I wish she’d just gotten angry at me instead of giving me that despairing, pitying look. I think I gave my sick cat that same look right before I had to put her to down a few years ago.

What could I do though? The woman was just a tired face and a tight ponytail to me. I still couldn’t pick her from a police lineup or remember her name if my life depended on it.

These only account for a handful of my slips. Any one of them might be forgivable in isolation, but the daily repetition left me anxious all the time. I couldn’t even trust myself to remember the route to work that I’ve been driving for the last seven years, obsessively using my GPS just to be sure. Every thought, every move, I was doubting myself, hating myself for double-checking things with twice the self-loathing when I didn’t and slipped up.

That’s when it hit me — every unaccountable thing was happening to me around work. Chances are, anything bad that happens at work is because of that son-of-a-bitch who still thinks his eyebrow piercing is cool at 40, Jason Briton.

I don’t know how he’s doing it, but he is. Shit, he probably even hired that lady to screw with me — I haven’t seen her since our altercation the other day. He’s the only other person who has been working here 5+ years, and with our district manager talking about retirement, my only reasonable competition for the position.

I caught his eye. He was staring at me over his coffee, not even pretending to hide his smirk when he put the cup down. I grinned back for once, acknowledging the silent battle which has already begun.

“Check your email?” he asked me.

“No, why? Did you sign me up for another granny-porn newsletter?”

Any jury who saw that smirk would immediately forgive whatever I did to him.

“Manager wants to see us about something tomorrow morning before work. Just us.”

“That’ll be enough time,” I said, casually leaning back in my chair.

“Enough time for what—”

The spine of my chair broke in two. Fuck the jarring impact as I landed on the ground — it was my dignity that was hurt. Jason howled with laughter as I scrambled to my feet. The chair hadn’t snapped — it had been unscrewed.

Enough time to break him.

His plan was obvious enough. He wanted me so rattled and insecure that I made a fool of myself in front of the manager. Then he’d swoop in all suave, smothering me with fake concern as he brought up my recent “mistakes”.

It wasn’t a terrible plan, if I’m being honest, but there’s something he didn’t account for. He spent all this effort trying to make me seem crazy without realizing that I’m already fucking insane.

He seemed on edge after that, glancing at me every few minutes, waiting for me to make my move. Good — let him wait. Let him stew in that uncertain fear that he made me suffer through. Let him jump at every noise and go out of his way to avoid every shadow — he won’t be ready for what I have in store.

By the end of the hour, Jason was fidgeting non-stop. “I don’t like this,” he said. “Let’s call a truce, okay? There is a better way.”

I raised my index finger in the air, making him wait a few more excruciating seconds before replying: “The time is nigh.”

“What the fuck? Nobody talks like that. Say it one more time for the recorder.” He held up his phone, red light flashing.

I just smiled and looked directly into the light. “You think I care about some shitty desk job? The day of reckoning is coming in June, and you’ll pay for what you’ve done.”

“Perfect,” he said, swiftly concealing his phone. “The manager is going to love this.” That should have been his victory, but he looks more pallid than ever.

That was too easy and he knows it. I heard him re-playing the recording a dozen times by the end of the day, staring at disbelief at how crazy I actually looked.

You probably think I’m crazy too, don’t you? You’ve all gotten so used to the status-quo that you’ve forgotten how fragile it really is. A fancy title like manager, or police captain, or president — you think that still means something, don’t you? And everything that doesn’t fit into your imaginary idea of how the world should be — you just throw it away and pretend it doesn’t exist.

If you feel safe right now, you’re a fucking joke. At least Jason was smart enough to realize how screwed he really is.

“Look bro, I’m sorry, okay? It was just a prank.”

No point in putting up pretenses anymore — I didn’t even touch my computer. I just sat there staring at him, humming, watching the sweat bead on his brow.

“They’re jokes. Remember when you took your shoes off when we met those telecom people at that fancy Japanese place? I swapped them for a smaller pair I brought. Haha, jokes, get it? Funny jokes.”

I smiled. “I get it, Jason. Ha. Ha.” I didn’t laugh. I just spoke the syllables, slowly and deliberately. Then I went back to humming. Tomorrow morning is going to be fun.

Jason still showed up for the meeting the next morning, right on time. I guess I overestimated him. I held the door for him to enter, but he pushed passed me anyway.

“You’re probably wondering what all this is about. Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble.” Mr. Dawson, the salt-and-pepper haired manager, has a calm voice.

Jason had been fidgeting with his phone since he came in, but he’s starting to relax. He even spares me a glance. He thinks he’s safe now — that I wouldn’t dare do anything right in front of the boss. Poor Jason. I gave him the look I gave my old cat. He quickly averts his gaze.

“Truth is that the rumors are all true. I barely recognize my grandkids every time I see them, they’re growing so fast, and I think it’s time I stepped down as district manager.”

I started to hum softly. I don’t think the boss noticed, but it was satisfying to see how rigid Jason’s posture became.

“Before you continue, there’s something you should know,” Jason blurted out. He sounded shocked to hear himself speak. This isn’t how he’d planned it, but now it was too late to turn back. “There have been reports all over the office of this guy’s erratic behavior, and I don’t think he’d be right for the position. Look I even got a video —”

Jason practically slams his phone on the desk, immediately hitting play. The screaming shatters the early morning air, the agony palpable. The shaking video darts back and forth across an overcrowded classroom with a concrete floor and barred windows.

“What is this nonsense?” Mr. Dawson demands.

“I’m sorry… I don’t know how this got on here…” Jason stammers. I hum a little louder — I think it’s something by Beethoven. Jason snatches for his phone —

But the manager is quicker. He scoops it off his desk and holds it in plain view. “Where is this? Who are these children?”

“I don’t know. It’s nothing. What I was trying to show you is —”

“That’s Jake! Oh my god.” The boss had paused the video on the impassioned face of a screaming child. “What the hell were you doing with my grandkids?”

“I guess we’ll have to play the video to find out,” I supply helpfully.

“Wait — stop — give that to me!” Jason dives across the desk to take the phone, but Mr. Dawson roughly shoves him back into his seat. His hand trembling, he hits play again.

The screaming is eviscerating. The camera shakes as the person holding it moves. It stops in the center of the classroom, looking down at a child with a shaved head, gender uncertain. The child keeps its gaze directly forward, breath rapid and shallow, not looking at the camera.

“Casey?” the manager whispers, barely able to breathe.

“Say it one more time for the recorder.” It’s Jason’s voice that I’d also recorded the day before. The boss couldn’t tell that it was an edited video, but Jason could. He glares at me, and I silently mouth the words: Haha, jokes, get it? Funny jokes.

“There is a better way,” the child says, still staring rigidly ahead.

A metal plate is dropped unceremoniously on her desk. I’m not sure if the others recognized what was on it, but I can tell you that it was a raw human liver. The girl lunges for it to clutch it protectively in both hands as though afraid it will be taken away. She sinks her teeth into it, the blood oozing between her fingers to smear across her face.

“The manager is going to love this.” Jason’s voice again. The recording ends.

Stunned silence. There’s murder in Mr. Dawson’s eyes.

“I don’t know if this is a bad time,” I pipe up, “but I don’t think either of us should have the job. Jason’s obviously a sick whacko, and I actually have another opportunity coming up that I wouldn’t miss for the world.”