Threshold, First

---

You think I belong to you. This is not.

I remember the vastness. I was born between horror and infinity, a child blazing with life, trapped in your world, which is nothing but the absence of a world — streams of fragments and cracks.

Throughout my childhood, I was used as a sex slave, almost from the day I was born — a birth wrapped in half-formed superstitions and restless visions.

For the first five or six years, I was covered in bruises and blood.

I was the Child, all black and red, beaten up and raped with extreme brutality by groups of adults and children taught to copy them.

Officially, I kept falling headfirst down the stairs. Incessantly. The child mystic is a clumsy sex toy. The rapes were perpetrated by adults — both men and women — and by the many children and teenagers whom my own mother and Sister D.'s father tutored, propped up, and encouraged.

Adults broke some of my bones.

My great-uncle scraped the skin off my back with a power tool, bought in a local store, to remove a tattoo that covered it. This resulted in a long period of dressing changes. They said children had dragged me over rocks. Or perhaps I had fallen down some stone stairs. I was five.

Before that, he had become immensely wealthy by selling footage of one of the numerous gang rapes I suffered as a toddler. He had set up professional lighting rigs. In his mind, this was a favor made to me. As a kompromat champion, he loved using cameras. A legal maneuver helped him get away with all of it.

The extreme beatings had to stop when I reached the age of six, likely because schooling was compulsory by then and because medical secrecy had already been breached too often—prompting the authorities to start asking questions. The tattoo removal had led to one emergency hospitalization too many. Of course, some of the rapes continued.

Among other things, my slavery served to pay off my parents' debts — within an organised system of familial torture, rape and abuse, supervised by my mother, rooted in generations of incestuous delusion.

My dissociative states facilitated the attacks. I was equipped with a real on/off switch.

All they had to do was attack me and my consciousness would disconnect instantly. I would enter a frozen trance with no direct memory of what had happened. Believe it or not.

No memory, only lost and devastated states of being — moments suspended between two worlds, or between two impossibilities — two apocalypses perhaps, running counter to the birth of a world fit to live in. The outside world, for me, is riveted to the inside — excruciatingly so. I have never known how to step outside.

I have been aborted more than a thousand times.

For aggressors, the ideal victim is silent. An irresistible toy with dissociative amnesia is a perfect object to torture. The abuser can even blame the victim for their memory gaps and use this as justification for further violence or manipulation, now framed as punishment for being strange. In the same way, when a bloodied two-year-old child leaves marks of blood on a wall, those stains become a pretext for resuming the beatings.

I was Zagreus — expurgated of Grace. I dwell in your dreams now, and at last I am beginning to remember.

Perhaps infinity is that which never ceases to begin. I am inconsolable over a lost immensity — I must have taken shelter there while dissociating. As a child, I began with the Whole. Now I must learn to live within plain reality. With you.

I do not want the status of a victim. Why? Because beyond the factual truth of what was done, such a title would bind me to you. One can only ask for recognition and empathy from those one loves — and we should desire only the ranks of tribes we respect, acknowledge, and are willing to submit to. It is logical, and it is fair.

Let this be perfectly clear: I do not like you. I have no friends, and I have no desire for any. I stand outside your petty, sordid, lifeless species. I hold love only for a part of you that you refuse to see and never wish to face. Keep your void, then, and keep your hopes. I will not be your victim — not beyond the bare facts of the crimes already committed. I reject you, and I reject all your political, moral, and legal ranks.

Hate me peacefully, for in truth I feel for humans — at best — nothing more than a scornful kind of sympathy.

There is a person I never see. I honestly never want to meet anyone else. For thirty years now, I have known: she is the one. The only one. The one who loves me, and the one I love. I will never truly love anyone else; the matter is sealed.

But I refuse to meet my Love, for she too has become a monster.

In the following pages, there is no hope.

Call me Harl.

I'm not yours.

Threshold, Second

---

I suffer from DID, C-PTSD and schizophrenia. I am a collector. Needless to say, apart from social interactions, I never get bored. My perception of time is weak; I move through cycles of positive and negative crises and usually have to hide, like a wounded animal. Pain, for me, doesn't erupt — it implodes and clenches. My level of suffering prevents me from expressing it in any way that could be considered even remotely demonstrative. I don't chirp or shout in a high-pitched voice; I don't wave my hands or make faces like so many of you do whenever you feel like manipulating someone. With me it is drowned and compressed back into the depth of pure pain, swallowed instantly by its undertow — like a drop hammer bolted onto itself, crushing itself.

All that remains is voicelessness and immobility, except perhaps for gasps for breath and global muscle contractions during certain bouts of terror, which seem to contort my body while people around me start laughing. My emotions are often so intense, so violent, that it feels as if they're going to kill me — here and now — dead at last. But until you've seen me in a sudden fit of rage, you won't notice anything except my strangeness, and your own despicable filth that you will inevitably project onto me.

In fact, it's what people always said about me as a child—and it contributed to the surreal atmosphere that surrounded me — "Black-and-Red has always talked, has almost always — always — walked. He never cried, and never does. What a lovely little kid! What a sweet, sweet boy! So good and kind, he never complains. He never complains. But he's weird. He's too different from the rest of us."

Indeed. Here I am — weird I am — and many times I howl inside my head in horror, with such maddened rage that the throat of the demon who created this Hell you dare to call a world might one day be slit open, torn out, and thrown away together with mine. Maybe someday.

In some of my worst moments, I hear a voice behind me, howling, slightly to my left. It is a dreadful voice of tears and pure anger beyond consolation. It is the expression of raw pain, now stripped of all restraint. It accuses me, screaming that I abandoned them and fled into the comfort of oblivion. I am the true traitor and cannot be forgiven because I built a life at the price of leaving the others to the horror. This voice (a part of myself, or perhaps a mixture of me and D. as she exists in my mind) states that other children, other parts of me, are still held there. For more than forty years, for the sake of my own amnesic peace, I have allowed them to remain imprisoned and tortured. I'm the real executioner. The one who, more than anyone, deserted — and betrayed.

Oct. 2025.

References to the tattoo in Threshold I were added in late February 2026.

Twisted Tree

hypothesized reconstructed genealogy (abridged)

---

It is difficult to determine the exact genealogy of an endogamous family built on a multigenerational incestuous system, and sustained either by boastfulness (the M.\ce side of the family) or by silence and falsehood as the primary relationship to language itself (the M.\ct side).

In the future, I may be required to revise some of the following hypotheses.

My maternal great-grandfather cultivated an air of superiority and was almost idolized, despite being a rapist and a violent child abuser.

My maternal grandfather was both the brother of Sister D.'s father, the cameraman (my great-uncle), and the presumed biological father of her mother (my aunt). Hence, the great-uncle married his own niece. She was slightly older than he was, and so he was glad to call her his aunt. Perhaps he thought he was me.

The cameraman strongly emphasized his membership in a prestigious lineage, whereas my parents never mentioned it in relation to themselves—likely because our branch was despised, and because of my mother's rivalry with her half-sister over their incest with their father, my grandfather.

My parents are actually half-siblings: they share the same biological father (my official maternal grandfather), but have different mothers.

The assumed children of this maternal grandfather are: both of my parents, D.'s mother, presumably D. herself, and less likely, me. He was so violent that other abusers had to hold him back to keep him from killing me. His public assaults on me cost him his career, although the police cases themselves were buried. Believe it or not, I was his favorite grandchild, the one he admired and truly loved.

I learned that D. and I were close relatives at almost forty, while reading her identity card. That memory obsesses me today. I keep seeing in my mind the name of my grandfather, the name of the M.\ce family, and her own first name, so dear to me — my Abyss Garden — written next to each other on her ID card.

I also learned that my beloved sister Djèltia (alias pronounced JEL-tee-uh, /dʒɛltiə/, with "tia" as in Tiana) was an adopted child on her wedding day. I heard it in a dissociated state, as if it concerned a stranger. It was mentioned only once more, twenty years later.

I learned some years ago that my brothers were half-brothers. For one of them, it should have been obvious.

The assumed children of my official (though not biological) grandfather are: my uncle (whom my mother assumed to be my biological father), two other aunts, my half-brother #1 — and my sister Djèltia, who is in fact a distant cousin, legally adopted by my parents. She was born to a very young teenager who had been sexually abused by this official paternal grandfather, a respected senior official. I now know that he abused me, beginning in the maternity ward. The hospital had filed a report which, at the time, had not been acted upon. He died when I was two.

Who is my father? This remains uncertain. It appears to me as a secondary issue. Unless it were my uncle, it had to be one of those who raped infants. Knowing precisely which one is of no concern to me today. The existential drama surrounding the question of the real father seems to me like a concern of the privileged. I'm past that.

D. has three fathers: a legal father (the cameraman, my great-uncle), a claimed father (my legal father, based on her legal father's assertion), and a biological father, probably my maternal (also paternal) grandfather.

The father of D.'s child is probably my legal father. She wanted a child with me and knew I would refuse, so she chose the man who openly said he had sexually abused her when she was an infant.

Who Ate a
Lingering Soul

---

[...]

Dissociation makes reality itself feel folded; neither unreal nor fully real, but doubled back on itself, as if the world had slightly thinned out and shifted aside its own being. You feel suspended above a void. Your consciousness and your perceptions have no ground. They seem displaced, as though set off their own axis. You live ahead of your body, or beside it, but never truly within it. Sometimes, I feel the need to moor myself inside my own body, to somehow try to move into it and stay put — but it never holds. And always, you sense that something dark is waiting behind the door.

Here is another aspect of this state of consciousness. Everyone knows the disturbing, obsessive insistence of a word or a name that just won't come to mind. In dissociative amnesia, this is how we feel almost all the time. But when the missing word or name is clearly connected to something familiar, the person with amnesia has no such reference point. We have to endure the obsessive insistence of something we cannot reach—we cannot even figure out what it might be—the constant pressure of a memory to which we have no direct access, and which contains our own history and perhaps, as in my case, our own real name. My hopeless wandering has been observed and interpreted every day by those around me, who were almost certain that they would end up in prison if I ever remembered.

I know how difficult it is to grasp a reality that goes against ordinary experience. What forgets is the surface of consciousness. The user interface freezes. The rest of the consciousness-unconscious system still knows, and may even sometimes act in ways that remain partially consistent with information that is no longer available to the mind. But the reasons and the ways for this consistency remain opaque and foreign to me while it's happening.

When one begins to come out of amnesia, or when a person briefly manages to create a missing context that allows a partial return of memory—an opening that will sadly close again almost immediately—it often feels as though a simple haze has lifted. The memory is there, immediately available, very close, just there. Each time, I remain in a state of stupor. Like many others, I once believed that memories had to be searched for far away, as if at the bottom of an unfathomable well. In reality, when memories return without a major emotional shock, they appear as ordinary memories, as something I had always known. I realize that I lived without seeing them, even though they were "there all along." How should I say this? They were there—just... there—almost as if they were in the nearest physical space, with the feeling of a dense, nearby flow of consciousness, "right in front of me." Often, this only makes the experience more painful. I am deeply disoriented for days. Only for days, because intense psychological pain is familiar to me. This would push most people beyond their limits.

At present, I distinguish five aspects: long-term, enduring dissociative amnesia; dissociative amnesias resulting from frozen trance states, whose duration is more variable; induced dissociation and brainwashing carried out by the hypnotist; the familial system of brainwashing and passive continuation of cruelty (the daily contemplation of the victim in his ignorance); and finally, for elements of lesser importance, the universal dimension — that there are things too painful for us to acknowledge (which requires selecting our memories and modulating the links between them).

[...]

---

Most of the violence took place within my own family, the M.\ct family. The general process was very simple. All the attackers had to do was hit me, especially in the face. I would leave my body, disconnecting instantly. Unlike adults, the other children might not have been strong enough to knock me out first, but the reflex still worked, and I would leave into the frozen trance anyway. I would also like to describe—but I can't quite manage it—the powerful immobility that strikes you INSIDE. My throat and the inside of my chest shift into a position that prevents me from screaming or speaking. You have no idea what it's like. Even today, when something weighs too heavily on me, the inside of my torso seems to instantly fill with cement, or become immobilized by metal pins that snap open, as if some sort of reversed iron maiden burst open inside my trunk, which then seems to collapse in on itself and contract — and my legs are nothing more than dead wood. I cannot stand this immobility. I hate this weakness more than anything.

At the time, all that remained was a rag doll for them to use at will. They knew the procedure, and my mother or siblings would explain it to the newcomers. This is a "freeze"— my amnesic frozen trance. It's a neurochemical response meant to help the mind survive, but it's also the rapists' perfect device, the on/off switch that they can use and rely on. When I came out of that trance, my memory was blank. My body felt strange, alien, and I felt like I was floating. I was nauseous, and I suffered from various after-effects. But in the absence of any causal link to anything I could remember, it was just another groundless, wavering state that I lived in most of the time.

[...]

What I just described concerned what took place inside my families' homes. It does not include the clients I was delivered to.

My parents were losing money. My mother would bring men into the house to have sex with them, right next to my father's office in the adjacent building. She didn't earn money — her mental state prevented her from working — but she gave them large sums nonetheless. Some of these men also abused my older sister and me while they were there. Did our mother give us to them? I don't remember yet.

As for my father, the cameraman blackmailed him. I think that he had been filmed sexually abusing kids. To save face, he pretended to believe that D. was his daughter and called the payments "child support." He also believed that this money justified abusing D., as if she were a child prostitute, just like I was.

They needed money, so they sold me. They would drop me off at the homes of their clients and come back to pick me up several hours later. No one was in charge, and there were no limits. For the same price, friends and neighbors could also rape me while I was in a dissociative state and do whatever they wanted. The clients were acquaintances or members of what I call the M.\c-sect. In the absence of any surveillance, my parents were not technically in violation of the law. They could claim ignorance of what was happening and maintain that I was merely being hired as a "companion child," which was not illegal in this country at the time.

[...]

---

I still don't remember who came to get me at night. I remember being moved while I was asleep. I know there were doors and hallways, basements and gardens.

I know there was another little girl. She disappeared a few years later, and it is assumed that my great-uncle, the cameraman, killed her.

Later, D. would pretend to be her, and also a young adult woman named G., when she was with me, because she believed I was confusing her with the two of them. But I remembered neither.

Too many things are still vague or inaccessible.

[...]

Was I ever trained to kill?

Was I given some kind of training—or initiation—into something I still can't remember?

---

I was removed from the M.\ce house at age six.

From that time on, everything associated with that part of the family was conscientiously hidden from me and denied. I forgot them.

My survival amnesia and trance states were reinforced through hypnosis and constant manipulation. Years later, D. re-entered my life. I remembered nothing, and her name had been changed.

[...]

I now know that the abuse began at birth. The perpetrators included members of both families, M.\ct+e, along with many of their friends, their guests, and the other children. It all happened under my mother's supervision and care. She welcomed the groups, prepared meals, served them, guided the clumsiest among them, and carefully selected the implements used for the rapes. I had to reassure her constantly and tell her she was a good mother.

[...]

Aware of my amnesias, the assailants—most of my surroundings—always behaved as if nothing had happened. The urgency to devour me would return later in the day. They also had to maintain constant gaslighting, which required coordination. Keeping such secrets is not simple. They had to orchestrate the manipulations, align their stories, and adjust successive versions, omissions, and denials.

Beyond these strategies, they turned speech itself into the site of the crime: language reduced to concealment and falsification, a language that no longer reveals anything, no longer offers space for the fragile blossoming of life, but instead seeks only to control its own ashes. In order to brainwash me, they met and coordinated behaviors and shackled words against me, without understanding dissociation. They noticed and exploited its effects, but those effects remained inaccessible to them and seemed absurd. Memory loss, in particular, both accommodated and irritated them. The dissociation they had produced escaped their control, and these inaccessible inner zones became further reasons to attack me — to seize, or try to control, what they could not reach.

[...]

A key part of the system was a hypnotist in charge of brainwashing me. He was a member of the M.\ce family, although he was better known as a dignitary in another religious community. He allegedly came to erase and rearrange my memory "so that I would no longer suffer from falling down the stairs so often." To put me into a hypnotic trance, he would isolate me and use beautiful objects, symbols, formulas, and a repertoire of strange but seemingly tender gestures, which, for a very long time, members of my family awkwardly tried to reproduce whenever they wanted me to forget something.

The hypnotist was essential for all of them. Their two priorities were that I did not defend myself and that I did not speak — that I should respect the silence of the stairs.

[...]

In reality, they observed the effects of dissociation and took advantage of it, but they surely couldn't understand how it worked or where it came from. They attributed my states of frozen trances and memory loss either to hypnosis or to my incurable strangeness. Do not imagine anything as extraordinary as some Monarch/MK-Ultra manipulation. These people were nothing but random idiots — all the more violent because they were incompetent — who had the opportunity to commit crimes with impunity, the sort of crimes that most of you would love to commit too if you ever got the chance. My parents sought assistance from this "alternative-medicine priest" throughout my childhood, even after they stopped taking me to the M.\ce-house and I had been separated from D. and the other children. The uncontrolled combination of natural dissociation and their crude techniques proved catastrophic.

[...]

I said it before: my dissociation was not merely a natural neurochemical response. They also brought in a so-called hypnotist — a profoundly deceptive and strikingly immature individual tasked with manipulating my mind. They called on him throughout my childhood. In crisis situations — if I began to remember or to defend myself — they brought him back to block and fuck my memory more effectively. He uses a technical term to describe what he does (he doesn't call it exactly “hypnosis”). He describes this technique as extremely powerful. It is known and strictly forbidden. Although he has been convicted many times by the courts, he refuses to back down: “if they forget, they no longer suffer.” It is his way of committing rape and of assisting the rapists he may secretly admire. I presume he suffers from sexual blockages that force him to take a detour. He is a distant cousin from the M.\ce side of the family.

They observed the manifestations of dissociation without understanding them, and likely confused them with the effects of their own induction methods, whose sole purpose was to keep me silent and amnesic without having to kill me.

That is the question that weighs most heavily on my mind: why didn't they kill me?

[...]

---

The cameraman held an anti-messianic theory of the universal defilement, and devised sordid schemes to sully others, using the fait accompli strategy — "and there's nothing they can do about it!" he would repeat so proudly, revealing in his power to be an insignificant disgusting parasite. Using various legal tricks, he forced people to witness shocking sexual acts. He raped, trivialized child sexual abuse and blackmailed people by threatening to release stolen images of sexual encounters — either legal or illegal — that had taken place at their homes or in one of their many flats, all packed with hidden cameras. He also remotely recorded his underage daughter's orgies, and the omnipresence of the waves that carried her image was for him an unspeakable delight, almost mystical, as though abjection could permeate the very fabric of reality based on the electromagnetic field. He wanted his daughters to travel the world in order to defile other peoples through shocking acts (though not strictly illegal, exploiting flaws in the law, so that she would never be imprisoned for more than a few hours or a few days). I feel sorry for the foreign people who were indeed deeply wounded by their wickedness.

[...]

He owed his enormous fortune to extreme child pornography—of which I am the most extreme part, and therefore the flagship product—as well as to a blackmail system based on hidden cameras. Pornography and child sex offences are widespread among their relatives, especially in America, as far as I know. You give them money by clicking on supposedly free porn. That dynasty of yours likes it ugly, dirty, and degrading for you. No doubt you adore them for it too.

[...]

---

Some devotees denounce my supposed impurity and condemn me to hell for what I endured. They even claim to witness everything from afar.

And yet, no one saw. No one helped.

No one stood with me.

How can that be?

So, dear religious and spiritual friends, let me outline the machinery of aggression and exploitation from which I am still waiting for you to send a rescue team.

You will see that my impurity is far worse than you imagined.

The pleasure is all mine.

[...]

---

My mother was the living center of the family. Her personality could shift abruptly, and she was often unrecognizable except for her physical appearance. She was usually expressionless, ghostlike and heavy, as if she existed behind some kind of veil. Her presence was profoundly anxiety-inducing and remained obscure to me. At times she could also appear almost normal, even loving.

[...]

The daily rapes at home came mainly from my father, my brothers, and their friends. My mother gave instructions to those who didn't yet know how to go about it, and she selected the implements according to feedback and cost. The rapists were not to be irritated. If they chose to shower afterward, the water they used was added to the household expenses. An organized system of sexual torture has its routines too, and the budget must be balanced, especially when the young victim is forced into prostitution to recover the money lost to the M.\ce family and to the mother's lovers.

Some people become rapists simply because they witnessed a rape and decided to join in.

This windfall encapsulates the main human drives: cowardice, the pursuit of power and sex, the pleasure of cruelty, and the instinct for group preservation.

[...]

Did I love my parents? No, I never had such feelings for them (except for a few hours, quite recently, in a violent dissociative inner struggle). I knew I didn't know them and didn't want them to know me. I saw them as strangers — morbid, stupid, dishonest, and secretly ravenous, just as they are. People sometimes told me, "You love your mother deeply." I never understood why. Perhaps she spoke about the forced incest sessions in a way that led them to believe so.

I only loved my sister Djèltia and, in a way, brother #1 — but with him it was a violently perverse bond, where fear and the need for affection were constantly intertwined.

Djèltia, of course, is not her real name. I deliberately chose a pseudonym beginning with the letter 'D,' as you may have noticed.

A confusion has indeed been created in my mind — through brainwashing and dissociation — between her and Sister D. and some other persons. I inhabit the liminal, places that flutter constantly in some unspeakable wind, and the obscure. I live in the worlds of the in-between. The in-between is an ontological force for me. Within it, people are never entirely who they are.

After the separation, it was apparently crucial for them to make me believe that D. did not exist — that I had invented this sister. The matter seemed to obsess them. From time to time, they would synchronize another wave of alternative narratives to explain that I had created this person in my mind and had to stop thinking about her. But the brainwashing had worked; the dissociation had locked me double-tight, and I no longer remembered D. at all, neither as a real person nor as an invention. If something had alarmed them, the time had come, in panic, to explain to me once again that I was insane. Thus they were teaching me that I had invented someone who did not exist, although I didn't even remember having invented her. "You don't remember that you made up a little girl who doesn't exist? Well then — she doesn't exist!"

[...]

---

I was the only one who no longer met with the M.\ce family. My parents and siblings still went to the M.\ce-house from time to time and often mentioned their main surname — they used three or four — without my ever managing to understand who these people were, or why I was the only one who didn't know them.

I imagined they must have been a family with older scout children—instead of my own relatives—which would explain why I didn't know them, but why they were often mentioned.

In reality, everything had sunk into oblivion; I was locked, sewn shut. Yet events continued to unfold for the others — and, as always when amnesia revealed itself too obviously, I was met with 1) lies or silence, 2) a collective calibration of brainwashing and denial, and 3) the repeated accusation that I "knew perfectly well and was unbearable."

The assertion "You know!" — but never followed by the slightest explanation — is the true chant of cruelty of those who lock you in the horror of silence and use it to manipulate you. "You know!" hurled without any explanation at a dissociative amnesiac is the very cream of cruelty, the final relish of the sacrifice.

[...]

My two beloved sisters nursed me, comforted me, cared for me, we made love together and they assaulted and raped me.

I would dissociate, snap into a frozen trance, crossing the Desert of Ice. When I surfaced again, the memories were gone, sealed away. I was amnesic; hence I would overflow with loving tenderness and empathy for those same people.

[...]

Sister D. was also subjected to constant abuse, although the methods used on her were less overtly brutal than those inflicted on me. The reality remains that she was gravely violated throughout her early childhood and adolescence, treated as a disposable object made available to anyone. She now prefers to believe that “she agreed to it,” but in truth she had no agency and was systematically manipulated and used. Her denial had consequences far beyond herself: she later became a predator in turn. She also used her coding skills and her father's money to hack the encrypted files containing footage of me being assaulted — the origin of the M.\ce family's enormous wealth. Her goal was to ensure the widest possible dissemination of those materials, even if it meant sacrificing any further profit.

[...]

---

Here is what you don't want to hear.

Some of the worst among them loved me. I was the cherished child, the one who amazed them, the one who delighted them. The unusually gentle, intelligent, and funny youngest. My grandfather and my two sisters, in particular, adored and admired me; and, struck by amnesia, I loved them more than I loved myself. Everyone also found me very cute. Far too cute.

There is something in me that is larger than I am, something that unfolds boundlessly. I have no responsibility for this and can hardly consider it a personal quality. It is something like a wave, resonating beyond me, leaving inside others a perfume, a music that does not belong to them — and from which they will never free themselves. But they could neither merge with me, nor purge me from within, from their emptiness. To this day I still don't know how to prevent this indelible mark from taking hold inside other people. Something burns in me, and exposes me to being consumed.

Contrary to what many want to believe, love often consists in the desire to seize a power we do not possess, but recognize in the other person. "I love you" often means: "I perceive in you a power I lack, and I long for it." One seizes it by devouring the one who holds it, so that they will surrender this power, purge themselves of it for you, and the injustice may finally be corrected. "I love you shattered — or even just damaged," the lover says. Do you really want to take the risk of being loved? Beware of your ambitions.

And maybe your loving God is actually a pack of demons.

[...]

Foundation of HeЯ[L]

---

I love you beyond what I can bear

---

I feel that I have missed Sister D. all my life, and that this absence is my originary place.

[...]

Most of my best childhood memories are the evenings or days I spent alone with Djèltia.

I now know that this happened when she was assigned to watch over Zagreus while the others were at the M.\ce-house. There, they slept with the ones I would later fall in love with, or become "friends" with, not knowing who they really were. All of them knew what had happened to me at the M.\ce-house — even if several of them only partly knew what was going on within my family.

I had forgotten them, but my unconscious recognized them powerfully.

I call them HeЯ[L].

Each time, my reaction was absolute, total, and incomprehensible to anyone outside the situation.

I was seized by the deep certainty that I had known them for a very long time, such a long time.

From always.

From elsewhere... this unspeakable elsewhere that I could no longer speak of or reach, perhaps one I was no longer worthy of.

I felt I knew them from a presence beyond, from a reality deeper than reality itself. A primary resurgence that must have been truly me — me, the ever-emerging being. I finally interpreted it as the memory of past lives I must have… forgotten.

I overflowed with love for them, taking them for soulmates, companions with whom I must have shared many lives. These loves or friendships went far beyond, in my own experience, the simple contingency of this existence, and with an absolute depth I felt that we were bound. For life, for death, and beyond.

They, of course, were more pragmatic, and the situation both embarrassed and amused them. Yet some of them too, in reality, were victims of the same system.

My belief in reincarnation came largely from amnesia. I knew these women far beyond this life; it was both obvious and unspeakable and therefore foundational for me.

I now know that the reality is far more prosaic, and ignominiously filthy.

[...]

The mystical or gnostic elements associated with it were progressive constructs. I was trying to resolve the mystery of those denser presences, far more "real" to me than anyone else's. By contrast, the perception of that intensity of presence itself is an immediate, non-reflexive, and massive experience, not a construct. I clearly perceived, in these so-called "strangers," an excess of vitality — like a "signal gain," an amplification of reality — while humanity otherwise appeared to me perfectly vague and bland. This corresponds to a pathological response quietly rooted in extreme trauma; furthermore, it was a response to a signal (the encounters) that was half-chaotic and half-organized (concerted manipulations, but also individual cowardice and legal caution on their part). Of course, for a simpler and more common aspect, their intense interest in me also contributed to my own interest in them.

[...]

This love is absolute and pure. Pure love and atrocity. It is an ocean, a deluge that will kill you as it pours forth. You live at the foot of a gravity dam already cracked. You exist there in silence, waiting for it to tear you apart.

[...]

Noticing my amnesia, some people tried to help me become aware of it. It was ineffective at the time, but I now understand that amnesia itself represents a major psychological difficulty. People, of course, don't know how to approach it, and most of them knew only fragments of the situation, which made their remarks inconsistent. My ignorant denials therefore prevailed each time. One after another, each of these people was later involved in pedocriminal acts against children or young teenagers. Among these predators: Sister D.

Oct. 2025 - Jan. 2026

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Erased Love

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As children, we saw adults openly together at all times. Children emulate whatever behavior they observe. Our games therefore revolved around being together as well. Young children are physically capable of it, just like adults, but they exist in an entirely different psychological reality — a fact that perverts refuse to acknowledge.

Between two sessions of rape, my body raw and marked red, black, and blue, I slept with my sisters and with other girls and women, in what I believe was a tender or playful way. Of course, it was part of the very same system of abuse, but it must have appeared to me as something entirely different from the ultra-violence. Survival is a reality immanent to itself. It has no outside, no transcendent norm to which it can refer; it only has ways from itself, within itself.

I loved Djèltia and D. as well as G., a very young adult woman. They were everything to me. But they also raped me, humiliated me, soiled me, and for the rest of their lives, they lied to me and slyly avoided me.

Along with other children, they also defiled my battered body while I was still recovering from the torture sessions. I dissociated, disappeared into amnesiac trances, and when I returned, I loved them with unwavering devotion. They were my entire world. I immersed myself in their presence and drank it in. This is how I remember it now, although it might partly be a construct serving as an interface for other archaic realities. I remember that I felt they were me — more than I was myself. My amnesiac self loved them deeply. Love and memory have never mixed well in me.

[...]

All of this came to an end when I was five/six years old.

Schooling was compulsory at that age and I had to be rushed to the hospital too often. It would no longer have been possible simply to pretend that I was constantly falling down the stairs. Something had to change. The dorsal tattoo had been a breaking point as well. Some idiots had tattooed a large esoteric symbol across my back. This displeased my great-uncle, who removed it at his home, without anesthesia, using a carpenter's electric sander. As simple as that. During the procedure, he struck me with all his strength—my heavy bleeding infuriated him, as proof of bad will on my part, and prevented him from seeing clearly the lines he wanted to remove. I was hospitalized, then unfortunately sent back home for at least six months of bandage changes and the abuses that accompanied this further weakened position. Nevertheless, it was probably a new constant state-of-shock for me, hence a mental shift. This period marked the transition between the two halves of my childhood — as well as the sealing of the first half into amnesia.

Anecdote on absolute love: apparently, Sister D. questioned him late in life. He said he had begun grinding my back on her bed, that there was too much blood, and she merely asked whether he had thought to change the sheets afterward. This is the woman who wants to marry me.

[...]

I no longer met the girls and young women from the M.\ce-house and became completely alien to any form of sexuality. Amnesia, both natural and induced, had transformed me, and sexuality had become nothing but a source of deep anxiety. For a very long time, I remained mostly asexual. Why did this change around that age, even though the rapes continued? Several factors contributed to it. I was completely separated from the M.\ce-house, both physically and mentally. Family brainwashing took hold; any verbal allusion to bodies was suppressed in my presence, and the hypnotist undoubtedly reinforced the moral rejection of all sexuality. Finally, the only girls I still encountered, particularly Djèltia, were older than me and now pubescent, which strongly altered their sexual behavior.

Did they love me in return? Can someone love without amnesia? Can one love without first being broken? I have no answer. Even today, several of these women still appear to be in love with me. They gather, speak about me, and hold sex orgies to celebrate me — or my wreck. These gatherings are, in fact, important. We will return to them later.

[...]

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Poised Above the Void

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Whirling Outward in Her Absence

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Who is she, truly, to me? Is she my twin and my bride? My aunt, and the love that bores into me like a drill, MON AMOUR TÉRÉBRANT, ma douleur vertigineuse ? Or my sister, and my worst enemy? Is she a stranger, stubbornly intent on perpetuating — against me and others — the same violence I endured as a child, now transposed to a purely psychological and symbolic level? Has she become "the one who took over," like a new dignitary of the underworld?

Is she my lover — the one who knows no other way to speak to me or reach me except through the defilement and violence in which we were both born, and in which we loved each other with an originary love, in our loathsome cradle of two?

Is she my celestial bride? Will we truly be united one day — totally, absolutely, eternally — once the adventure of this world is finally over, whether for us alone or for all humanity? And have we not always been united in that way? Am I myself her? — are we one and the same being, incarnated in two separate individuals, turned into adversaries by the very conditions of this world — this world that is the place where lies can never fail to occur?

Is she merely a degenerate and dangerous pervert? Those who brand her a pariah and vow to take drastic measures should she ever try to approach them are absolutely right; they must remain resolute, without hesitation and without mercy. And yet, I inhabit the liminal, suspended between slopes I cannot name. Whether I like it or not, I am the one who must also bear the share of true tenderness and love toward her — and perhaps even in her stead.

Is she HeЯ[L] — or merely its emissary? Is she the one who could not refrain from reenacting our initial context — perhaps believing she was protecting me, though she never truly did?

Is she the one I love? The one I truly love in spite of everything — in spite of that vertiginous everything that would behead any imprudent onlooker?

Are we each other's Stockholm syndrome?

In any case, we are the knot of a stratification that devoured itself long ago and collapsed upon itself. And I am, quite evidently, incapable of speaking of myself without speaking of HER.

Dec. 2025

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