January
I returned home in the evening, and the north wind was blowing fiercely in Split. It was so strong that it felt bitterly cold. That didn’t stop me from going to the garage to retrieve my stash from where it was hidden on the power cords mounted on a metal rail. I rolled a joint but realized it was impossible to smoke outside in that wind, so I went to the lower level of the garage. I barely got high that cold night, and I remember that winter as the coldest of my life.
Danny and I often went to the place where the Roman soldiers practiced marching drills. Danny had copied the key to the place, so we took advantage of it and went there to smoke weed alone. We’d get high and discuss various topics. We talked about the vastness of space. I wondered that if you could travel at the speed of light, where would you end up? I’ve always imagined our universe as a giant space you could travel through in a spaceship, but eventually, you’d encounter a massive, infinitely thick wall of rock.
My weed-smoking habits had changed. I no longer smoked the way I used to, slowly inhaling through my mouth and then into my lungs. Now, I inhaled directly into my lungs. The weed didn’t have the same effect as it used to, and I just wanted to consume as much as possible. I was very tired of smoking, but I lacked the strength or will to quit. I even fantasized about being arrested for possession, thinking it would finally force me to stop.
February
I decided to quit college. I was in my second year again, and I realized that I no longer had the strength and will to learn. I felt relieved the day I signed the papers saying I was going to drop out. I went to the gay beaches and got high while listening to Jimi Hendrix’s “Freedom.
I bought a book called “The Power of Intuition” by Gerd Gigerenzer. I tried to guess the price before buying it, and I was right; it was $20. My intuition was already proving useful. One cloudy afternoon, I drove to Kašuni beach to smoke weed and read the book. After getting high, I became engrossed in the reading. I then smoked a bit more. Time passed, but I still didn’t want to go home.
I had a strange feeling, like a small voice telling me to go home, but I resisted it. Suddenly, a car appeared, and I recognized its license plate: it was an unmarked police car with two men inside. I expected them to simply turn around and leave, but they stopped next to my car and got out. One of them showed me his badge and asked for my ID. He seemed like a good cop. I rolled down the window and handed it over. He asked what I was doing there, and I said I was reading a book.
He told me to get out of the car, which I did. He thoroughly searched me but found nothing. He asked if I had any drugs in the car, and I said no. Then the other policeman, who seemed like a bad cop, said I should have just told them if I had anything, and nothing bad would have happened. The good cop was still searching my car while the bad cop continued questioning me. Then I remembered I’d put some weed in the driver’s side door compartment, but I hesitated to tell them. They continued searching, and figuring they’d find it anyway, I admitted I had some in the compartment. The good cop found it, and the bad cop started scolding me like a father. I didn’t even argue about him saying earlier that nothing bad would happen; I just resigned myself to going to the police station. The good cop took the weed and got into their car, while the bad cop sat in the passenger seat of my car and instructed me to drive to the station.
If I hadn’t been high, I probably would have been more shocked. I started driving with him in my car, and he asked me what I was thinking about, and why I was reading a book and smoking weed. I told him I wanted to create a better society where we wouldn’t need the police. He was silent for a few seconds, then started threatening me with a court summons, saying the judge would be merciless. I tried to concentrate on driving, but he became loud and agitated, likely trying to distract me and cause an accident while I was driving high, hoping to get me into even more trouble.
I somehow managed to drive to the police station in my neighborhood and parked in front. We met the good cop there, and we all went inside.
As I entered the station, the bad cop gave me a side hug and told me to hang in there. We took the elevator to a room, and they sat me down in a chair between their desks. They took my ID to write a report. They weighed the weed I had, and it was about a gram (1/28 oz). They asked where and from whom I got it, but I refused to say. A third officer arrived, eating a sandwich, and told me to sign the report. Then the good cop began a monologue, saying things like, “Drug dealers have the best money and women, while I read books on Kašuni,” trying to provoke me. I eventually gave in and told him where I got the weed, but I gave him a false location. The good cop and the third officer left the room, leaving me alone with the bad cop. I refused to sign the report, so he marked it as such. He then told me to strip down to my underwear to check if I had any more weed hidden. He asked if I had anything in my underwear, and I said no. I then got dressed, and they let me go home.
A week later, I received a court summons at my home address and managed to retrieve it without my parents’ knowledge.
March
It was Sunday, March 19th, when I went to a choreography training session for the Roman soldier reenactment group I was in.
We had a relaxed training session, and afterward, I hung out with the whole team. Danny invited me for a beer, mentioning that Jim would be there too, so I joined them. We were having a good time when my phone rang. I answered, and my middle brother shouted, “GET HOME QUICKLY!! HENRY FELL OUT OF THE WINDOW!!” I grabbed my things, told Danny and Jim to take care of the drinks bill, and rushed to my car. I drove home, pumped with adrenaline. I ran a red light, seeing no other cars, but at the next intersection, I calmed down and waited for the green light. I made it to my neighborhood and parked near the building. I got out and saw police tape and some blood on the ground in front. I hurried upstairs, took the elevator, and unlocked the door. I found my parents, brother, and sister crying, surrounded by police officers who told us we needed to go to the emergency room.
I remained calm, and our neighbor drove my parents and me to the hospital. We got into the car and drove in silence. During the drive, I broke the silence, asking, “He’s not going to die, is he?” The silence returned. We arrived at the emergency room, and they took us in to see Henry. He was sedated and connected to life support machines. Seeing him like that, I felt a sense of relief, smiled, and said, “Look at this beautiful boy.” He was just 9 years old. We left the room and went outside. I saw an unmarked police car approaching, and it was the same one I’d seen a few weeks earlier in Kašuni. My brother and sister got out of the car with a police officer, and I recognized him as the “good cop” from Kašuni. He didn’t recognize me, or at least he pretended not to. When I saw my siblings, I smiled, which made my brother angry. We stayed at the emergency room a little longer and then went home. On the way home, I texted Danny, asking if he could lend me some weed because I was out.
He replied that he was about to get high with a girl but had some weed for me. Later, I left my house to meet him, and he arrived by car. He asked what was wrong and why I’d rushed out of the bar earlier, but I didn’t want to tell him. I got high, remaining calm about the whole situation, though I was slightly worried. I returned home to find my family crying, and I joined them, pretending to cry to mask my red eyes. I ate some chocolate and went to sleep.
The next day, Monday, I messaged my dealer and bought some weed. I could barely hold back tears as I left. I went home, a beautiful, sunny day with no clouds or wind. I dropped off my car keys and then went to a hill near my neighborhood to get high. I could barely walk, dragging my feet. I sat on a bench and started rolling a joint, crying as I did so. I lit it and smoked, sobbing, wondering why this had happened to our family. I questioned what we had done wrong for God to allow this. I returned home to find my family depressed.
We went to the hospital, to the intensive care unit. My youngest brother was lying on the bed, hooked up to a machine with something in his nostrils. He was the only patient in the room. The doctors told us his life was in danger and that he could die. We all cried and then went home. My middle brother suggested we pray, but I wasn’t in the mood. Another day of sadness and depression passed, and after eating some chocolate, I went to sleep.
The next day, Tuesday, I followed the same routine of smoking weed on the hill. The weather was beautiful. I cried while smoking. Later, we visited my brother in the hospital ward and went through the usual routine. When we got home, I only ate chocolate. Eventually, we went to bed.
The following Wednesday, when I woke up, my parents told me the doctors had called them. They’d said my youngest brother’s life was in serious danger. We went to the hospital again to see him. We were all calm and didn’t cry much. We went home, and I asked my family if we should call the bioenergetic therapist Ava had recommended to me. My sister dismissed the idea, saying there was no way a bioenergetic therapist could help our brother. I went up the hill to get high again. The weather was beautiful. While high, I messaged the bioenergetic therapist, telling him my youngest brother’s life was in danger and asking if he could do anything.
He didn’t respond. About a minute later, my mom called. It was 1 p.m., and through tears, she told me Henry had just died. It was March 22, 2017. She told me to come home as quickly as possible. I walked home and called Ava. I was devastated and cried as I told her my youngest brother was gone. She cried too. When I got home, my whole family was crying. I felt an urge to break the TV, or anything, but I resisted. I became angry, and then my father became angry too. We avoided a fight.
Then Uncle Benny and his friend arrived, both crying. We all hugged and cried together. My grandfather from Split arrived, also crying. My aunts came as well, and we were all devastated by the loss of my youngest brother. I was consumed by guilt, blaming myself for what happened.
My father took me to the hospital to speak with a psychiatrist. The doctor asked if I had ever told my brother to kill himself, and I said no. He then said it was simply an unfortunate circumstance. He told my father I had the option of taking a drug called Zyprexa. My father refused, and I later learned that Zyprexa is an antipsychotic medication.
The following Thursday, my family and my grandfather from Split went to the morgue to see Henry one last time before the funeral. The attendant brought out a gurney with my younger brother’s covered body. She uncovered him, and there he was, dead, cold, and dressed nicely. We all cried. Even the attendant was crying. I couldn’t accept that he was dead, so I tried to open his eyes, but my grandfather told me to stop.
I got one last glimpse of what he would have looked like if he were still alive. We left the morgue; it was a beautiful, sunny day. I pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and lit one in front of my whole family. I figured there was no point in hiding it anymore, now that my little brother was gone. My mother hugged me, and my father just stood there, confused. My siblings and grandfather already knew I smoked.
The next day was the funeral. The weather was beautiful. We gathered in the church at the Split cemetery, and everyone came to offer their condolences. I looked into the coffin and quietly told my brother to perform a miracle and wake up. The condolences concluded, though many more people wanted to express them. The funeral procession began, and we started to leave the church.
As we exited the church, I put on my sunglasses, stopped the procession, and gathered my family around me. I told them we could get through this, and then we continued the procession. On the way to the grave, I was struck by the silence, punctuated only by birdsong. We reached the grave, a niche in the cemetery wall. They placed the coffin inside, and it was over. Ava came to offer her condolences. Even Stacey came, accompanied, I believe, by her new boyfriend. Then came Jim, Barby Jo, and the rest of my high school friends. Finally, Harry, Danny, and the rest of the Roman soldier reenactment group arrived. Harry asked how I was feeling, and I replied “good.” He then commented that he was pleased with how I looked when Stacey arrived. My reaction was essentially, “Okay, let’s just get this over with.
After the funeral, we went to the church in our neighborhood for a memorial service. I was calm, but in the middle of the service, I started crying loudly. The priest continued his sermon, while I continued to cry. My father hugged me. It was very uncomfortable, and I don’t know why I didn’t just leave the church to cry outside. Eventually, my crying stopped, and the rest of the service proceeded peacefully. We went home for dinner, and there were many people there. I managed to eat something, but while everyone was talking in pairs or groups, I just wondered why all of this had to happen. After everyone left, I was alone with my parents.
They told me someone had informed them that I smoke weed. I admitted that I’d been caught with weed about a month prior and had to go to court. We anticipated that the court would order some kind of rehabilitation program. Dad mentioned he knew someone involved with a rehab community. We talked a bit more, and I expressed my desire to sleep with as many women as possible. My dad responded that there would always be someone who’d sleep with more women than me. He added that when I “look the truth in the eyes,” I’ll know, probably referring to some hypothetical woman I was supposed to marry.
About two weeks later, I went to court. I handed over my ID card, and the judge began the interrogation while a clerk recorded everything. In short, I stated that I’d gotten high on Kašuni beach to make reading my book more interesting. They transcribed everything. The judge then ordered me to a three-month rehabilitation program.
In April, my parents, sister, and I went to a “spiritual renewal” retreat in Samobor, a town near Zagreb. My brother couldn’t join us because he was at college in Dubrovnik. The retreat was a three-day program that included religious services and the “laying on of hands,” which meant standing in line to have a priest place his hand on your forehead.
The idea was to experience some kind of divine intervention. It was around this time that Ava recommended a book called “The Biology of Belief” by Bruce H. Lipton. I read it whenever I could, hoping to discover the meaning of life and if there was a way to bring Henry, and everyone else who had died, back to life. One afternoon, we arrived in Samobor and went to our room to unpack. Afterward, we attended mass and then had dinner. We went to sleep, and I dreamed of my youngest brother.
He was crying, and I soon woke up crying as well. My family also woke up, and I exclaimed, “Fuck you, Virgin Mary!” My father scolded me for saying that. I fell back asleep and slept soundly. The next day, we had breakfast, followed by a break before mass. I was in the garden, sitting on a bench and reading “The Biology of Belief.” The book described a scientific approach to life combined with some supernatural ideas. Its main idea was that we ultimately become our thoughts. I went inside to attend mass, and while it was happening, I heard people screaming in another part of the building.
My parents told me those screams were from exorcisms. The next day was the last of our spiritual renewal, culminating in the laying on of hands. Before it began, the priest led a prayer for the cessation of addiction, negative thoughts, misery, and basically everything unpleasant to the average person. The laying on of hands began, and everyone formed a line. Opposite the priest stood two men, there to assist. I watched what was happening, and the priest indeed placed his hand on people’s foreheads. Some laughed, others cried, and some even fell backward, only to be caught by the two men and gently laid on the ground. Those who fell spent a few minutes lying there before returning to their place in line. I waited my turn, and finally, it was my turn.
The priest placed his hand on my forehead and gently pushed my head back. I resisted, not wanting to be one of those people who fell to the ground. He told me to relax and placed his hand on my forehead again. I experienced a sort of semiconscious state. I fell backward, feeling as if I’d landed on a cloud. I didn’t feel the two men catching me. I lay on the floor, and after a few seconds, I was back to reality. I got up and returned to my seat.
A few days later in Split, my parents and I went to the rehabilitation community in my neighborhood, and they introduced me to the director. He explained that I would have to take urine tests over three months. My parents left, and this man took me to the hospital for my first test. The doctors explained that each subsequent test would require a lower concentration of weed in my urine. Ironically, I began these tests on April 20th, the day most commonly associated with smoking weed.
My urine tests were scheduled to be completed on July 20th. After the initial test, we went back to the rehab community, and I realized it was a faith-based, Christian organization. Some residents there made bracelets and rosaries, and I learned how to make them as well. I became quite good at it. The next day, I returned to the community and was with a girl when a song came on the radio. The lyrics mentioned a “window to the sunset,” which immediately brought to mind the window my younger brother had fallen out of. That window faced west, toward the sunset.
They told me he jumped because they wouldn’t let him watch a movie inappropriate for those under 12. They had also taken away his phone. He then said, in front of his mother, “If the phone is going, I’ll go too,” opened the window, and jumped from the fifth floor. I almost started crying but held back in front of the girl. I went outside for a cigarette. The man in charge of the community approached and told me he knew a carpenter who needed help. The carpenter’s workshop was also in our neighborhood. The man took me to the carpenter, and I helped him feed some planks through a machine. Later, we moved some furniture. When we were finished, the carpenter offered me money, but I refused, as I didn’t think it was a big deal.
He told me he’d call me from time to time for help, since he worked alone, and I agreed. I continued going to the rehab community and taking the urine tests, which were progressing well. One day, while helping the carpenter, he lit a joint during a break. He offered me some, but I declined, citing the urine tests.
In the following weeks, I settled into a routine of the rehab community, helping the carpenter, and taking urine tests. I was searching for the true meaning of life, who was in control, who or what God was, etc. I stumbled upon a website called returnofkings.com. Ironically, I’d been searching for things like “damn bitch,” referring to Stacey. The website contained content related to the actual behavior of men and women. If you had read the articles there, you could say you had taken the “red pill,” a reference to the movie The Matrix (1999). In the movie, the protagonist is offered a blue pill and a red pill. The blue pill would return him to his normal life, a kind of false reality, while the red pill would transfer his consciousness to the real world, a kind of real hell on earth. Although the red pill would place him in the real world where he had to fight harder for a good fate, it was ultimately better than being in the fake world of blue pills.
The returnofkings.com website was a right-wing site that espoused views against left- wing ideologies like feminism and the perceived decline of patriarchy. It described how women in the Western world had, in its view, morally degraded themselves and were all pretending to be innocent while secretly seeking casual sex. It also claimed that feminists often dyed their hair red or blue and insidiously used their positions of influence. This meant, according to the website, that they abused the human right to freedom of speech and attempted to impose vulgar sexual behavior, gay rights, and other similar ideas.
I found that a man should be at least somewhat dominant in a relationship because it’s more natural than the alternative. I thought about my relationship with Stacey and how I felt psychologically abused, with no one to adequately help me.
I learned about something called “The Game,” which referred to a man’s ability to approach and seduce women. I thought back to the Australian girl I’d wanted to sleep with in the summer of 2016. I remembered a moment when I was leaning against the door wearing only a towel. I’d given up on the idea of sleeping with her then, missing an opportunity. What I should have done, according to “The Game,” was go to the couch with her and undress completely. This would give her a reason to have sex with me, a concept called “plausible deniability.” This meant not directly asking a woman for sex but indirectly creating a situation where it would happen. For example, if I had stripped completely in front of her, she would have likely thought, “That’s it, we’re having sex.” The underlying idea was that she would probably tell her friends about it anyway, but she wouldn’t want to appear promiscuous.
I clicked on many articles on returnofkings.com, some of which discussed how morally degraded and perverted Hollywood was, according to the site. I was introduced to the idea that a hidden “elite” group, called the Illuminati, controlled Hollywood, the media, politics, and the rest of the world. The articles claimed that anyone wanting to be a successful actor in Hollywood had to participate in certain rituals to gain control. These rituals allegedly consisted of public or private shaming ceremonies. The articles mentioned homosexuality, pedophilia, zoophilia, and transgenderism. I read about the so-called “27 Club,” comprised of famous singers and actors who died at age 27, including Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, and Amy Winehouse. I researched further and read that on the night of Amy Winehouse’s death, neighbors reported hearing drums and screams coming from her apartment. I also read about how the Illuminati supposedly sacrificed people in satanic rituals and about the MKUltra (Mind Kontrol Ultra) program.
This program reportedly involved hypnosis and brainwashing to the point where some people would have a “breakdown.” For example, it was written that actress Britney Spears was a victim of MKUltra and experienced a meltdown, culminating in her shaving her head. I read that the Illuminati use so-called “minor magic” to subtly inform ordinary people of their plans. Since the Illuminati controlled the media and politics, which in turn gave them control of the entire world, they placed subtle signs in movies and news. One example cited was news anchors making a pyramid sign with their hands while delivering the news.
I came across an article about an 11-year-old boy who committed suicide. He had fallen in love with a girl at his school, and after she publicly rejected him, he hanged himself in his closet. It made me both angry and sad. I started crying and showed the article to my father. He was speechless.
Over time, I developed a conspiracy theory. I believed my younger brother had been abused and sacrificed on the night of his death. In fact, I thought my whole family was the target of some destructive force. I believed I was next and that I would probably die at the age of 27, which was five years away. I was watching the news with my family when I noticed the news anchors making a pyramid shape with their hands. I pointed it out to my family as if I’d made a significant discovery, but they dismissed it as nonsense.
Summer 2017 began, and I was still attending the rehab community and taking occasional urine tests. One day, after a test, I bought some food and sat down in the park to eat. A guy approached and asked if I had any tobacco; he needed it to roll a joint. I gave him some. After lighting up, he offered it to me, but I declined, explaining that I was in rehab and taking tests. He encouraged me to hang in there, saying I’d be able to smoke weed again in a month, something I was eagerly anticipating.
My whole family and I moved to a different neighborhood in Split so we could rent out our apartment to tourists. I started working in a carpentry workshop, and since I knew nothing about carpentry, I had to learn everything from scratch. The carpenter gave me some basic tasks, which I performed well. I told Harry I would soon no longer participate in the Roman soldier reenactment group. I wanted to learn a trade and have a real job.
Every Friday, the carpenter’s friends gathered at his workshop for a barbecue, smoking weed and drinking beer. I had to be patient, as July had just begun.
Ava told me she wanted a small wooden staircase for her apartment and asked if I could make it for her. I accepted, but every time I tried to do something myself, the carpenter would say things like, “Don’t use that type of wood, I need it,” or “You’re not going to do it that way.” It was frustrating because I wanted to learn carpentry, but he constantly blocked me. He had a small female dog that he’d bring to the workshop.
Every time he returned, he’d find the dog had rummaged through the trash can looking for food. He’d get angry and physically, though mildly, abuse the dog, picking her up roughly and shouting that it was inappropriate. I told him he was exaggerating, but he insisted he was doing nothing wrong.
The carpenter told me he was divorced and had a son. I met his son when we went to pick him up from kindergarten. One Friday in July, the carpenter’s friends gathered again for a barbecue, weed, and beer. It was just a week before I would be able to smoke weed again. I stared at the fire from the grill, and a few days later, one of the largest, if not the largest, forest fires engulfed the wider area of Split. From our new apartment, we watched flames larger than trees devour pine trees for two days. Fortunately, no one was injured or killed.
July 20th finally arrived, which also happened to be Danny’s birthday. I spent the early afternoon swimming at a gay beach, and later went over to Danny’s apartment. I was the first to arrive, and we celebrated by smoking a joint together. It felt great to be high again, although I kind of wished I’d been able to do it on my own to mark the occasion.
I also started smoking with the carpenter; he was able to supply me with weed. I was living in a different neighborhood of Split because we were renting our apartment to tourists. One night at the end of July, I went to sleep and my eyes were closed. Suddenly, I saw the pale gray number “10”. It was a strange feeling, and I wondered what it meant.
August
One afternoon in early August (either August 4th or 5th), I worked as a Roman soldier with Danny, posing for pictures with tourists. An American man approached us, took a photo with us, gave us a tip, and left. He returned later, asking if we wanted to meet some of the girls he was traveling with. I accepted the offer, while Danny declined. I told the American my shift would be ending soon and that I would meet him later.
I went to change out of my Roman soldier costume and got dressed. I met the American man near where we’d been taking pictures, and he took me to a nearby apartment.
Inside, there were indeed two girls. He introduced me, and we started talking. They were drinking and offered me some, which I accepted. We chatted for a while, and they were impressed with my English. One of the girls asked if I could get them some weed, and I told them, “I know a guy.” The American and I exchanged numbers in case they needed anything.
At some point, a guy and one of the girls mentioned they were heading out to buy cigarettes. Once they left, I found myself alone with another girl. By that time, I was fairly intoxicated, and she appeared to be quite drunk as well. She approached me and said, “Let’s have sex.” I led her to a room, and we both undressed. After some foreplay, I mentioned I needed to go back to the living room to grab a condom. I put it on and returned to her. I was on top of her, kissing her before we proceeded further. She then mentioned she had a boyfriend. At one moment, she looked at me with a distant, empty gaze, as if staring into nothingness.
Then she slapped me, and I slapped her back, thinking she might be into that kind of dynamic. I tried to proceed, but she began to resist. After a brief struggle, I stopped and let go. Realizing something was wrong, I went back to the living room, removed the condom, and threw it away. She left the room angrily, accidentally breaking a glass in the process, and went to the bathroom. I got dressed and messaged the American guy, explaining that the girl was acting strangely and asking where they were. He never responded, so I left the apartment.
I went to the place where we changed into our Roman soldier costumes to get high and ended up falling asleep there. The next morning, I woke up and we had a performance scheduled on a nearby island. Our group gathered and boarded a boat to the island. The performance was part of a formal event and took place in the afternoon. We delivered a solid performance, and afterward, we enjoyed some time swimming in the sea. In the evening, there was a gala dinner near the venue, and our entire group was invited. I went to remove my Roman costume, and after getting dressed, I checked my phone.
I noticed a missed call from a landline number and called back. It turned out to be the police, who instructed me to come to the local station once I returned to Split. I ended up missing the gala dinner, opting instead to eat canned tuna outside. Later, my friends joined me and mentioned how extravagant the dinner had been, with an abundance of food and a $200 price tag for those who weren’t invited. They laughed when I told them I’d just eaten tuna.
We all packed up and boarded the boat that was supposed to take us back to Split. Instead of enjoying the warm, starry summer night on the ride back, I was preoccupied, wondering why the police had contacted me. When I finally arrived in Split, I called the police. It was 3 a.m., and they informed me that a police car would come to pick me up. They arrived and took me to the station. Inside, I was seated in a room with a police officer who explained that the girl I had attempted to sleep with the previous day had filed a complaint against me, accusing me of engaging in non-consensual sexual activity.
It wasn’t classified as rape, but hearing the accusation was still unsettling. They took me to the hospital for a body swab to determine if non- consensual sexual activity had occurred. Afterward, they drove me back to the station. Since it was the middle of the night, they placed me in a detention cell in the basement of the station. At least it was cooler underground. They confiscated my belongings, and I was put in a cell about the size of a small room but with a 15-foot-high ceiling. I was monitored by a camera and given a bed with a blanket. Somehow, I managed to fall asleep. The next morning, the police brought me in for interrogation. They also took photos of the messages on my phone, particularly those exchanged with the American guy.
I was in the office with a police officer, and he mentioned that the American’s statement was helping my case. The American had told the police that the girl who accused me was known to drink heavily and had expressed a desire to get pregnant while traveling in Croatia. It felt like an eternity before they finally released me. My phone and clothes were taken as part of the investigation. I got my phone back weeks later, but I never saw my clothes again.
A few days after all this, I remembered something: the number 10 that had been stuck in my head. It turned out that exactly 10 days before this incident, an American woman had accused me of non-consensual sex.
In the fall, we returned to our neighborhood. I had a court case because of the woman who had accused me, and I had to present my side of the story. After the hearing, I never received an official court decision, but my lawyer informed me that the charges had been dropped.
During this time, I continued to search for deeper truths and grapple with life’s big questions. On the living room counter, there was a picture of my late brother wearing a T-shirt that said “Research.” I took it as a sign from God. Even my mother mentioned having a dream that included some kind of image involving me. When I asked her what it meant, she said it was something I would have to figure out on my own.
I grew tired of returnofkings.com’s “feminism bad, patriarchy good” mantra and turned to YouTube. I watched videos about the Hollywood Illuminati. They described how MKUltra had a sub-program called Monarch, named after a species of butterfly. The name “Monarch” was supposedly chosen because MKUltra victims subjected to programming processes felt dizzy and light, like butterflies. I found a video filled with images of actresses and singers accompanied by butterflies. In another video, I saw various actors and singers covering one eye, supposedly mimicking the all-seeing Illuminati eye. They would also allegedly “draw” the number “666” with their fingers.
Many even made the pyramid sign with their hands and positioned it around their eye, again mimicking the Illuminati’s all-seeing eye. I found a video of Jim Carrey on Jimmy Kimmel Live. When he came on stage, he made the pyramid sign with his hands, placing them around his mouth. He then stuck out his tongue and made various movements.
He then said he would expose “Illumi-nutty” (a pun) and everything about them. I felt like I had discovered something significant that many people weren’t aware of.
I recalled reading somewhere that actress Queen Latifah supposedly “initiates” other actresses by having sex with them using a strap-on, a type of sex toy involving a fake penis. Months later, I watched a movie starring her, and at one point, she commented on the appearance of another female character, saying something like, “Yes, she is beautiful, she gives me my female erection.
I watched a video called “All the Truth in 60 Seconds.” It featured a voiceover of a man claiming to reveal truths that many people didn’t understand. One statement that stuck with me was, “There is a dome above your head.” That’s when I started considering the idea that the Earth is flat.
I found a YouTube channel called Justin Beers. It featured voiceovers discussing various conspiracy theories. He was a “truther” who covered topics such as Hollywood, the Illuminati, flat Earth, and more. He exposed alleged pedophile networks created by a powerful elite, known as “PizzaGate,” because it supposedly centered around a pizza place in an American city. I saw some disturbing videos he presented. One showed a parent dressed as Spiderman playing with a toddler in a way that bordered on child abuse. The baby was placed in a cradle and covered with various toys, presented as normal play, which Justin Beers exposed. In another disturbing video, a person was filmed from the chest up, covered in some kind of white substance, with only their eyes visible. This person said, without blinking, “I’m eating a little baby’s ice cream, it keeps me young.” Justin Beers claimed this video was broadcast on TV.
YouTube recommended a channel called Quasiluminous. He was also a “truther,” but unlike Justin Beers and other truther channels, he had a completely different approach. He was very direct and used profanity. He not only described conspiracy theories but also, between the lines, offered advice on how to become a better human being. His main idea was that the planet Earth is not only flat but also a literal hell, a kind of labyrinth, and you had to reach the center of the labyrinth (the Earth) before you died.
He spoke of a paradise on Earth that could be established if 144,000 people performed “Blood over intent.” This was a process in which a person writes on a piece of paper, “I intend to bring forth heaven on Earth.” Then, the person waits for an injury or pricks a finger and puts some blood over the written words. The entire process is recorded and uploaded to YouTube with the title, description, and tag: “Blood over intent.”
@Limbo 
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