Just finished The Santaroga Barrier by Frank Herbert (my dad likes to play audiobooks in the car on trips) and I didn't like it much (and there's quite a bit of Yikes in it, because frank herbert and the 1960s in general,) but the aspect I found most interesting was the concept of like. A world's subconscious desire to kill The Other.
In the book an investigator visits a small cultish town in order to investigate it for a market study after a few other researchers mysteriously died. he gets into a frightening number of "accidents" while he's there (like the former investigators) and starts believing that there was a conspiracy among the townsfolk and all of them were intentionally trying to murder him.
tl;dr, it turns out it actually was a subconscious yet intense phobia/hatred they had of The Outside they had as part of their personal traumas, childhood indoctrination into their local cult, and the LSD-like drug they were constantly on. They didn't mean the investigator any harm, if anything they were extremely welcoming, kind, well-meaning people, but this background radiation of fear and rage kept making them accidentally do things to kill him - mixing up insecticide and spices in his food, gas fumes being pumped in his hotel room after a botched maintenance job, a torn carpet tripping him off the railing of the balcony, and Many Other subtle attempts on his life that he just happened to avoid by sheer chance.
But all the townsfolk don't really think anything of it - the town doctor, especially skeptical, "diagnoses" him as "accident-prone" until the investigator begs and pleads with him for days after several brutal accidents in a row, and only then does the doctor start believing him but even then only comes up with the theory that all of this supposed malice towards the investigator is "subconscious" - later shown to likely be correct when the investigator himself, after overdosing on their special drug, "accidentally" shoves his colleague off a roof, killing him, but the investigator physically cannot see it as anything but an accident anymore. it simply doesn't reach his mind that he killed a former friend of his. it was just an accident. he just fell, all on his own.
the idea of A Town That Wants To Kill You, But It's Nothing Personal resonated with me from the perspective of being a disabled person, especially one in a generally welcoming, accepting environment. when you're disabled, not a lot of people will come to you bearing their ableism between their teeth. They'll be nice, insensitive maybe, but nice, and are often outwardly willing to accomodate you. But they also stick out their leg as you're walking along to trip you. They'll apologize, and you'll maybe even believe it, even though to you, from your perspective, it was obviously an attempt to harm you. You excuse it once, maybe twice, but after a point, you realize that this world, this community you have entered, is actively hostile towards you and everyone like you. so you start screaming it to the rooftops. you tell authorities that the world wants to hurt you, but they begin affixing labels to you like "paranoid" or "anxious". they know no one actually has it out for you, personally, after all. that would be ridiculous.
but you still keep getting tripped down the stairs. the rat poison and the sugar at your favorite coffee shop still keep getting mixed up, but only when it's your order. in the hospital, recovering from your previous "accidents", a nurse will still accidentally pump you full of saline instead of medicine.
after a point, doesn't the fact that all of these are "accidents", and that no one WANTS to kill you, just... stop mattering a little bit? Yeah, no one wants to hurt you, but they just keep doing it. They keep making stupid little mistakes. They know everyone like you who has visited their community has died or been seriously injured under suspicious circumstances, but the idea that they, themselves, could be a little bit at fault just doesn't even register to them. they don't even consider that they might have to change their ways in order to protect people like you. After all, you can't prepare for every "freak accident". Even when the solution could be as simple as "stop putting rat poison next to the sugar", every time it happens to you, or a person like you, it's just an "accident", that no one "meant" any harm, and "nothing could be done".
it doesn't cross their mind that a string of unfortunate accidents ceases to be accidents, but serious negligence. it can't cross their mind, because they're not the victims here. they only even begin to acknowledge something might be wrong when the victims are screaming in their face, day after day. even then, they come to the conclusion that even if you're right, and the community does want to kill you because you are Other, they won't immediately see anything wrong with that. To Them, the answer is clear as day: just become one of Them, and you'll be safe. They take care of their own.
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For months you’ve noticed him out of the corner of your eye.
As you pass through university corridors or head to the car park or browse the campus library, there he is. A blonde man, dressed in what looks like period clothing from eras gone by, and as soon as you see him, he’s suddenly ducked out of sight.
It’s not like he’s trying to stay hidden. It seems like he’s... embarrassed.
You don’t know who he is, and when you ask your friends, none of them have ever seen nor heard of him. Part of you wonders if he’s some kind of spirit; part of you wonders if you’ve just gone a bit mental from working so hard.
Then, when you go into your literature class one day, there’s an envelope on the desk of your usual seat... with your name written on it in a beautiful calligraphy.
When you open it, the contents can’t be mistaken for anything but a love letter.
-
Dearest Name,
My intentions are not to frighten you, so I earnestly apologize if that is what I’ve done. In advance, I wish to state that no matter how you respond to this letter, I will respect your desires, so you needn’t worry.
To you, this is a confession. My looks may reflect youth, but I have been alive for quite some time, in a sense. My own hand stilled my breath long ago, and for that my punishment has been eternal unlife, a damnation. For so long I’ve lived thinking it a curse. If it has led me to you, however, perhaps is is rather a blessing.
No one has captured me the way you have. Your radiant smile almost wills my heart to beat again, and your gentle voice has brought color back into my life after walking with my head down in a world of grey.
This must seem sudden, as we have only shared a single conversation... but I can’t get you out of my mind. Months ago, as I lamented my current work in your university’s library, you heard me reading aloud on the other side of a bookcase. I described myself as a writer, told you of my ideas, and you encouraged me.
You spoke softly, kindly. You stayed with me until one of your fellows drew your presence away, though I cannot blame them for wanting your company. I cannot remember such a time before that I have felt so much like someone cared about what I had to say.
I have not felt like myself in several hundred years. That short time I spent with you made me feel like me again.
Ever since then, I have found myself hoping we would meet again. It seems luck was on my side that day, and never again, so I have tried to seek you out.
But my courage is laughable, for I can seem to bring myself no closer than a glance should I find you meeting my eyes. I appear to have grown quite shy as the years have passed.
This is my last effort before my bravery runs dry. Should it please you, I will be sitting by that same bookcase this evening. If you don’t wish to meet, I understand, and I will have taken my leave by 12 A.M.
In any case, no matter what your choice will be, I hope this letter finds you well, and should I never see you again, I pray all the best for you.
Sincerely yours,
T. Wallis
-
You don’t quite know what you’re thinking when you turn up in the library, by that bookshelf, at 11:30 that night. Maybe you’ve gone crazy. Maybe you were flattered by the sweet, timid, flowery way this man wrote.
Whatever else is true, when you show up, he’s standing there by the shelf. Pacing back and forth in a tight line, hair pulled back with a velvet ribbon, coat swaying around his knees, hands clutched to his chest. He looks like he walked right off the pages of one of those historical fiction novels on the shelf, gorgeous and ethereal.
He sees you before you start walking toward him, you think. His head snaps upward, and his eyes, those eyes... bright chartreuse, shining with an otherworldly glow, they look right through you.
It’s like time freezes as you take your steps, and with every one, you can swear you hear his apparently dead heart loose another beat.
Finally there you are, only a meter or two between you. He looks as if he’s prepared to bolt any second, to lose his nerve and abandon whatever small chance he might have with you.
“... T. Wallis?” Your voice doesn’t sound quite like you. Your own heart is hammering in your chest.
“Thomas!” he says suddenly, and he looks shocked at the volume of his own voice. He shrinks back from you, a rosy blush blossoming across his cheeks.
And, in a softer voice which matches the tone of his letter, he adds, “T... Thomas. My name is Thomas.”
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