The grueling RPF
“Declare me”, I wrote on a paper and left it on my bed. The room was on the second floor but the windows led to a roof. I climbed out the window onto the roof and ran across to the exposed stairwell of big blue. I ran all the way up nine flights to the roof. I then ran across the roof to another fire escape, this one was enclosed. I started to run down the stairs.
I stopped. Where was I going? I had nowhere to go. Nowhere.
I had nothing on me. No money, no ID, I didn’t have any phone number to call for help.
I was on the Rehabilitation Project Force. As explained in previous posts about it, the schedule is long and hard. One day of it, sure, easy. But day after long day doing heavy labor and interrogations takes a toll on you.
Plus we had musters five times a day, accounting for everyone and chasing up anyone missing. That would start with one person looking for the missing person but if not located, it would turn into a literal manhunt.
Once everyone was there we would scream, “The RPF is what we make it. The RPF is where we make it!” Louder, louder and louder.
As I sat on that stairwell, I started to cry. I was physically and emotionally exhausted.
Everyones job on the RPF was to make their twin better. My twin was an alleged serial statutory rapist. I spent my nights listening to a forty year old man tell me that he was in love with the 14 year old that he had been having sex with. I was his interrogator. I had to make him a better person.
I had somehow yet again gotten in trouble for something. Maybe it was when I got pissed and started throwing chairs. I didn’t like that I had been given an impossible task, of doing particular auditing sessions on an extremely difficult case (not my twin, someone else they wanted me to fix).
I put up with everything, everything for two years and that day, fuck it, I’d had enough. And I was pissed.
So they had put someone on me to watch me 24/7. I had been sent to take a nap to get ready for my own interrogation (because I threw chairs and screamed). Instead of napping, I was asking for an SP declare with my note and I had taken off through the window.
I sat in that stairwell for a long time looking out at people and cars passing by. I rocked myself, willing myself to calm down.
It took the manhunt crew a few hours to find me but they did. And I was again brought back to the basement of the RPF, now the person watching me could not let me out of their sight, at all.
How could all these other RPFers be so happy?
Graduating required hundreds, or thousands of hours of interrogations. Plus the grueling labor. And when you were done with the interrogations, you had to be happy. Rehabilitation required happiness at the end.
I couldn’t be happy there. I hated it. So how did others ever do it? I know, they faked it. That’s the only way to get off the program.