Etherial Liberation For All

20251031

Written for Bradley Ramsey's "First Indulgence" event.

While Bob’s instructions were to throw out any groups whose meetings were still running when his rounds started, he wasn’t getting paid enough to even pretend to care about Mr Smith’s tightwad bottom line. Especially since waiting to clean the rooms was paid time for him.
But he did always politely pop his head in to warn the group that the building was now closed, and if a fire or whatever happened they were on their own. Usually that led to them wrapping up in short order.
This group didn’t strike him as anything out of the ordinary. Scribbled on the whiteboard was “Etherial Liberation”, which could be anything from druggies to anarchists to some New Age band. Judging from the haphazard chair arrangement and the high-quality bring-and-share style buffet along one wall, almost all homemade, he was leaning towards anarchists.
Of the two dozen people only one looked up when he walked in. The rest were focused on a young lass, perhaps early twenties, who was softly bawling her eyes out.
Ah. Well awkward. Bob hesitated just long enough for the individual who’d noticed him to stand up. Now ducking back out wasn’t an option. Nor was even the politest of nudges about closing hours.
So he forced a polite smile and hesitantly nodded to the cryer. “She alright?”
The organiser - at least, she looked born to be a group organiser - cast a sorrowful glance back at the circle and explained “She thought she had finally broken free of the Sublime Prince’s grasp, but of late he haunts her dreams.”
Dramatic nicknames and phrasing like that made it clear they were in the New Age crowd. Still, her point was clear and immediately sympathetic. It was often the worst exes who were hardest to get over. Especially when young.
Bob sighed and nodded. “It gets easier with time. And that’s often all that helps.”
“Quite so!” The organiser looked relieved and pleased. “We have assured her that the important thing is not to heed his beguilements and attempts to win her back.”
“That’s right!” Bob stepped closer to tentatively pat the cryer’s shoulder. “Hold strong, lass. I know it hurts now. You might even feel like part of you’s missing, still with them. But if you fold and give ‘em another chance that makes it harder to ever break away again. I’ve seen it far too many times.”
“Well said, friend.” The organiser beamed. “I’m Jane. I - well, we are all equal here! But I’m the financial guaranteer and such for our little support group.”
“Nice to meet you, Jane. I’m Bob.”
Jane rattled off everyone else’s names and encouraged Bob to help himself to the food. “Do try Eustace’s scones! They’re gluten free.”
Joining in seemed by far the least awkward option. He couldn’t finish work until they were done anyway, and he certainly wasn’t going to shoo them out with poor Beth still sniffling. Plus Bob had been on his feet for nearly four hours and was famished. So he filled a plate and poured a mug of strong cheap coffee and took a seat.
It seemed they were going around the circle. The fellow who was currently being supported - Carl, or was it Jack? - was dealing with guilt. “And, I just, I feel like I shouldn’t be happy, you know? That somebody like me, the things I’ve done, I don’t deserve to be happy ever again. Once you break out of that, that trance, that grind, of doing what you’re told and trying to make The Forces That Be happy and you realise you’re sacrificing children, babies even, I just… how do I make it right?”
Insurance? He looked like the sort of fellow who’d go into insurance. Though there were a depressing number of jobs he could be referring to. Capitalism made it far too easy to become a meek cog in a cruel machine.
But Bob didn’t have any real wisdom, so he just made brief eye contact and smiled sympathetically and nodded. A wordless “I don’t know, mate. Wish I did.” which was hopefully supportive and encouraging.
The next one was convinced she was victim of “psychic whispers”, which surely called for a shrink rather than a support group, but Bob wasn’t sure how to say so, what with being a complete stranger. So he held his tongue while others suggested that herbal remedy tosh.
Then all eyes turned to him. Thankfully they didn’t push when he waved it off.
And… that was it. Remaining food was divvied up, chairs were stacked, and soon only he and Jane were left.
“So…” Jane said hesitantly, swinging her bag on, “are you free of your Crushing Bonds? Or are you in the process of extracting?”
“Um. Guess I’m pretty crushingly bonded?”
“Ah.” Jane nodded seriously. “Well, you have taken that vital first step. We’re here for you all the way.”
“Thanks?”
Barmy lot, and very dramatic, but nice folks.
“If there’s any aid we can give, be that advice or a safe house, just come to us.”
Bob shrugged and reassuringly offered “Mr Smith’s a nasty piece of work, but… there’s far worse out there.”
“Mm. Yes, there are many ‘Mr Smiths’.”
“Too many.”
Jane nodded weary agreement as they stepped out into the hall.
“Well, it was lovely meeting you all.” Bob grabbed his cleaning trolley. “But I’d best get back to work. Smith’ll get well shirty if I try and clock an extra hour of work.”
“Wor…?” Jane blinked. “Wait. Are you talking about Mr Cory Smith?”
“Yeah. Building manager. You must’ve talked to him to get the room.”
“I did, but…” Jane was suddenly fidgety. “Did he send you?”
“No?” Bob said blankly. “Well, I mean, he tasked me with cleaning up after hours. But he’d kick off if he knew I’d been eating snacks on his dime.”
“Um.” Jane’s brow furrowed and her lips twitched, seemingly trying out several phrasings before settling on “So, you’re not in a cult?”
“In a…??”

Prompt was “Write a story or poem that combines horror and comedy. Your prompt is this: A janitor working late one night stumbles upon a support group for one of the following - rehabilitated serial killers, recovering cultists, or aliens trying to blend in as humans.”