The Truth Project

He woke up, panting heavily, the elusive wisps of breath slowly returning the color back to his cheeks. He sprang up bolt upright on his bed, clutching his head in terror.

She was probably the reason that he’d refused to admit his weakness, the fact that he’d been riddled by undecipherable images and flashbacks at his darkest nights. They all carried a tinge of deja vu, the type of deja vu that sent you reeling back through old trauma and drama alike. It had sent him spiraling through memories that felt familiar, yet unfathomable.

Once upon a time, he was powerless, vulnerable, and belittled. However, now he stood basking in the light of his hollow fame. Crowned by the fawning media. “Philanthropist.” “Visionary.” “Champion of Humanity.”

But the titles tasted like ash.

Wasn’t it unfathomable that nobody recognised or acknowledged his potential? He’d shown them, right? Here he stood, in all his glory, the social champion of rights, the saviour, the owner of a business that was raking in so much money – sorry, donations – that he was the envy, the paragon of all of humanity. All the newspapers had christened him with such meaningless titles, at least a hundred spewed out of each copy. But why did it all feel so null and void? Meaningless! Hollow!

But never mind. His burdens were his to carry, were they not? It wasn’t quite ethical for anyone else to know about his dreams, was it? No. He convinced himself. No. No one can be trusted with those nightmares. Not those psychologists (they just want to exploit people!) or those namby-pamby dream predictors (all a load of rot!).

Heck, he was sure that nobody mortal could ever describe this odd deja vu. It was all-consuming, the shadow of which weighed down on him at every conscious (and unconscious) moment he lived. They weren’t even actual moments or scenes. They were instantaneous flashes that didn’t carry much more than a pang that carried regret, worry, trauma, and melancholy. The flashes were unfamiliar – he could never recall any of it – but they always were laced with the unsettling feeling that he’d been there, done that, felt exactly what his visions said.

No. He mentally slapped himself. No, no, no, you can’t be thinking such… delusional things.

Perspirating profusely, chasing back the storm of thoughts, he compelled himself to sleep again, trying desperately to brace himself for the new night’s terrors…

~

He was little again, standing bashfully in front of his towering mother. She was yelling at him, again and again, nonsensical words streaming out of her mouth. She reached out with her toughened hands and smacked him. Again. And again. And he just stands there, frozen, unable to call out for help, or cry, or step away. In the middle of this mayhem, a beeping starts and–

“Dad? Time to get up!”

~

“Good morning, sir. May I help you?” the standard feminine voice of the organisation OS beeped in a very convincing way, which sounded almost surreal. He dismissed it with one wave of his hand. Denkins calling. Denkins calli– “To heck with these robotic voices!” Ambitio roared as he menacingly jabbed a silver button.

“Yes, sir. Shall replace it, sir.” Denkins’ tone was as genuine as it always was, and he swept down in a bow so low that Ambitio was sure that his stubby hair brushed the polished floor. Rolling his eyes, Ambitio barke,d “Anything with the new lot? What updates?”

Denkins popped up again, with 10 new reports stacked precariously in his arms. “The new lot seems to be satisfactory, but one family needs some serious debugging. That’s mostly it.”

As he began to push the doors, he added in haste, “Oh, wait, the government is requesting another policy update." Ambitio slightly opened his mouth, and Denkins nodded solemnly. “The official kind. It’s gonna be reposted as well.” Ambitio inclined his head about 15 degrees,s and Denkins took it as his cue to leave.

Striding jauntily out the door, he only gave up his merry facade once he’d reached his cubicle. Burying his head in his hands, he shook himself and unwillingly got up to deal with ‘business’ again. He didn’t like this… any of this. It all had an eerie undertone, and if he trusted his instincts, it all had to be a secret anti-government ploy or something, he just knew it!

He really didn’t want to be here. He was treated like a child, and on top of that, he was practically the only ‘junior’ in the whole building, the one that was ‘bossed around’ and nobody cared about it. One of these days, he’d be in charge. And I’ll make a good change, he asserted. No doubt the world needs it… There was something fishy about the whole thing, about the gaping wide holes in the cover story and the way he wasn’t permitted to refer to the archives, even if he was the ‘official-reporter-giver’ or whatever. One of these days, he’d find out what the deal was here.

Back at his office, Abitio was frantically typing words onto the document, barely managing 5 words per minute.

He wasn’t used to doing the work, and government policy required the official updates to be issued by the CEO themself, with verified signature marks, fingerprint access, etcetera, etcetera.

He forced himself to keep typing: “Oleander and Co. is striving to be a reliable and trustworthy organisation that…” The words mocked him. He was no savior. He was a butcher dressed as a saint.

He dictated to himself, and he typed. A curse escaped his lips. This time, the official email even requested full records and evidence of their funding being used.

Truth be told, Mr. Tenery Abitio was never a saviour.

He just needed to put up with this illusion, this habit of deception, just until he hit 60, four to five years later, and mention casually that he’d be resigning and that this company would now be headed by Portmalo. Portmalo, Portmalo… He stopped.

Did anyone in this organisation even have a first name? If they did, it was of no use to him, though he’d want to know Portmalo’s before resigning, wouldn’t he…

As Denkins fumed out of the door, he ran smack into a figure with lush, chestnut hair and an agitated expression.

“Oh, madam, I’m so sorry, I–” Verita shushed him with one finger to his lips. “It seems I’m not the only troubled soul today,” she smiled crookedly. “What happened, Deryll? Why do you seem so wrought?” Butterflies erupted in Deryll’s chest. Someone knew his name! But he stopped and reluctantly admitted, “Oh, you won’t like this, Miss Verita, but I fear your father is up to something… and” Deryll stopped there. It was unwise to reveal his emotions to the CEO’s daughter, of all people. “Ugh, me too! He just seems so lost, and he shakes with trepidation each night… Deryll, right? Want to find some things out?”

He’d planned it all out, it would be all official and serious – the no-nonsense sort of goodbye– and all the world would protest in vain, demanding him to return—- Verita here, Verita here… the annoying notification issued again, yet this time he plastered on a great big smile and toggled the button dotingly. “Hello, my dear daughter, how are yo…” Tenery stopped and immediately took on a worrisome look.

Verita’s hair mussed, tear tracks running down her cheeks, and a stricken Denkins was standing beside her. “Oh, sweetie, did that devil do anything to you?” Teneri spat loathingly. “Say the wor– no, darling, my floors were just polished,” he added, slightly dejected at her suspiciously murky footprints..

She took one quivering breath and then stepped directly in front of the podium-like table he perched at.

“You are no father of mine.”

She trembled uncontrollably, for no one ever dared oppose the Tenery Abitio.

Taking a deep breath as an attempt to steady himself, he hissed in the calmest way he could, “What?”

More confident now, Verita groped out with one shivering hand and reached into her satchel. Finding the designated objects, she spread the files out on the desk. She opened one stuffed manila envelope and brought out bills, one after the other. “For office repairs. For advertising and marketing. For the employee salaries. For machine repairs,” she listed. She read them until the envelope was empty of all the bills. Briefly meeting eyes, his glimmering, greedy, and hers puffy and determined. She pulled out two more wads of pristine white stationery. Nodding to them, she said plainly.

“You can go through them. But why would you need to? You monitor all transactions – no, you are the one making them. All linked to your name. Yet, not one is in the name of those ‘helplesses’ that you bring here. What does happen to those guys?”

She menacingly flicked a file towards him. For the first time in about 40 years, he was actually afraid. Opening it and seeing it, he relaxed. These were the official copies of the files that they presented to the government.

Each evidence featured bright images of starving beings eating gratefully, sick, coughing people being treated, them being cleaned and resting in bed.

Tenery’s stomach lurched. He knew these scenes. Not from reports. From his dreams. From the flashes that haunted him.

“Yes, sweetie, those are our–”

“Compare them.” Malice is evident in her tone.

He flipped it open. An array of meticulously typewritten documents streamed out, and all that stayed secured on the yellowed backdrops were printed images clipped together with a paperclip.

As he flipped through, his agitation just grew. There were pictures, all of them were real – not feigned or photoshopped – the raw, very real, sting of truth pierced through his heart. His eyes grew wide, and he inspected the images closely, although he knew.

Verita unclenched her left fist to reveal a jagged red slit in her wrist. “I’m not the only one with blood on my hands. Why?” she demanded an answer.

“Verita dear, these are business matters. Where did you get these images? I’m sure tha–”

“Why?” she insisted

“No, you don’t get it. It– It’s a small sacrifice for a big humanity. The tests run on them can provide cures to the most elusive diseases. To the government, we are Oleander and Co., the rescue and medical research centre, and that’s exactly what we are doing. We take in the needy and… put them out of their misery.”

“Lies!” Verita’s voice rang sharp like a whip in the silence.

It has never been about them, has it, Tenery? Why, why would you use them as test subjects?

No official reports, no consent, and no caution, at all! If you’d have told the government that you needed a guinea pig, I’m sure they would have understood. Why, Tenery, why?”

“The homeless needed jobs, money, and support. And that is what I gave them.”

“When? When did you promise them? How could they just waltz in, straight to their demise? No, you have broken far too many promises, Dad.”

Something was unsettling about his daughter referring to him like a criminal.

“We are trying to help…” he insisted, his voice shattering into weaker and weaker pitches.

“What worth is it to you!?” Deryll protested from the doorframe. “They have lives. Lives, Tenery. They wanted better. They deserve it. The one who doesn’t deserve it is you.”

Deryll stepped through the door with his phone grasped in his hand. “Smile for the adoring crowd, won’t you?” he smirked. “Here. That’s my resignation. And here,” he threw a well-crafted paper plane and pulled out another monitor device from his pocket that displayed the grand front doors of their HQ. Thousands of people. Finally embracing freedom.

The rush of blood to his ears drowned out the surroundings. All his work, those tireless hours and painstaking efforts, all of this for nothing? He sat down in his chair, numb.

You are no father of mine. You are no father of mine.

The words reverberated in his head. The government would come knocking any second, wondering about the breach and about the funds. No doubt that he’d be set behind the same cold bars that he’d once imprisoned others in, but he wanted to spend his last functioning hours for… for good. He chuckled inwardly.

Karma might be real after all. What a cruel idiot he had been, all that faking, that constant facade of being good.

What did it mean to be good anyway? Was it really all just for show? Contempt flooded his veins – but was it really anyone else’s fault?

He now understood the flashes of deja vu. All that time, being shoved smaller and smaller… it gave him an insatiable urge to be sensational. Oh well, old trauma dies hard, he supposed. He groped for something that lay on the floor.

He thumbed the files in his hand keenly, stuffing them delicately into a manila with a smear of Verita’s blood.

Tenery sank into his chair. The walls pressed in. Verita’s tears. Deryll’s fury. The files—evidence of his empire built on bones. He felt the weight of it all at last. Not just the deception, but the why. He’d wanted power. Recognition. To never again be that small boy cowering under his mother’s hand.

He had dressed ambition as compassion, selfishness as sacrifice. And the world had believed him. Until now.

Clicking his pen open, he scrawled hastily on the back “The Truth Project”.

A final act, not of redemption—he didn’t deserve that—but of exposure.

All his scientific work would be in good hands. He sat there, contemplating life, until he heard sharp raps on the door.

Suddenly, the door splintered. Tenery closed his eyes. The titles, the applause, the fame—all of it was nothing. Only the truth would remain.

Now, for the first time in his life, he did not resist it.