Released II
Braythew had done this before.
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real people, places, or events is entirely coincidental. The characters and events portrayed are products of the author’s imagination, intended to explore themes of systemic failure, psychological abuse, manipulation, abuse of power, the invisibility of harm and how harm can operate in plain sight. This piece does not accuse any individual or institution of specific wrongdoing.
Braythew had done this before. Twice, maybe more.
The first time, he claimed, it happened in some forgotten corner of the armpit of Ontario, after a late-night accident. Someone didn’t make it. Weather was to blame, he said. He hinted there might have been alcohol involved, and a DUI came up later, shared casually over a family meal. He told someone he went to the funeral and watched the grief roll over the family.
According to him, he confessed he convinced a cab driver near the scene, after having handed over some cash, to have bought false testimony that helped downgrade what could’ve been manslaughter charges.
The first sign of recklessness? He once bragged about stealing a pack of gum like it was a rite of passage to what unfolded. Was it really necessary to pay for things or happenings?
In the version he told, intent mattered less than appearance. The system, he’d said, was overworked and under caffeinated, full of backlogs and charter rights, too full to hold anyone for long unless they were already seen as dangerous. He believed probation, no-contact orders, and court-mandated therapy didn’t create better people, just better criminals. Plus he’d said he could always fake mental issues if he really needed a way out of a crime.
“Paperwork,” he laughed once. “Nobody wants to do more paperwork. Especially not here. Especially not in Canada.”
If things got tough, he’d float the idea of a dissociative episode. Drop hints about suicidal thoughts. Frame himself as fragile. He believed in the power of a sympathetic file.
The second time, he said it happened in a hospital. Somewhere in Toronto, no names, no dates. He wore scrubs, pushed a cart. Claimed he held the hand of a patient in the veteran’s wing who wouldn’t let go of his. It sounded kind, until he explained it bought him time to avoid an actual shift while still getting paid.
Someone said a coworker reported him for harassment. She was moved. He stayed.
He told people he was a union representative. That carried enough weight to stall questions and give him clout.
Braythew understood systems: housing, shelters, hospitals. He knew how to blend in as someone who needed help. Sometimes he was a patient. Other times, an employee. Occasionally, a tenant doing “sweat equity” a bit of unpaid labour in exchange for reduced rent. That’s how he explained being in spaces where he didn’t appear on any lease.
Some said he could paint like a photograph using a strange little optical tool, something called a NeoLucida plus. He liked calling himself useful through acts of service, to earn love through effort and obedience. Someone once said the acts could be a way to gain trust or position themselves to control or manipulate. A strategic performance rather than a sincere character. A perfect cover.
Someone else said they’d seen official-looking documents. Maybe real, maybe forged. He didn’t mind the confusion.
People like him, those with narcissistic or sociopathic traits, are sometimes described in clinical texts. The kind who form trauma bonds, especially through silence or control. They present as charming, broken, helpful. They gain proximity under the guise of care, and choose victims already struggling: women who’ve lost trust, who’ve battled addiction, who’ve been discounted.
That’s when the gaslighting begins. That’s when truth gets slippery, just a few truthful details in a creative narrative to have a victim own a narrative they didn’t create and without actually knowing the false narrative, ruining their reputation and relationships.
Someone once claimed he had keys to units he didn’t rent. That he’d let himself in while a neighbour was away. That he left windows open and food out to attract pests. That she came back to critters, ruin, and an eviction notice. Family photos, clothes, letters, all unsalvageable. He didn’t live there. But someone saw him near the building, smoking and smiling.
He said the system always gave him a way out. That all it took was a breakup, a hint of self-harm, and a report.
And when he told the therapist he feared hurting himself, not others, that was all it took to shift him from risk to patient. Not predator.
The case files never were followed up. The DNA ordered never got submitted. The complaints were buried or mislabeled. He had connections in the system.
And some people remembered, his victims did.
A line he was once quoted as saying, still floating in a file somewhere: “…they’re the dumbest.”
That line lingered, waiting for someone to finally understand what it really meant.
Written by Angela Fedele
Author’s Note:
This part of the story has shifted towards some sensitive issues and acknowledges how individuals with predatory tendencies can exploit, legal, medical, housing, and mental health systems, by weaponizing charm, vulnerability, and perceived credibility to escape consequences. Too often, these individuals target victims who are already navigating personal struggles. By the time victims begin to understand what has happened to them, years, or even decades may have passed. This kind of psychological abuse can be more insidious and long-lasting than physical harm, as it distorts reality, erodes self-trust, and convinces good people they are to blame for having been in the situation at all.
The truth is, people make choices based on the knowledge they have at the time. If you’re sold a stereo, and open the box at home to find nothing but telephone books, you’ve been conned. It’s not your fault for not knowing better, it’s the deception that’s the problem. People can be like boxes too. Some contain what they promise. Others don’t. Even the most thoughtful, experienced, and kind-hearted among us can be taken advantage of, especially when already under stress.
In many stories, characters navigating trauma may react in ways that seem unpredictable or even volatile. These reactions are sometimes labeled as “reactive abuse”, a survival response to prolonged harm. This story aims to show how confusing those lines can become, as emotional or defensive responses that are later weaponized to justify the abuser’s narrative. This manipulation reframes the victim as the problem, allowing harm to continue unchecked and accountability to be avoided.
This story sheds light on how systems meant to protect can instead be manipulated to shield abusers, failing those most in need of safety, support, and truth.
