Above me, towards the head of the bed, Serena Joy is arranged, outspread. Her legs are apart, I lie between them, my head on her stomach, her pubic bone under the base of my skull, her thigh on either side of me. She too is fully clothed, My arms are raised; she holds my hands, each of mine in each of hers. This is supposed to signify that we are one flesh, one being.
What it really means is that she is in control, of the process and thus of the product.If any. The rings of her left hand cut into my fingers. It may or may not be revenge.
My red skirt is hitched up to my waist, though no higher. Below it the Commander is fucking. What he is fucking is the lower part of my body. I do not say making love, because this is not what he's doing.
Copulating too would be inaccurate, because it would imply two people and only one is involved. Nor does rape cover it: nothing is going on here that I haven't signed up for. There wasn't a lot of choice but there was some, and this is what I chose.
Therefore I lie still and picture the unseen canopy over my head. I remember Queen Victoria's advice to her daughter: Close your eyes and think of England. But this is not England. I wish he would hurry up.
Maybe I'm crazy and this is some new kind of therapy.
I wish it were true; then I could get better and this would go away.
Serena Joy grips my hands as if it is she, not I, who's being fucked, as if she finds it either pleasurable or painful, and the Commander fucks, with a regular two-four marching stroke, on and on like a tap dripping. He is preoccupied, like a man humming to himself in the shower without knowing he's humming; like a man who has other things on his mind. It's as if he's somewhere else, waiting for himself to come, drumming his fingers on the table while he waits. There's an impatience in his rhythm now. But isn't this everyone's wet dream, two women at once? They used to say that. Exciting, they used to say.
What's going on in this room, under Serena Joy's silvery canopy, is not exciting. It has nothing to do with passion or love or romance or any of those other notions we used to titillate ourselves with. It has nothing to do with sexual desire, at least for me, and certainly not for Serena. Arousal and orgasm are no longer thought necessary; they would be a symptom of frivolity merely, like jazz garters or beauty spots: superfluous distractions for the light-minded. Outdated. It seems odd that women once spent such time and energy reading about such things,thinking about them, worrying about them, writing about them. They are so obviously recreational.
This is not recreation, even for the Commander. This is serious business. The Commander, too, is doing his duty. If I were going to open my eyes a slit, I would be able to see him, his not-unpleasant face hanging over my torso, with a few strands of his silver hair falling perhaps over his forehead, intent on his inner journey, that place he is hurrying towards, which recedes as in a dream at the same speed with which he approaches it. I would see his open eyes.
If he were better looking would I enjoy this more?
At least he's an improvement on the previous one, who smelled like a church cloakroom in the rain; like your mouth when the dentist starts picking at your teeth; like a nostril. The Commander, instead, smells of mothballs, or is this odor some punitive form of aftershave?
Why does he have to wear that stupid uniform? But would I like his white, tufted raw body any better?
Kissing is forbidden between us. This makes it bearable.
One detaches oneself. One describes.
He comes at last, with a stifled groan as of relief. Serena Joy, who has been holding her breath, expels it. The Commander, who has been propping himself on his elbows, away from our combined bodies, doesn't permit himself to sink down into us. He rests a moment, withdraws, recedes, rezippers. He nods, then turns and leaves the room, closing the door with exaggerated care behind him, as if both of us are his ailing mother. There's something hilarious about this, but I don't dare laugh.
Serena Joy lets go of my hands. "You can get up now," she says. "Get up and get out." She's supposed to have me rest, for ten minutes, with my feet on a pillow to improve the chances. This is meant to be a time of silent meditation for her, hut she's not in the mood for that.
There is loathing in her voice, as if the touch of my flesh sickens and contaminates her. I untangle myself from her body, stand up; the juice of the Commander runs down my legs. Before I turn away I see her straighten her blue skirt, clench her legs together; she continues lying on the bed, gazing up at the canopy above her, stiff and straight as an effigy.
When people told me they hated Hillary Clinton or (far worse) that they were "not fans," I wish I had said in no uncertain terms: "I love Hillary Clinton. I am in awe of her. I am set free by her. She will be the finest world leader our galaxy has ever seen."
I wish, in those exchanges, I had not asked gentle, tolerant questions about a hater's ridiculous allergy to her, or Clinton's fictional misdeeds and imagined character flaws. More deeply still, I wish I had not reasoned with anyone, patiently countered their ludicrous emotionalism and psychologically disturbed theories. I wish I had said, flatly, "I love her." As if I had been asked about my mother or daughter. No defensiveness or polemics; not dignifying the crazy allegations with so much as a Snopes link.
Maybe "I love her" seemed too womany, too sentimental, too un-pragmatic. Not coalition-building, kind of culty. But people say with impunity they love Obama, the state of Israel, their churches, Kurt Cobain. In the end, I wish I'd said it because it's true.
And I'm not alone in my commitment. Millions of Clinton's supporters — we were thanked by Clinton as the "secret, private Facebook sites" — expressed it among themselves, all the time, in raptures or happy tears with each new display of our heroine's ferocious intelligence, depth, and courage. We were frankly bewildered by the idea that anyone would hedge their commitment to her ("You don't have to be her friend"; "Yes, she's made mistakes"; "lesser of two evils"). We didn't remember anyone turning to this stock ambivalence when discussing Obama, Babe Ruth, FDR. If only one reporter — they knew about us — could have published a headline like "Clinton Inspires Historic Levels of Adoration From Her Supporters" about the people who have had their lives transformed by the power of her brilliant campaign, unrivaled effectiveness, and extraordinary career. Just one headline like that, like the ones Bill Clinton got.
Usually a legend is made by men and media — the legend of Kennedy, say, or Jim Morrison — and then, much later, a biopic, pretending to evenhandedness, reveals the legend's shortcomings, his "human" side. The shortcomings are almost always something exactly no one actually believes compromises his heroism. His problem drinking. His mistreatment of women. Well, takedowns of Hillary were always already written. She has somehow made the time to hear out each dead-end line of reasoning about her fake mortal sins, and often she has also thanked everyone for sparing her further moral lashings, as if that were a kindness. Under cover of "humanizing" the intimidating valedictorian, reports and investigations and media clichés vilified her. But the feminist hero never got to be a legend first. And yet she is one, easily surpassing Ben Franklin, Henry Ford, Steve Jobs.
I want to reverse the usual schedule of things, then. We don't have to wait until she dies to act. Hillary Clinton's name belongs on ships, and airports, and tattoos. She deserves straight-up hagiographies and a sold-out Broadway show called RODHAM. Yes, this cultural canonization is going to come after the chronic, constant, nonstop "On the other hand" sexist hedging around her legacy. But such is the courage of Hillary Clinton and her supporters; we reverse patriarchal orders. Maybe she is more than a president. Maybe she is an idea, a world-historical heroine, light itself. The presidency is too small for her. She belongs to a much more elite class of Americans, the more-than-presidents. Neil Armstrong, Martin Luther King Jr., Alexander Fucking Hamilton.
Hillary Clinton did everything right in this campaign, and she won more votes than her opponent did. She won. She cannot be faulted, criticized, or analyzed for even one more second. Instead, she will be decorated as an epochal heroine far too extraordinary to be contained by the mere White House. Let that revolting president-elect be Millard Fillmore or Herbert Hoover or whatever. Hillary is Athena.
Oh sure I guess you haven't been keeping up with the REAL NEWS. Or did you miss where SHILLARY'S emails PROVED that the lizard jews controlling us? THEY WERE ACTUALLY DUCKS ALL ALONG. YEAH THAT'S RIGHT, AND I HAVE PROOF RIGHT HERE.
Wait a minute. You have 2002 in your username, does that mean what I think it means? YOU WERE BORN IN 2002 BC, FOUR THOUSAND AND NINETEEN YEARS AGO?
Now I truly see how deep the conspiracy goes. The duck shills have even invaded /r/drama. DON'T THINK YOU CAN TAKE ME ALIVE FUCKERS. I WON'T BE QUIET EVEN IF YOU INVADE MY HOME AND RAPE ME LIKE YOU DID TRUMP.
Oh, also source. (THANKS MODS) Before everyone invariably asks.
edit: /r/drama subscribers can't handle the shittiness of my shitposts again. It's like the users here are all a bunch of hypocrites who claim to like drama but are actually just cucks who complain about anyone on the left but thatwouldneverhappenright?
I usually downvote any self-referential post that links to /r/drama, so I feel you.
But it looks like we're doing this instead:
I hate those prisons. I truly hate them. I'm really sorry you had to go through what I went... I guess I'll share my story, and hopefuly I'll make some people realize that these camps are... more than evil.
As a kid I really denied any form of authority. I often harrased teachers, and the idea of a great man in the sky ruling over me was not only ridicoulous to me, but also hazardous... I came out to my (extremist) parents at the age of 14. They cried, threatened me, did everything they could to turn me back into a robot...
About 1 month after I came out, 3 men came into my house at night, and told me to stay quiet and walk with them. I tought it was a kidnapping, as most people who experience this...
I walked into the van, and they explained themselelves. I was shocked and filled with hate, but I knew I shouldn't do anything, the van was small and I couldn't defend myself.
My first day at that prison was horrible... everything I did was supervised, and also controlled. The only time I got some "privacy" was at night, 10 o'clock. After 1 week I just couldn't take the authority, and I was put in isolation. Two months. Two. fucking. Months.
After the first month I began hearing voices in my head, and after another week, the voices formed into a big, strong voice... I only had one conversation with it.
Voice : "Escape."
Me : "How?"
Voice : "Strong. Then Kill."
After the last sentence I never heard it again. But it was enough. I knew my goal. At the time I had about 100 lbs... I was skinny, I didn't have force... I was helpless.
Every time I got out of isolation, I said "fuck God.". All I did in isolation was exercise. I was so full of hate I didn't care about time... In there there was no natural light, just a little crack... I had no clock, so I would just look at the crack while exercising.. Everytime light started to get through the crack, meaning it was day, it was a great achievment. I felt.. great. Small things where all I had, so it was incredible... I exercised in there for 8 months... breaks of 20 minutes, exercises for 1 and a half. And repeat. Repeat. Repeat...
After 8 months, I finnaly got out... everyone was so surprised I didn't shout "fuck God.".
For about 4 days I was heavily looked at by all the guards... that was the day I began the brainwashing. They thought the isolation broke me down. It only made me stronger.
Everytime I entered the brainwashing room I would see a broken window. The room was on the first floor, so I could get out without too much damage. But I was... nowhere. Nowhere meaning a forest. I could run, of course, but how long would the forest last? I didn't know. Forest was freedom. Freedom is good. So I got to get in the forest.
One day, instead of the 5 athletic guys that went with me to the room, there were only 2 janitors. I was so surprised... yet calm. I knew that was my day.
As I was approaching the window, I felt some adrenaline going up my spine...
I quickly headlocked one guy while kicking the other with one foot, and managed to pull a neck break on the headlocked guy.. I got ready, then jumped off the window. I fell, rolled, and managed to don't get hurt bad... I was running, running, running... I could hear some sounds, but I was so thrilled I didn't pay attention.. after about 4km running I finnaly stopped. I could feel freedom. It was... beautiful.
I heard a "fuck! Watch how you're driving, man!". My instinct moved me, and I approaced a yellow car...
"Please.. just.. let me come."
The guy looked at me surprised, then told me to get in. After about half an hour, when I recovered, he asked me my story, but I was still afraid. What if he would get me to the cops? What if he was one of them? I didn't know. I just said "No time to explain. Where are you going?". He said Florida.
I arrived in Florida at the age of 15. I'm 19 now, and I never spoke with my parents again, and will never do it. I truly hate them.
But the experience made me realize how important free will is. .. aaaaand I grew fucking awesome muscles.
Thanks for reading so far :)! I means a lot to me that I can share my story... it hurts even now, after 4 years.
TL;DR : It took me 1 year to escape but, it takes you only 5 minutes to read.
EDIT : Thanks for all your support guys! It's been 4 years since I escaped, so I had plenty of time to rebuild my life, and to find a job. I work right now as a Pentester, Programmer and a skater, which is more than I could have achieved while I was with my parents :)
Anyone here gonna share his story? I figured out we could make a little book out of them, and if we would really sue those prisons, every story counts!
I used to wonder why Military vehicles didn't have keys like normal cars... Then it dawned on me how many locks I've had to cut because someone lost the keys...
Then it hit me... how people lose keys, when you have to sign the keys out...
Then I went even further into the rabbit hole matrix... what if all the locks I was cutting were really new locks that had replaced the locks I had keys to because someone was routinely using vehicles to cover the fact that an LT lost a vehicle...
That was as far as I got before my funding was cut and my investigators reassigned to other duties... you're not a fucking MP they said you're commo.... cover up confirmed.
The unusual events described in this chronicle occurred in 194- in Oran. Everyone agreed that, considering their somewhat extraordinary character, they were out of place there. For its ordinariness is what strikes one first about the town of Oran, which is merely a large French port on the Algerian coast, headquarters of the Prefect of a French Department.
The town itself, let us admit, is ugly. It has a smug, placid air and you need time to discover what it is that makes it different
from so many business centers in other parts of the world. How to conjure up a picture, for instance, of a town without pigeons,
without any trees or gardens, where you never hear the beat of wings or the rustle of leaves, a thoroughly negative place, in short?
The seasons are discriminated only in the sky. All that tells you of spring's coming is the feel of the air, or the baskets of flowers
brought in from the suburbs by peddlers; it's a spring cried in the market places. During the summer the sun bakes the houses bone-dry, sprinkles our walls with grayish dust, and you have no option but to survive those days of fire indoors, behind closed shutters. In autumn, on the other hand, we have deluges of mud. Only winter brings really pleasant weather.
Perhaps the easiest way of making a town's acquaintance is to ascertain how the people in it work, how they love, and how they die. In our little town (is this, one wonders, an effect of the climate? All three are done on much the same lines, with the same feverish yet casual air. The truth is that everyone is bored, and devotes himself to cultivating habits. Our citizens work hard, but
solely with the object of getting rich. Their chief interest is in commerce, and their chief aim in life is, as they call it, "doing
business." Naturally they don't eschew such simpler pleasures as love-making, seabathing, going to the pictures. But, very sensibly, they reserve these pastimes for Saturday afternoons and Sundays and employ the rest of the week in making money, as much as possible. In the evening, on leaving the office, they forgather, at an hour that never varies, in the cafes, stroll the same
boulevard, or take the air on their balconies. The passions of the young are violent and short-lived; the vices of older men seldom range beyond an addiction to bowling, to banquets and "socials," or clubs where large sums change hands on the fall of a card.
It will be said, no doubt, that these habits are not peculiar to our town; really all our contemporaries are much the same. Certainly nothing is commoner nowadays than to see people working from morn till night and then proceeding to fritter away at card-tables, in cafes and in small-talk what time is left for living. Nevertheless there still exist towns and countries where people have now and then an inkling of something different. In general it doesn't change their lives. Still, they have had an intimation, and that's so much to the good. Oran, however, seems to be a town without intimations; in other words, completely modern. Hence I see no need to dwell on the manner of loving in our town. The men and women consume one another rapidly in what is called "the act of
love," or else settle down to a mild habit of conjugality. We seldom find a mean between these extremes. That, too, is not exceptional.
In Oran, as elsewhere, for want of time and thought, people have to love one another without knowing it.
21 comments
n/a SnapshillBot 2017-03-25
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n/a phedre 2017-03-25
No.
n/a Maga_Brahmin 2017-03-25
I don't understand why your name is green.
n/a ComedicSans 2017-03-25
I suggest more meta posts, with blackjack and hookers.
n/a grafton29 2017-03-25
None of you nerds have the guts to call a up a hooker. Well neither do i but at least im not a nerd.
n/a justcool393 2017-03-25
this but unironically
n/a glmox 2017-03-25
Above me, towards the head of the bed, Serena Joy is arranged, outspread. Her legs are apart, I lie between them, my head on her stomach, her pubic bone under the base of my skull, her thigh on either side of me. She too is fully clothed, My arms are raised; she holds my hands, each of mine in each of hers. This is supposed to signify that we are one flesh, one being.
What it really means is that she is in control, of the process and thus of the product.If any. The rings of her left hand cut into my fingers. It may or may not be revenge.
My red skirt is hitched up to my waist, though no higher. Below it the Commander is fucking. What he is fucking is the lower part of my body. I do not say making love, because this is not what he's doing.
Copulating too would be inaccurate, because it would imply two people and only one is involved. Nor does rape cover it: nothing is going on here that I haven't signed up for. There wasn't a lot of choice but there was some, and this is what I chose.
Therefore I lie still and picture the unseen canopy over my head. I remember Queen Victoria's advice to her daughter: Close your eyes and think of England. But this is not England. I wish he would hurry up.
Maybe I'm crazy and this is some new kind of therapy.
I wish it were true; then I could get better and this would go away.
Serena Joy grips my hands as if it is she, not I, who's being fucked, as if she finds it either pleasurable or painful, and the Commander fucks, with a regular two-four marching stroke, on and on like a tap dripping. He is preoccupied, like a man humming to himself in the shower without knowing he's humming; like a man who has other things on his mind. It's as if he's somewhere else, waiting for himself to come, drumming his fingers on the table while he waits. There's an impatience in his rhythm now. But isn't this everyone's wet dream, two women at once? They used to say that. Exciting, they used to say.
What's going on in this room, under Serena Joy's silvery canopy, is not exciting. It has nothing to do with passion or love or romance or any of those other notions we used to titillate ourselves with. It has nothing to do with sexual desire, at least for me, and certainly not for Serena. Arousal and orgasm are no longer thought necessary; they would be a symptom of frivolity merely, like jazz garters or beauty spots: superfluous distractions for the light-minded. Outdated. It seems odd that women once spent such time and energy reading about such things,thinking about them, worrying about them, writing about them. They are so obviously recreational.
This is not recreation, even for the Commander. This is serious business. The Commander, too, is doing his duty. If I were going to open my eyes a slit, I would be able to see him, his not-unpleasant face hanging over my torso, with a few strands of his silver hair falling perhaps over his forehead, intent on his inner journey, that place he is hurrying towards, which recedes as in a dream at the same speed with which he approaches it. I would see his open eyes.
If he were better looking would I enjoy this more?
At least he's an improvement on the previous one, who smelled like a church cloakroom in the rain; like your mouth when the dentist starts picking at your teeth; like a nostril. The Commander, instead, smells of mothballs, or is this odor some punitive form of aftershave?
Why does he have to wear that stupid uniform? But would I like his white, tufted raw body any better?
Kissing is forbidden between us. This makes it bearable.
One detaches oneself. One describes.
He comes at last, with a stifled groan as of relief. Serena Joy, who has been holding her breath, expels it. The Commander, who has been propping himself on his elbows, away from our combined bodies, doesn't permit himself to sink down into us. He rests a moment, withdraws, recedes, rezippers. He nods, then turns and leaves the room, closing the door with exaggerated care behind him, as if both of us are his ailing mother. There's something hilarious about this, but I don't dare laugh.
Serena Joy lets go of my hands. "You can get up now," she says. "Get up and get out." She's supposed to have me rest, for ten minutes, with my feet on a pillow to improve the chances. This is meant to be a time of silent meditation for her, hut she's not in the mood for that.
There is loathing in her voice, as if the touch of my flesh sickens and contaminates her. I untangle myself from her body, stand up; the juice of the Commander runs down my legs. Before I turn away I see her straighten her blue skirt, clench her legs together; she continues lying on the bed, gazing up at the canopy above her, stiff and straight as an effigy.
Which of us is it worse for, her or me?
n/a subpoutine 2017-03-25
Is this our Atwood-flavored Wew Lad?
n/a Thhueros 2017-03-25
When people told me they hated Hillary Clinton or (far worse) that they were "not fans," I wish I had said in no uncertain terms: "I love Hillary Clinton. I am in awe of her. I am set free by her. She will be the finest world leader our galaxy has ever seen."
I wish, in those exchanges, I had not asked gentle, tolerant questions about a hater's ridiculous allergy to her, or Clinton's fictional misdeeds and imagined character flaws. More deeply still, I wish I had not reasoned with anyone, patiently countered their ludicrous emotionalism and psychologically disturbed theories. I wish I had said, flatly, "I love her." As if I had been asked about my mother or daughter. No defensiveness or polemics; not dignifying the crazy allegations with so much as a Snopes link.
Maybe "I love her" seemed too womany, too sentimental, too un-pragmatic. Not coalition-building, kind of culty. But people say with impunity they love Obama, the state of Israel, their churches, Kurt Cobain. In the end, I wish I'd said it because it's true.
And I'm not alone in my commitment. Millions of Clinton's supporters — we were thanked by Clinton as the "secret, private Facebook sites" — expressed it among themselves, all the time, in raptures or happy tears with each new display of our heroine's ferocious intelligence, depth, and courage. We were frankly bewildered by the idea that anyone would hedge their commitment to her ("You don't have to be her friend"; "Yes, she's made mistakes"; "lesser of two evils"). We didn't remember anyone turning to this stock ambivalence when discussing Obama, Babe Ruth, FDR. If only one reporter — they knew about us — could have published a headline like "Clinton Inspires Historic Levels of Adoration From Her Supporters" about the people who have had their lives transformed by the power of her brilliant campaign, unrivaled effectiveness, and extraordinary career. Just one headline like that, like the ones Bill Clinton got.
Usually a legend is made by men and media — the legend of Kennedy, say, or Jim Morrison — and then, much later, a biopic, pretending to evenhandedness, reveals the legend's shortcomings, his "human" side. The shortcomings are almost always something exactly no one actually believes compromises his heroism. His problem drinking. His mistreatment of women. Well, takedowns of Hillary were always already written. She has somehow made the time to hear out each dead-end line of reasoning about her fake mortal sins, and often she has also thanked everyone for sparing her further moral lashings, as if that were a kindness. Under cover of "humanizing" the intimidating valedictorian, reports and investigations and media clichés vilified her. But the feminist hero never got to be a legend first. And yet she is one, easily surpassing Ben Franklin, Henry Ford, Steve Jobs.
I want to reverse the usual schedule of things, then. We don't have to wait until she dies to act. Hillary Clinton's name belongs on ships, and airports, and tattoos. She deserves straight-up hagiographies and a sold-out Broadway show called RODHAM. Yes, this cultural canonization is going to come after the chronic, constant, nonstop "On the other hand" sexist hedging around her legacy. But such is the courage of Hillary Clinton and her supporters; we reverse patriarchal orders. Maybe she is more than a president. Maybe she is an idea, a world-historical heroine, light itself. The presidency is too small for her. She belongs to a much more elite class of Americans, the more-than-presidents. Neil Armstrong, Martin Luther King Jr., Alexander Fucking Hamilton.
Hillary Clinton did everything right in this campaign, and she won more votes than her opponent did. She won. She cannot be faulted, criticized, or analyzed for even one more second. Instead, she will be decorated as an epochal heroine far too extraordinary to be contained by the mere White House. Let that revolting president-elect be Millard Fillmore or Herbert Hoover or whatever. Hillary is Athena.
n/a Sarge_Ward 2017-03-25
Oh sure I guess you haven't been keeping up with the REAL NEWS. Or did you miss where SHILLARY'S emails PROVED that the lizard jews controlling us? THEY WERE ACTUALLY DUCKS ALL ALONG. YEAH THAT'S RIGHT, AND I HAVE PROOF RIGHT HERE.
Wait a minute. You have 2002 in your username, does that mean what I think it means? YOU WERE BORN IN 2002 BC, FOUR THOUSAND AND NINETEEN YEARS AGO?
Now I truly see how deep the conspiracy goes. The duck shills have even invaded /r/drama. DON'T THINK YOU CAN TAKE ME ALIVE FUCKERS. I WON'T BE QUIET EVEN IF YOU INVADE MY HOME AND RAPE ME LIKE YOU DID TRUMP.
Oh, also source. (THANKS MODS) Before everyone invariably asks. edit: /r/drama subscribers can't handle the shittiness of my shitposts again. It's like the users here are all a bunch of hypocrites who claim to like drama but are actually just cucks who complain about anyone on the left but that would never happen right?
n/a Teresa_May 2017-03-25
This should only strengthen your belief in Pizzagate.
n/a skeetsurfing1984 2017-03-25
I usually downvote any self-referential post that links to /r/drama, so I feel you.
But it looks like we're doing this instead:
I hate those prisons. I truly hate them. I'm really sorry you had to go through what I went... I guess I'll share my story, and hopefuly I'll make some people realize that these camps are... more than evil.
As a kid I really denied any form of authority. I often harrased teachers, and the idea of a great man in the sky ruling over me was not only ridicoulous to me, but also hazardous... I came out to my (extremist) parents at the age of 14. They cried, threatened me, did everything they could to turn me back into a robot...
About 1 month after I came out, 3 men came into my house at night, and told me to stay quiet and walk with them. I tought it was a kidnapping, as most people who experience this...
I walked into the van, and they explained themselelves. I was shocked and filled with hate, but I knew I shouldn't do anything, the van was small and I couldn't defend myself.
My first day at that prison was horrible... everything I did was supervised, and also controlled. The only time I got some "privacy" was at night, 10 o'clock. After 1 week I just couldn't take the authority, and I was put in isolation. Two months. Two. fucking. Months.
After the first month I began hearing voices in my head, and after another week, the voices formed into a big, strong voice... I only had one conversation with it.
Voice : "Escape."
Me : "How?"
Voice : "Strong. Then Kill."
After the last sentence I never heard it again. But it was enough. I knew my goal. At the time I had about 100 lbs... I was skinny, I didn't have force... I was helpless.
Every time I got out of isolation, I said "fuck God.". All I did in isolation was exercise. I was so full of hate I didn't care about time... In there there was no natural light, just a little crack... I had no clock, so I would just look at the crack while exercising.. Everytime light started to get through the crack, meaning it was day, it was a great achievment. I felt.. great. Small things where all I had, so it was incredible... I exercised in there for 8 months... breaks of 20 minutes, exercises for 1 and a half. And repeat. Repeat. Repeat...
After 8 months, I finnaly got out... everyone was so surprised I didn't shout "fuck God.".
For about 4 days I was heavily looked at by all the guards... that was the day I began the brainwashing. They thought the isolation broke me down. It only made me stronger.
Everytime I entered the brainwashing room I would see a broken window. The room was on the first floor, so I could get out without too much damage. But I was... nowhere. Nowhere meaning a forest. I could run, of course, but how long would the forest last? I didn't know. Forest was freedom. Freedom is good. So I got to get in the forest.
One day, instead of the 5 athletic guys that went with me to the room, there were only 2 janitors. I was so surprised... yet calm. I knew that was my day.
As I was approaching the window, I felt some adrenaline going up my spine...
I quickly headlocked one guy while kicking the other with one foot, and managed to pull a neck break on the headlocked guy.. I got ready, then jumped off the window. I fell, rolled, and managed to don't get hurt bad... I was running, running, running... I could hear some sounds, but I was so thrilled I didn't pay attention.. after about 4km running I finnaly stopped. I could feel freedom. It was... beautiful.
I heard a "fuck! Watch how you're driving, man!". My instinct moved me, and I approaced a yellow car...
"Please.. just.. let me come."
The guy looked at me surprised, then told me to get in. After about half an hour, when I recovered, he asked me my story, but I was still afraid. What if he would get me to the cops? What if he was one of them? I didn't know. I just said "No time to explain. Where are you going?". He said Florida.
I arrived in Florida at the age of 15. I'm 19 now, and I never spoke with my parents again, and will never do it. I truly hate them.
But the experience made me realize how important free will is. .. aaaaand I grew fucking awesome muscles.
Thanks for reading so far :)! I means a lot to me that I can share my story... it hurts even now, after 4 years.
TL;DR : It took me 1 year to escape but, it takes you only 5 minutes to read.
EDIT : Thanks for all your support guys! It's been 4 years since I escaped, so I had plenty of time to rebuild my life, and to find a job. I work right now as a Pentester, Programmer and a skater, which is more than I could have achieved while I was with my parents :) Anyone here gonna share his story? I figured out we could make a little book out of them, and if we would really sue those prisons, every story counts!
n/a subpoutine 2017-03-25
gib sauce plox
n/a skeetsurfing1984 2017-03-25
The "strong then kill" copypasta was old when the internet was new. I'm not sure anyone knows the sauce. Maybe old circlejerkers?
n/a FreeIceCreen 2017-03-25
It was an /r/atheism post from back in that subreddit's heyday.
n/a itsaboyffxiv 2017-03-25
Chuck
Without the h
n/a DudeMayocideLmao 2017-03-25
n/a evannever 2017-03-25
I used to wonder why Military vehicles didn't have keys like normal cars... Then it dawned on me how many locks I've had to cut because someone lost the keys...
Then it hit me... how people lose keys, when you have to sign the keys out... Then I went even further into the rabbit hole matrix... what if all the locks I was cutting were really new locks that had replaced the locks I had keys to because someone was routinely using vehicles to cover the fact that an LT lost a vehicle...
That was as far as I got before my funding was cut and my investigators reassigned to other duties... you're not a fucking MP they said you're commo.... cover up confirmed.
n/a Works_of_memercy 2017-03-25
Source? Google doesn't know about this one!
n/a evannever 2017-03-25
https://www.reddit.com/r/army/comments/61f8o8/humvee_stolen_from_ohio_national_guard_armory/dfeyu2x
n/a LedinToke 2017-03-25
you first
n/a InOranAsElsewhere 2017-03-25
The unusual events described in this chronicle occurred in 194- in Oran. Everyone agreed that, considering their somewhat extraordinary character, they were out of place there. For its ordinariness is what strikes one first about the town of Oran, which is merely a large French port on the Algerian coast, headquarters of the Prefect of a French Department.
The town itself, let us admit, is ugly. It has a smug, placid air and you need time to discover what it is that makes it different from so many business centers in other parts of the world. How to conjure up a picture, for instance, of a town without pigeons, without any trees or gardens, where you never hear the beat of wings or the rustle of leaves, a thoroughly negative place, in short?
The seasons are discriminated only in the sky. All that tells you of spring's coming is the feel of the air, or the baskets of flowers brought in from the suburbs by peddlers; it's a spring cried in the market places. During the summer the sun bakes the houses bone-dry, sprinkles our walls with grayish dust, and you have no option but to survive those days of fire indoors, behind closed shutters. In autumn, on the other hand, we have deluges of mud. Only winter brings really pleasant weather.
Perhaps the easiest way of making a town's acquaintance is to ascertain how the people in it work, how they love, and how they die. In our little town (is this, one wonders, an effect of the climate? All three are done on much the same lines, with the same feverish yet casual air. The truth is that everyone is bored, and devotes himself to cultivating habits. Our citizens work hard, but solely with the object of getting rich. Their chief interest is in commerce, and their chief aim in life is, as they call it, "doing business." Naturally they don't eschew such simpler pleasures as love-making, seabathing, going to the pictures. But, very sensibly, they reserve these pastimes for Saturday afternoons and Sundays and employ the rest of the week in making money, as much as possible. In the evening, on leaving the office, they forgather, at an hour that never varies, in the cafes, stroll the same boulevard, or take the air on their balconies. The passions of the young are violent and short-lived; the vices of older men seldom range beyond an addiction to bowling, to banquets and "socials," or clubs where large sums change hands on the fall of a card.
It will be said, no doubt, that these habits are not peculiar to our town; really all our contemporaries are much the same. Certainly nothing is commoner nowadays than to see people working from morn till night and then proceeding to fritter away at card-tables, in cafes and in small-talk what time is left for living. Nevertheless there still exist towns and countries where people have now and then an inkling of something different. In general it doesn't change their lives. Still, they have had an intimation, and that's so much to the good. Oran, however, seems to be a town without intimations; in other words, completely modern. Hence I see no need to dwell on the manner of loving in our town. The men and women consume one another rapidly in what is called "the act of love," or else settle down to a mild habit of conjugality. We seldom find a mean between these extremes. That, too, is not exceptional. In Oran, as elsewhere, for want of time and thought, people have to love one another without knowing it.
n/a Time_to_Drink 2017-03-25
No, and fuck you are one dull mother fucker
kys