TRIGGER WARNING: This post has details of child abuse and marital rape. I have imagery I drew to express what I remember as part of art therapy. Please skip this entry if you feel like this might trigger your as a survivor or it may be too difficult and painful to read as a supporter. Practice good selfcare techniques and be good to yourself. Sibling sexual abuse is one of the most closely-guarded secrets in the area of family violence. No one wants to believe that brothers and sisters are capable of abusing one another. They want to explain away the abuse as normal childhood curiosity. But it's not. It is a violent form of control that leaves victims feeling frightened and alone. Disclosure of sexual abuse can be the beginning of a whole second set of problems for survivors, when family members respond in ways that add new pain to old wounds. My brother has survivors guilt from my abuse (trigger warning) We are both suffering from CPTSD as adults now; I am 29 and he is 26. My dad was a very abusive man, he has been an alcoholic for our entire lives and now that he is in his 60's he's still at it and somehow not dead yet. Home→Forums→Emotional Mastery→My story of sexual abuse Trigger Warning New Reply This topic has 6 replies, 3 voices, and was last updated 11 months, 1 week ago by Sammy. Viewing 7 posts - 1 through 7 (of 7 total) Author Posts August 25, 2019 at 5:22 pm #309281 SammyParticipant I am an adult survivor of childhood abuse of many forms, including sexual abuse. The trauma that results from sexual abuse is a syndrome that affects not just the victim and their family, but all of society. Because sexual abuse, molestation, and rape are such shame-filled ...
2020.08.06 18:27 Mission-Cloud360 Survigin my brother's molestation (trigger warning - sexual abuse).
I am the second of 4 siblings and the only female. My parents got married being very young and they were both educated, however at the time and place there was virtually no sexual education. My older brother was sexually precocious and he started molesting me(and younger brother) at a very young age. I have a good memory and I do remember I was constantly telling my mom, but she would dismiss my complaints and would just say that it was just playing.
The situation only got worst as we grew up. My brother would peep on me when I showered; touch me inappropriately, and pretend it was an accident, you get the picture. I just hated him, he was also abusive in many other ways, he would hit me and younger brother, steal our lunch and allowances. If we ever got a present that he liked, like a walkman, he would hide for many months and later say that the walkman was his, that we had lost ours months ago.
My mother was religious and she had this delusion that the oldest brother was supposed to be some sort of guide to the rest of the siblings. I would never get permission to go anywhere unless my older brother was there too. He was supposed to be taking care of me.
I left home to attend boarding school at 15, I wanted to leave earlier but my father wouldn't let me. Anyways, leaving home was the best that ever happened to me. For the first time, I felt free to go to bed without locking my door. I was free to change my clothes without being afraid my brother was peeping. It was also the first time I had female friends, real friends. I would only go home for the weekend, and many weekends I refused to go home and would rather stay at school under the pretext that I had too much homework or an important exam the following week. My parents would protest but would let me stay at school.
Unfortunately, one of those weekends, I was 16, when my parents were away with my youngest siblings, my horrible brother (whom no longer was a minor) decided to knock on my door completely naked and asked me to touch him. I slammed my door in horror and called a friend that lived nearby. I was screaming at my brother to leave alone and told him I had called for help. My brother got dressed and ran downstairs locking me inside the house when my friend arrived. I never knew what my brother told him. I ran back to my room and locked my door. My brother went back inside and spent a lot of time begging me not to tell anyone, promising he would never do it again. I never opened my door, I don't t remember seeing my parents when they came back home. The next morning I just went back to boarding school feeling like a zombie and more determined than ever to leave home as soon as I could.
I refused to go home for the following weekends, which was almost normal. My brother kind of put a lot of distance. A few months late, I told my mom but she told me I was lying, that my brother was to shy to do such a thing. I just cried and went back to school.
When I finally told my father about the incident 3 years later, my father told my brother to leave the house and never to speak to us again. My mother stopped talking to my father and me for one month, she would scold me under the rationale that my brother hadn't raped me, so I had to forgive him and go on with our lives as a happy family or at least her delusion of a happy family. My father allowed my brother to come back home. My mother forbade me to talk about it, she said she would never talk to me again if anybody in the family or friends found out. I had no choice but to go back to locking myself in my bedroom. I did tell some religious leaders who dismissed me and invited me to forgive him and move on.
I went to therapy as soon as I was able to afford it on my own because my mother said that she didn't "believe" in psychologists and she didn't want anyone to know our family's dirty secrets. It took me many years to realize that I was not to blame about the many years of molestation.
My brother became addicted to pornography as a teenager and the addiction never stopped. He never finished high school and took him close to 20 years to get his GED. He has never had a good job for more than 1 year, and the older he gets the most vulnerable his financial situation. For many years he was a predator, always trying to surround himself with younger girls with the pretext to make them photographic portfolios. Pornography addiction only got worse over the years.
I decided to cut him off my life, for many years I would not attend any family functions just to avoid him. With the years I learned to stay as close to my family as possible and mentally erase him. He married an enabler and they are not allowed to be alone with my children. My younger brother learned about the molestation years later and they have set limits with him as well, especially after they had children on their own. They have express that they respect my decision to alienate older brother but I believe they think I should just let it go.
I married a wonderful man, have two daughters, one of them is a special needs child and I have sworn that I will never let him or his wife close to my girls. The night my brother crossed the line I plead to God to let me know if it was safe to let my brother back in my life, and I just know that he is still a predator. I have honored my mother's wishes and haven't told everybody about his assault; however, our closest relatives know that there is something going on and it is not difficult to guess in a country where 70% of women have been sexually abused.
Over the many years that have passed, I have learned that I'm not alone. Some other relatives have suffered some sort of sexual abuse, and some have had extreme mental health problems from it. Many f my friends have suffered from the worst cases of asexual abuse. Some of us are survivors while many became victims. The one difference is that some of us never stopped raising our voices and rebelling against maintaining the status quo.
I have been accused of breaking up my family, cursing my brother, and condemning him to a life of poverty. I have been told my heart is made out of stone and that I am the one to blame for my mother's heartache. I was pretty much expelled from my home for refusing to stay quiet, while my brother became a financial parasite to my parents. They chose to have him close since he was so weak in their eyes. I have been punished for not allowing to become my brother's toy.
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2020.08.06 16:45 Throwaway2222w22 I'm (female) sex repulsive
I don't know where to put it but I'll just put it here. I don't want any sexual contact with men and I also don't want a relationship with them. Kissing, cuddling, sex and all that stuff is disgusting. I also don't like it to see my own body naked or my mother naked... It disgusts me. I also don't like it when men stare at me when I wear revealing clothes. That's why I wear long trousers even during hot summer and a jacket that go over my butt so they can't stare. I also wear a binder that hide my boobs.
The thing is that I'm sex repulsive but ONLY in the real world. When I see naughty fanart of cartoon characters then I absolutely love it and masturbate over it. Porn with real humans disgust me. I also would absolutely have sex with cartoon characters. Real humans are ugly and cartoon characters look so damn hot. The other thing is that I can also only masturbate to pictures of cartoon men being gay. If it's boy and girl or girl and girl then I'm not interested. Real life gay love don't interest me... Only cartoon.
I know it's really weird and I don't know what to do
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2020.08.06 15:27 Showerthrowaway360 AITA for kicking my pregnant girlfriend out of the shower?
I'm getting absolutely chewed for this and I'm not sure if I made the right call here.
This morning I woke up and my pregnant girlfriend was laying in the shower because she had been puking for the past couple hours. This isn't entirely irregular at this point, but it really sucks and wrecks her day from the start. The water helps her nausea. I go in and check on her and go back to getting ready.
Queue my roommate walking into my room and asked me to ask her to get out so he can shower for work. Thinking this is a reasonable request, I go ask.
I am told "I'm not getting out." and "What does he do around here anyway?"(I do almost all the cooking and cleaning in the house, so she isn't wrong, just in poor tact) Loudly and clear enough for my roommate to hear. At which point, I was appalled and leaned down and turned her head to me and made a face like "Why are you doing this?" Albeit I think I was a little forceful doing that, and I feel bad having done that to her.
I asked her if she could just sacrifice 10 minutes so he can shower for work, and she says "I make sacrifices." My roommate hears what shes saying and leans into the bathroom, the shower curtain is closed so my girlfriend is not in view, and tries to get involved in the conversation, saying "I'm a part of this conversation." And i say that's not really fair. And my roommate pipes up and says, "Well we work, so how is this fair." And my girlfriend yells for us to get the fuck out of the bathroom so she can get out.
She gets out, I leave for work quite quickly in the aftermath, already running late. This whole exchange occurred in a matter of 5-10 minutes of me waking up and I was not really within my faculties yet.
Since then she went to her mothers, and has the majority of the following phone conversation (read: her talking, me silent) with her family in the room. I have been called a "little ass boy who cant let his pregnant girlfriend shower" and been told "I'll be surprised if blood isn't pouring out my vagina." And now she is saying that she would have gotten out of the shower in 5-10 minutes, and I should've been a man and told my roommate that she would be out in 5-10 minutes (which I would have if I had known that was an option). That I moved her head with force and hurt her, which I think I was forceful and should not have done. And that "this makes me wanna pack all the shit I even have in that house." She is also very angry at me for letting my roommate step into the bathroom while she was naked (In the shower, curtain closed) which he barged in, and under all circumstances I would not put up with, it just all happened very quickly.
I also came to find out that my roommate didn't have to work as early as I did, after the fact, and this could have been much more avoidable.
I love her very much and she isn't herself when she acts this way, by the way.
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2020.08.06 14:36 GigglySquad Peter Pan syndrome or MIL/FIL messed him up, but I don't know what to do.
Sorry in advance, as English is not my native language. And sorry for the lengthy post!
My partner (30m) and I (31f) have been together for 5 years. And I don't know what to do.
When we met he attended uni and I worked fulltime. He was living in another city. With a friend. Had a part time job and seemed like a social and contributing guy. I was hesitant at first to get into a relationship with him. Mostly because he was immensely insecure. Constantly looking for validation, constantly asking if what he said/did was ok or if I wasn't smiling... he would ask if I was mad at him. Little did I know this would be a major red flag and I ignored it.
None the less, he moved to my city and we moved in together. He started at the uni here.
His family are spread across different parts of the country and they rarely speak or see each other. I only realised why when we had the first family trip together.
We spent one week together and it was horrible. His mother constantly berating him for either being too fat, too lazy, doing this or that wrong. But always in a cunning way where she makes it seem as if she cares about him, when she actually just pushes him down. One of his siblings is in on it. And stands by MIL repeating her insults to him. His parents walk around half naked or naked around us all, as if it is the most natural thing to do. MIL always asks questions about our sex life and about issues we might have. Even though neither of us actually talk with her on that level and I have no desire to get any advice on my sexlife with her son! His sibling (the one supporting MIL) asks me or partner about our lives and then his sibling just ignores us when we, him or I answer. What we wanted to do on the trip is ignored and seen as selfish, while MIL and FIL demands to decide every waking hour what activities we are supposed to go on.
The trip ended in my partner collapsing in panic on a beach. In front of his family and strangers. He had been berated by MIL and his sibling all the way to the beach, they walked. Unfortunately I wasn't there, I had to drive because of an injury. He had reached his limit and was shaking and crying. His family brushed it off and 2 hours later everything was back to "normal".
We had unfortunately planned on staying with MIL and FIL for a few days right after this trip. During those days MIL yet again guilted him by speaking of traumatic incidents he had as a child. She had also guilted him in taking the blame for her sexual abuse in his teens!! This all happened when he was alone with her and he was told not to tell me anything! He had had enough and when he got home he went NC.
This is when he told me everything. His father is an alcoholic and had been physically abusive during his childhood, teens AND adult life. His mother had used him as a replacement whenever FIL and MIL would argue. She would go to his bedroom and lay in his bed. Touching him and "cuddling" him. Or make him sleep in his parents bed. MIL has been meddling in everything regarding his life since the beginning. Deciding who he could be friends with or not, if she didn't like someone she would tell the parents of the children to keep them away from him. As well as letting the school know he shouldn't be around them. She would force him to stay home even though he had applied and been accepted at a uni 6 hours away from his hometown. He started his education in a subject he was fond of and got guilted into starting an education THEY found better for him. But he didn't like it! So he didn't finish any uni.
They would show up at his dorm, demanding to see his bedroom. They would threaten him by letting him know they knew someone in his classes that reported back to them if he was there or not. They would wait outside uni to see if he went to his classes. If they went away, they would say neighbors reported back to them. In other words, he never felt like he was safe and had his own privacy to do what he wanted.
Now I believe this is the reason for our issue in our relationship. He has been working part time in the same job for 10 years. He has also been going to uni for 10 years without finishing anything. He eats his feelings, hence he is overweight. He doesn't talk about his feelings, his thoughts or opinions (because he was forced to stay quiet at home and it didn't matter there). Which is immensely frustrating for me. We can talk about what to eat for dinner and he can't tell me if he wants A or B. We can talk about what to watch on TV and he can't tell me what he'd like. I talk about my feelings or worries and his response is always "ok", "I get it", "I should get my shit together", "I understand". Because he always has standardised answers to everything because he doesn't dare to share anything. And he has no friends as he has developed social anxiety from his family issues coming up.
We have tried therapy, on our own and together, I have told him that I want to start a family next year and he has no opinion on it or feedback. I try to ask for his opinion constantly, asking what he is feeling, and when he seldomly tells me I always try to react kindly and appreciative because I want more. But more doesn't come. He has no plans for the future. He complains about his situation at work every day, but he has no intent to change it. He doesn't have the economy to buy a house or a flat, nor have a baby. And this situation has been lasting for about 4 years. And it doesn't seem to be improving anytime soon.
I just don't know what to do anymore. I have tried to help but it's like he is so depressed that he can't help himself. And I cannot finish school for him, I cannot find a different job for him, and I cannot make him want to live life for him either. He has been in contact with his mother for about 6 months now and one of my biggest fears is that we'd have a child together that she would be inappropriate with. I absolutely can't live with that, but he says as long as we're never letting kids be alone with her it will be alright. But I don't know that, you can take advantage of kids even though there are plenty of people under the same roof!
I guess I just needed to vent. This situation has been going on for so long and I have reached my wits end.
Tl;dr : MIL and FIL physically, sexually and mentally abused partner and it seems it has stopped him from growing up and living an adult life with me.
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2020.08.06 14:32 igottissues What's wrong with my father
When I was 3 my father started drinking alot.He became an alcoholic. He used to beat my mom. My mother used to lock me and my sis in a room so that we didn't have to see this. It continued like this
When I was 6 he met with an accident and the lower part of his left leg was re-crafted. He couldn't walk much but still used drink and crawl to reach my mother to beat her. He sometimes got naked and went outside like that.
We moved to a new house I started going school. He continued this. All nights were spent listening to him break things and curse around. Sometimes we had to go to our uncle's house when everything got out of control.
Those nights were terrible, we slept crying, begging to God that our father becomes a good person,we literally slept joining hands to pray that everything stops. We used to wake up put on our brightest smile and go to school.Me and my sis were always the good girls at school good grades, good behaviour, lots of friends and always smiling and laughing. But when we came back at home it was hell.
Now I'm 19 god hasn't yet answered my prayers.
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2020.08.06 08:06 SuikaCider Naked with my mother
Kirk was sitting on the bed when I arrived to his cell, right leg crooked over the left and fingers interlaced in his lap. He didn’t seem imposing, and in fact did not even acknowledge me at first, just sat there staring at whatever point on the wall he’d laid his eyes upon. I wasn’t sure what to make of him. Bony face, empty and unadorned as the room itself. Pronounced clavicles. Tufts of brown hair poked out from the neck of a white tank top, which in turn had been tucked into a pair of orange trousers. Both were too large. An untouched pork roast was laid out on a platter next to him, the slab of meat girthier than his leg.
“We don’t normally do this, you know,” I said.
He turned and looked up at me, moving only his head to do so. Bushy eyebrows, flat nose, drooping earlobes, pointed chin. The corners of his lips curled up just enough to tip the scales and qualify as a smile. For a while he continued sitting there, looking more through me than at me, but then he blinked twice and met my eyes.
I took a step back in spite of myself, feeling like I’d opened the door to a naked stranger. Instead of covering up, though, he acknowledged me and grinned, as if saying don’t worry, this is the locker room, everybody is changing clothes here. He never moved an inch, but the tightness in my gut insisted that we were much too close. I was about to retreat another step when he reached out to pat the mattress beside him. The ring finger on his left hand was missing.
“Take a seat.”
I hesitated for a moment and then edged forward, sitting as far away from Kirk as I could. There were two feet or so between myself and the pork roast. Then him. A few feet further was the far wall of the cell. Its cement bricks were painted a peculiar green, like melted mint ice cream.
“Oh, Peter,” he said, a twinge of disappointment colouring his voice. “I don’t bite.”
I scooched closer, perhaps six inches; just enough to create a space for my left hand. The tips of Kirk’s lips dropped back down and his eyes glazed over again. It happened so quickly, as if an electric current was running through his veins and my little rejection had caused an important switch inside of him to fall out of place. Weight disappeared from the air, I was able to suck in a quick breath and, sighing, realized that the hand I’d planted next to me had been shaking. My eyes wandered to the far wall and settled upon a worn steel sink.
“I heard that you’d requested to eat with me,” I said.
The mention of food seemed to flip whatever switch I’d knocked loose. Kirk leaned over towards his pillow and then turned back to face me, a plate and some silverware in each hand. He placed one set on his side of the pork roast and the other on mine. I couldn’t help but notice the scars on his bicep when he extended his arm to do so. Jagged purple things that stood a half-centimeter tall, as if whatever caused them hadn’t quite been able to take his life and settled for a swathe of skin instead. Just then Kirk looked up, but as his smile grew, he must have misinterpreted the reason for my staring.
“I don’t suppose you like pork, do you?”
“I don’t eat pork,” the words fell out of my mouth, practically a reflex at this point.
“Really?” his eyebrows shot up. “You Muslim?”
“Huh? No. I mean, it’s not just pork. I don’t eat meat at all,” I said, more comfortable now that his focus had shifted off of me. “Back in high school I—”
Kirk interrupted me. “I used to do construction work. Carpentry, to be more specific. Anyhow, sometimes we got lunch at this barbecue joint. But one of the guys was a Muslim—Abdulrahman, I think—and he never came. So I asked him why. He said that pork was considered haram ‘cause it tastes like human flesh.”
“Uhh.. well, in my case, back in high school I dated this girl for a couple years. One day we saw a PETA advertisement on TV; cows getting tazed in a slaughterhouse. She got upset and started bawling—the cows were panicking and wailing, it was really terrible—and the next thing I knew, we were vegetarians. We broke up a few months afterwards, but fifteen years later and here I am, still a vegetarian.”
Kirk let out a whistle.
“It’s not really something I think about anymore, though,” I added. “After you haven’t eaten meat for a while, eventually it stops looking like food to you. Plus, I was already a vegetarian when I began cooking, so I never learned any recipes that needed meat. It’s just a habit, I guess.”
At the word habit, Kirk turned to look at me again. Differently, this time. I’m not sure how to describe the way he looked at me, exactly. Hesitantly, with scrutiny; the face a child makes when they’re rolling a new word around in their mouth and aren’t sure what to make of it. He lifted a hand and ran his fingers through the stubble along his jaw, back and forth from the beginning of his cheekbones to the bottom of his chin. Interested, to say the least, and searching.
“In that case,” he said, “do you want a slice?”
“Erm, no. I’m fine, thank you. ”
“Oh,” he frowned, then put a few slices of pork roast on his own plate. He stabbed one with his fork and then held it up in front of his eyes, squinting as if he were inspecting a dollar bill for signs of forgery. “Kind of boring for a last meal, huh. I heard that people order some pretty crazy stuff, but I just couldn’t think of anything I really wanted to eat,” he cocked his head a little to one side. “When I was a kid I heard about this restaurant in New York that sold gold-leaf plated ice cream sundaes. Always thought I wanted to try that just once before I died. Even just a spoonful. But when it came down to it, I asked for a pork roast. That’s the funny thing about habit, I guess.”
I didn’t respond, and he didn’t press me to. After a while he placed the entire slice of pork into his mouth—a whole slice, and a rather thick one at that—and chewed in silence. Though I’d have cut it into smaller pieces, myself, it was a wholly normal manner of eating. Lips sealed, but struggling to remain so. Cheeks puffed out. His jaw went down, his jaw came back up; slow, rhythmical, intentional. Eventually he lifted his chin a bit and swallowed. A lump formed in his throat and seemed to be stuck there for a second, then disappeared.
“Abdulrahman was wrong, by the way,” he said, bringing a fist to his mouth to suppress a burp, then turned to face me. He looked into my eyes right away this time. “About the pork, I mean.”
There wasn’t vitriol or remorse in Kirk’s words, but there was lightning. People often say they feel a chill race along their spine, or that their hairs stand on edge, but this was nothing like that. A wave of electricity dashed through my body as soon as the word pork made contact with my ears; my forearms clenched, my stomach lurched and my back straightened. All in the span of a tenth of a second. Then, finding nowhere to go, it held me transfixed. Pressure built in my throat and I wanted to breathe so badly, like a leading tone itchs to resolve to its tonic, but I found myself unable to contract my diaphragm. So I sat there, tensed and trembling, until I realized that Kirk wasn’t looking at me anymore. His gaze had returned to the wall—or to the sink, rather, judging by the tilt of his head—and he fell quiet. But the way his fingers slowly flexed and unflexed, clutching his pants so hard the fabric ruffled and then falling lifeless, I could tell that he wanted to say something. Unfortunately, the sink’s basin seemed much too shallow to find the words he was looking for.
“I wasn’t always like this,” he said, finally. “It... happened to me, really. Was just minding my job, you know? You’ve got to, in construction. My dad used to point at the saw after he’d cut a board in half. You see how slick it cut through this here two-by-four? Yeah? He’d say. Like a goddamn knife through butter. And it’ll do the same thing to your finger. Ya hear? We respect our tools, but all it takes is a second. One day a few guys had just finished loading a skip hoist and somebody told a joke. Apparently one of the others—his name was Carlos—thought it was real funny and he cracked up. Really cracked up, could hardly stand straight. Without thinking he laid a hand on the skip hoist to steady himself and so happened to grab the wire rope. It was exposed, somehow. Anyway, they’d been loading it with debris, yeah? Just then the batch they’d sent off discharged, the wire jumped and it ripped three of his fingers straight off. He’s lucky he didn’t lose his whole hand. I was standing twenty feet away, smoking a cigarette on break, and one of the fingers made it all the way to me.” Kirk sighed, long and deep.
“Just plopped there in front of me, fell right out of the sky. I was stunned for a second, but by the time I came to, I had that finger in the ziplock bag with my chips. At first I was worried somebody might see me, but they were preoccupied with Carlos. Understandably. So I wrapped the bag in a few napkins and stuck it under the ice pack in my lunch box, then ran off to help. We got him to the hospital real quick and then the foreman told us to take the rest of the day off. Everybody was shaken, to say the least.” he said. I was scrambling to put pieces together, but thankfully, Kirk didn’t seem too interested in hearing what I had to say. He just kept talking.
“I used that extra couple hours to go to the store and get stuff for a simple marinade. A bit of olive oil and soy sauce. Dijon mustard, ground black pepper and a clove of garlic. Let it sit overnight, then I roasted it with an omelette for breakfast in the morning. There’s not much meat on a finger, unfortunately.” Kirk suddenly glanced up, meeting my wide eyes for a second before looking away. His face was a mix of guilt and embarrassment, as if he was confronting someone who had earlier walked in on him masturbating. “It was nice. A bit chewy, but not in a bad way. I’m not much of a chef, but I remember thinking that it’d have gone better with something more acidic. Maybe a pineapple marinade. Anyhow, nothing like pork. Noth—” He looked up again, stopping mid-sentence upon meeting my eyes. Then he just sat there with his mouth open for a few seconds.
“And that was that for awhile. It was just… a really intense curiosity, and it was harmless, and it was done. The fingers were too fucked up to be reattached, anyway. Now I knew, you know, so that was that. It wasn’t bad, but not so special. Just a piece of meat. Not worth the trouble. That project we were working on ended and I went the next couple years without thinking about it again,” he nodded and bit his lower lip. “Then I took a project upstate. The commute was too far, so after the first day on the job I went to book a room at a nearby motel. Am I scaring you, Peter?”
I stuttered for a few seconds without saying much. His gaze hung much more heavily over me than his words did, so I looked away, to escape his eyes. “It’s unsettling, yes.” I said.
“That it is,” he said. “Anyway, it’s 9:30 at night or so and I pulled into this little motel lot. The worksite was already out of the way as it was, and the motel was in the opposite direction of the city. Real pretty though, at the foot of a mountain trail. I imagine it was for hikers, but this was mid-march and it was still too cold for that. There was nobody in the administrator’s office and, just as I was resigning to a night in the truck, I heard the scream. Not a scream like your kid had done something stupid or something on TV made you jump, either. You don’t know what desperate means till you hear someone scream like that. So I went looking. It didn’t take long, given that there was only light coming from one room and the door was cracked.”
“I stepped into the room to see two people struggling in bed. A woman old enough to be wrinkled but still with a head full of brown hair, her nightshirt half ripped off, and standing on the bed over her a large man. He had on a dirty red t-shirt, a bare ass and a pair of denim shorts around one of his ankles. When I walked in they both stopped and stared at me for a minute, all three of us frozen in place. The man moved first. ‘Get out,’ he said, but I was so shocked I couldn’t move. Then he turned towards the doorway, took a step forward and pointed a finger at me. You. He took another step forward, and when I met his eyes, I understood a bit of what I heard in that woman’s scream. They were hard steps, his penis bouncing from side to side with each one. For some reason my response was to bunch up my shoulders, hands at my side, like I was standing at attention. I couldn’t move from that spot, and maybe he saw my terror, that man started laughing as he walked towards me. Then the tips of my fingers felt the hammer, still hanging off the loop of my jeans.”
“A few steps later he reached out towards me. I don’t know if he meant to push me, or to grab me or to hit me. But when he reached out, suddenly all that desperation exploded into action. I swung out, the hammer connected with the side of his head and he dropped. Like a stone. It was over in a second, much quicker than I actually processed what happened. I stood there staring at him, motionless and bleeding on the floor, then looked up at the woman. She had pushed herself up tight against the bed frame and pulled the blankets up, scrunching them to cover her chest. We met eyes and she began whimpering—Please, don’t hurt me. Over and over again like some mantra. Eventually she lost it and started sobbing and convulsing, shaking the blankets off. Her breasts were pockmarked with cancer spots and bruises and wrinkles, but in that moment, she looked like a vulnerable little girl. Fear does that to people,” he said.
“Anyhow, I just stood there for a few minutes; it was all too surreal. Eventually it dawned on me that I’d just killed someone. The adrenaline and dizziness disappeared, like the image of an old television shrinks to a single point before blinking out into darkness, and I panicked. I hadn’t planned this. I was just doing my job. In that moment my life fell apart to the background music of this woman’s crying. There was no more noise than that, it was practically silent, and it all happened in a mundane hotel room you wouldn’t look twice at, but there was no going back from that day. That stood out to me real clear, like it was a line of text highlighted in a book. Everything had changed now. I didn’t know what to do so I dragged the man’s body outside, put him in my truck bed’s tool box and drove home. It was less of a choice and more of a resignation.”
“I ate him, of course. Started with his penis; deep fried, strewn with parsley. It was chewy, not in a particularly pleasant way, but the testicles were nice. Hard on the outside, crispy, but soft and sticky on the inside. His thighs were memorable, too—salt, pepper, a bit of nutmeg. Some sauteed brussel sprouts on the side. Eventually I finished eating him, but curiosity had only begun eating away at me. The next few years are a blur; I don’t remember how many people I killed. Ten? Fifteen? Maybe more. When I killed the man I was so worried that I’d see my face on the news; every time I heard sirens outside I tensed up, assuming they were for me. That they were coming, and the world knew what I’d done; but the world didn’t know and the police never came. I guess that woman at the motel didn’t paint a picture of me, and even if she did, I’d never ran into issues with the law before. They had no reason to look for me. I was just a normal guy out doing my job. The serial killers you see on TV, you know, I think they wanted the notoriety, like it was some sort of voyeurism. But I tried to stay out of the spotlight, and I guess it helps that I didn’t have a type. I’d get a fat old homeless guy here, a little orphan there. Lots of different ethnicities and sizes and ages. One day I picked up this methed-out prostitute. Straight up told her that I was going to kill her and eat her. That one sticks with me, out of all of them, you know. She didn’t respond, didn’t start frantically yanking on the door handle. Didn’t fight me or panic. Just sighed, closed her eyes and reclined the passenger seat a bit. It was hardly the worst thing the world had thrown her way; I suppose she’d been waiting to die for a long time already. I didn’t enjoy her.”
“I didn’t enjoy much after that, in fact. It was like the printer ran out of ink and started putting out stills that were nothing more than several shades of gray. The passion was gone, the creativity dead. Everybody looked about as appetizing as your dad’s meatloaf—” Kirk glanced at me. “No offence, Peter. I’m sure you’re great. Anyway, I stopped eating. Not just people, either. Everything. The bread in my pantry got moldy, the milk in my fridge went bad, and I started going, too. I lost a lot of weight.” Kirk’s hands reached up, seemingly inadvertently, and traced his clavicle. It stood so far out that I imagined he could wrap his fingers around the bone if he pushed a bit. “It happened real gradually. I’d always wake up early on Sunday mornings to make breakfast. Toss some bacon into the skillet, then when that’s done you use the bacon grease to make fried potatoes. You might as well have a cigarette or two because that takes awhile, fifteen or twenty minutes maybe, and otherwise you’re just standing there stirring. But they’ll be real good and crispy. Try it sometime. After that you can start the toast, then you use the same pan to scramble eggs. Once they set, toss in a bit of cheese, some salt and pepper. I liked to add a bit of paprika, myself. Anyhow, it’s simple, but it’s good.” Kirk wet his lips.
“Or, well, it was good. This prostitute, yeah? I picked her up on a Tuesday evening and we got back to my place at nine in the evening or so. Normally I’d talk to people, get to them a bit, but this woman just sat in the chair and ignored me the entire trip. When we got back I walked over to open her door, and she adjusted her skirt a bit then got out. I walked a bit behind her because I expected her to run, but she didn’t. Just walked to the house and let herself in. So I led her to the bathroom and told her to wait there; I went to the bedroom and took off my clothes, so as not to get blood on them. I took my time, and I thought she’d make an escape while I was gone. Show her colors. The door wasn’t locked, after all. But when I came back she was still there, sitting on the toilet. Didn’t even acknowledge me at first. Eventually she looked over real slowly, like she was bored. And her eyes, they—” Kirk stopped mid-sentence and scrunched up his face. “You’ ever kill anybody before, Peter?”
The question took me aback. “No,” I said. My voice was much shriller than I had expected, almost a whisper. “Never,” I glanced at my watch.
Peter nodded. “Well,” he said, “people look at you in a certain way, just before it happens. It’s an intimate thing. At first they’re shocked, and that quickly turns to fear. The adrenaline kicks in and they struggle for a bit, but before long that wears off and they accept that the ball is in your court. From there, some people start crying. Some people will beg with you, some people scream. Some people just stare at you, like a challenge. Eventually they give up. All of them. From that point on, they look at you in this special way. Like a child looks at their mother, or a pet waits for food. Expectantly, vulnerable, submissive. They’re totally dependent on you now, and they know it, and they know you know it. It’s a real intense thing, real personal; they might never have looked at anybody like that before. Hopeful and hopeless at the same time. It’s like looking right into their soul. You learn a lot about them during those few minutes. And then you kill them.”
“But this lady, she didn’t do anything like that. Just sat there, as if she was bored, like I was wasting her time. I stood there looking at her for a long time, I don’t know how long. I wasn’t sure what to do with her. You can’t dance if your partner doesn’t do their part, you know? Eventually she got up, walked over and took the knife. At this point I’d have let her wave it at me, I just wanted to see something in her. Instead she ran it through her own stomach. Deep. Then she walked over to the bathtub, laid down and died. I was still standing there, and I stood there for a long time, unsure what to make of things. But I never figured out what to do, so instead I left the bathroom and went to bed,” Kirk raised his eyebrows and shook his head slowly from side to side.
“I felt off that entire week. Sunday came, I made breakfast but found I couldn’t eat the bacon. The eggs were fine, and the potatoes, but I had no appetite for the bacon. I ate her liver, instead, but it was off, too. Next went steak and fried chicken, and within a few days, I couldn’t make myself eat any sort of meat. Somehow, after eating so many people, normal meat had just become a bit boring. That’s what I told myself, at least. Like somebody who starts drinking sparkling water instead of soda. It’s just not quite the same. Hard to get excited about. So I became, as you call it, a vegetarian,” Kirk flashed me a smile, but his lips were the only part of his face that moved. It disappeared just as quickly as it came, then he reached up and scratched the back of his head. “I don’t know what happened, really. At first it was just meat, but then other foods followed, too. Within a couple weeks I couldn’t stomach the scrambled eggs or fried potatoes, either. By the time a month had passed I’d completely stopped eating. She was still up there in the bathtub and it was starting to stink. There was a half bath on the first floor, but I hadn’t showered since.”
“Two months in I woke up to hunger pangs. Terrible ones. Oh god, the hunger; it felt like my stomach was being ripped apart. I needed to eat. Something, anything, now. But I hadn’t left the house since that night. There was nothing left. So I—well you know, right?” Kirk glanced at me. “I saw you looking at my arms. I began cutting myself, taking chunks of meat from here and there. Mostly my thighs. Not such big ones; they bled for a bit and then closed up just fine. Unfortunately, it turns out I’m not all that delicious. A few days later I did this,” he held his hand up. “Just went into the kitchen, grabbed a knife and cut it off. There wasn’t as much blood as I expected, but it didn’t stop. Once it started it just kept going, and going, and I wasn’t sure what to do about it. So I went to the hospital. The entire world stopped to look at me when I walked into the emergency room, but they hurried me to a room and patched me up just the same. Then they asked what happened, so I told them, and they sent me to inpatient care. Later that day the police found the girl. The therapists there asked me why I did that, so I told them—how this all started with Carlos’ finger, had come full circle and now it was time for me. Or something like that. I was in the hospital for a couple weeks, then was sent to prison to wait until my court case. That whole process took several months, but time wasn’t so important to me during those days. The next thing I knew my sentencing was up around the corner.”
“It hit me when I was getting dressed that morning. I didn’t dress up too much, but I figured that a guy should at least wear a tie to his own sentencing. So I put on a pair of navy blue slacks and a white Oxford; found an old belt, too, then set about doing my tie. Choosing the tie didn’t present much of a dilemma, as I only had one of them—mottled yellow, knitted—but what to do with it was more difficult. Eventually I decided on the Merovingian. It’s quite a difficult knot, so I expected to fail a few times. I fucked it up, of course, and then again. And again. Eight times. It didn’t bother me until I looked in the mirror and, seemingly for the first time, noticed my missing finger. Surely I would have succeeded if I had but one more finger; I threw the tie down and stomped. The Merovingian laughed at me.”
“Not a lot gets by me, you know. But somehow, somewhere along the line, I lost my self. I’d have noticed if it were my dress socks or the change jar. If the stop sign down the street disappeared one day. But my self, it slipped away so quietly, and I was none the wiser. Maybe it was chased off by lust, or maybe my… hunger… consumed it, too. Maybe it went bit by bit, I don’t know. But for whatever reason it struck me that morning when I was trying to put on my damn tie. I was shocked to see that I was missing a finger, and suddenly I began coming back to myself. The fuzziness disappeared and I snapped back into it, only to find that I was missing much more than a finger. I didn’t have a self to come back to anymore. The Merovingian laughed at me.”
“There’s nothing you can do,” it said. “It’s inevitable. Even if you stop, even if you know that you’re done, you swear it won’t happen no more, that doesn’t mean it’s gone. Nothing can replace it, that taste. And you know it. Try to move on. Just try. It’s hungry, and it’s powerful, and it’s patient. And once it gets ahold of you, it’ll eat away at you until nothing is left.”
Just then two men appeared in the doorway and announced that time was up. Kirk was taken by a guard, and on his way out, without looking back at me, he announced:
“A nail is driven out by another nail, Peter. The Merovingian is coming for you, too. ”
And then he disappeared around the corner.
The warden furrowed his eyebrows and looked at me. “What the fuck was that?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I’ve never talked to the man in my life.”
The warden disappeared and Peter began to cry.
Shortly after, he took a slice of pork.
submitted by SuikaCider to shortstories [link] [comments]
2020.08.06 07:05 bluelavender96 Naked with my mother
I wasn't quite sure if this is the right group to share my story, but I'm on the verge of having a mental breakdown and literally just created a Reddit account just to get some advice on this. I would very much appreciate any feedback or advice because I'm not so sure how I should be feeling or what I should do.
Before I proceed with the story I just wanted to state that this story may trigger those who have been a victim of rape and if you feel that you can't read it, now is the time to stop.
I (F24) was just washing the dishes after having lunch with my mum (F50) and aunt (F48). We were having a conversation about some of our families members and then somehow moved onto the story of how my mum and dad met and had me. I've heard this story many times in many different ways from my mum, most especially after my father died when I was about 18. Every time she would tell me the story, there was always a new piece of information that I would find out about... And what I found out today was something that I had never heard of after the nth time of hearing this story.
At around the age of 25, my mother was a working student and was doing her OJT as a receptionist in a hotel. This was the same hotel that my father (age 43 at the time he met my mum) was staying in. My dad's job requires him to travel around the world a lot for work so he would often stay in hotels for weeks or months.
My father was very interested in my mum and always gave her all sorts of gifts, but she would never accept them. He always tried to ask her out on a date but my mum would decline because she wasn't interested. He would always say that he was going to marry her, too and she would just laugh it off and think nothing of it. Her coworker (F) would constantly try to convince her to go out with him and would keep the gifts safe in a box incase my mum decided to accept them from him. This would go in for about 3 months. I used to think this was cute, because he kept trying and kept putting in the effort.
One day, the coworker told my mum that there would be a big party at this fancy resort and there was going to be a lot of people there. Little did she know that the coworker and my dad made a plan to trick her to going to the resort but it would be just her and my dad. And so that happened. They had dinner and drinks and one thing lead to another. My dad gave her a lot of drinks that night, more than she could take. She told me that she was a virgin at the time it happened. She was naked and confused and didn't know what was going on. The next day, he was gone. She said that he left and had to travel back home for work. The only thing he left her was a calling card.
The people she had talked to about the situation told her to take it to court but she just left it behind and thought nothing of it. Maybe at the time she was scared but when my mum talked about it to me today she acted as if it was nothing.
My mum didn't find out she was pregnant until 3 months after that. Her first choice was abortion. She said that she tried three times (with pills and other under the table methods) but it wasn't successful. So she decided to try to contact my dad and after some days managed to get in touch with him. He came back to my mums country and married her 10 days after that call.
24 years later and 6 years after my dad passed away, I find out that my mum was a victim of rape and that she didn't want to have me. It's hard to comprehend that my father did an act of rape. I'm feeling angry, hurt, confused and heart broken all at the same time.
My mother and I didn't take the death of our father well and it still affects us to this day. I've always thought greatly of him and that he gave me and my mum a good life. Even though he wasn't there much because of work, he was still a good and loyal husband and an amazing father. Today is the first time I see my dad differently. I feel guilty for feeling this but I hate him for doing what he did.
I'm sitting on my bed not knowing what to do. I don't even know how to process this sort of information. Am I over reacting? Do I have a right to feel what I'm feeling? Should I forgive my parents? This is affecting me more than I can handle....
Thank you for reading.
submitted by bluelavender96 to family [link] [comments]
2020.08.06 04:45 CarryPotter92 M(28) Venting and could be my last words
Note: I've tried therapy and i still couldnt get over whatever i am feeling, i have nowhere else to talk about this, my best friend is not the kind of guy that would support you, he would just listen, i guess that's his personality, i couldn't talk to my parents about this because my mom is close minded old school woman that wont accept whichever is not logical to her, and my dad doesn't believe in depression. Please keep in mind that i love my parents and sister more than everything in this entire world.
So here's my life story, i'm the second born (I have a 6 years older sister), i am a mistake as my dad told me i wasnt planned, which made a lot of sense growing up into my family, my mom is a control freak and my dad didn't really bother getting involve whenever my mom and i have a fight.
My mom have a soft spot for my sister, i've always ignored that fact growing up, but when i hit a specific age everything became clear to me, i have these flash backs of whatever was going on and i start analyzing what happened in those situations.
My mom used to torture me (literally) when i was young, like before i even started kindergarten, my dad used to go to work and my sister to school, my mom used to teach me french (I come from a tunisian family living abroad) and whenever i dont get something, she used to hit me first, i guess thats the way of teaching back in the old days, but sometimes she doesnt hit me, she gets me naked and put chili pepper on my penis and ignores me when i start crying my lungs out and want to wash my self with water, she starts bashing me, or kick me out of the house while i was naked.
She never told me "i love you, good job, im proud of you", whenever i get my exam results she either beats my ass if i didnt do well, or tells me "why didnt you do better" if i passed, and i never got to experience the "mother's hug", ever.
I remember back when i was 5 years old, my dad used to buy me and my sister 1 ice cream stick (not sure if they're called ice cream sticks) each every Friday, my dad used to travel for work a lot, so there was this time when he had to go abroad for 2 weeks, and i didn't want to eat my ice cream, i wanted to save it till my dad gets back, so i could eat it a day or two before Friday. So there we are, my mom, my sister and i are watching Titanic, i remember my sister ate her ice cream 3 days prio to that day, anyway, in the middle of the movie, my sister goes to the kitchen and gets my ice cream, i remember looking at her and saying " thats my ice cream, dont eat my ice cream" but she opens it and starts eating it, and i start screaming (you have no idea how much i loved ice cream when i was a kid and how hard it was for me to not eat it that long cause i was waiting for my dad to gets back), my mom grabs me when i was screaming at my sister, slaps me, puts my head on the edge of the couch and spits in my mouth, then just sends me to my room, i was crying for hours and i've never ate an ice cream to this day.
So now that you get what kind of family i'm living with, fast forward to when i was 22 years old. My life routine is still the usual, fighting with my control freak mom every other day (at least she cant hit me anymore), However, my family developed a new trait by this time, you see, whenever my mom and i get into a fight, my sister and my dad stop talking to me for no reason (even if i wasnt the one in fault), whenever my mom knows that its her fault, she just starts crying, and i become the one to blame for that, i've suffered too much from all the unfairness going on in my family.
I was really good at sports, especially track racing. One time, a local club sent their scouts to our school to watch a small competition organized by a bunch of schools, and i was a part of my school's team, after the competition ended, a scout approached me and asked me to go this local club for trial. 3 weeks later, i got offered a contract to race for this club and i was so happy (this is literally the only thing im good at in life), when i went home and told my parents about it, my dad immediately shut me down by saying there is no chance i will be joining this club or even waste my time on sports, he wanted me to focus on my studies, i explained to him that i could manage studying and practicing at the same time, but i couldn't change his mind, he said "it's either you drop that idea out of your mind, or i wont be giving you any money", so obviously being the student that i am, i had to drop the idea.
At the age of 23 and without my family knowing, i decided to go to a therapist and talk about what was going on (i had other things to get off my chest other than my family problems). In that period of time i thought i had depression, i had the symptoms at least, i stopped eating properly, i barely had any sleep, i preferred staying alone in my room listening to metal core music, i stopped playing my guitar,i lost every interest there is.
I was diagnosed with depression and started getting meds for it, it was all good for the first couple of years, however, by the age of 26 i've started getting these random suicide thoughts every now and then, i've decided not to tell my therapist about it at first because it sounded silly, i would never kill my self, i love drinking and video games too much, or thats what i thought.
these thoughts started getting in my head more often, every time i close my eyes before sleeping, or in the shower, or even in the middle of a csgo game, my mind just goes to blank and i start tearing up all of a sudden.
Fast forward to the age of 27, i've moved to Malaysia to finish my masters degree, and i start getting these "episodes", all im feeling is the urge to end my life, i just want to go to the kitchen, get a knife and end it all, so one i've decided i'd go through with it, i grabbed a bunch of random pills and swallowed them, i remember about 7 minutes later i started getting dizzy and i blacked out, only to wake up in the hospital. Turns out i had a fail suicide attempt, my flat mate found me knocked out on the floor in our apartment and called an ambulance. The doctor said those pills could've killed me and had to pump my stomach.
Here i am now, moved back to Tunisia because of the Covid-19 situation living with my family, and still having the same problems with my mom, my English isnt good enough to express what is really going on in this house and what i am really feeling, but if i could describe it in one word, it would be pain, a lot of pain.
I've been putting some serious thoughts into ending my life this week, it feels good to share this with whoever is reading it. Again, i really love my family after everything we've been through, but im tired of living in a family that shows you they never wanted you, and growing up seeing the huge difference in treatment between me and my sister.
submitted by CarryPotter92 to SuicideWatch [link] [comments]
2020.08.06 03:49 FunPeach0 Naked with my mother
Tony Defies His Father’s Life Lessons Season 6, part 2, depicted Tony as a heavy gambler, one who risked far more money more often than had ever been suggested before. While he always profited significantly from bookmaking and loansharking enterprises (his own and those of his crew), his personal wagering was limited and low-key in the first five and a half seasons, consisting mostly of casual card games or the odd day at a casino or racetrack. He certainly had never been depicted as the kind of man who gambled enough to endanger his liquidity or to necessitate six-figure loans just to stay even with his bookies, which describes the state of affairs in the episode Chasing It.
His gambling problem becomes so significant in that episode that it’s even addressed in therapy. Tony admits he’s been sending “good money after bad” but quickly defends the practice. “If you couldn’t lose, what’s the fuckin’ point, huh? See, you need the risk,” he tells Melfi. She asks, “What are you chasing? Money or a high from winning?” His shake of the head indicates that he doesn’t really know the answer to her question.
Many viewers couldn’t provide an answer either and felt this sudden gambling crisis reflected a writing failure, an attempt to manufacture drama by imposing unnatural or contradictory behavior on a well-established character. I felt a bit that way myself until I began to consider the gambling in light of Tony’s contemporaneous, burgeoning, and subconscious anger towards his father at that point in the series. In that context, the gambling began to make perfect sense, and, once again, it all goes back to the night of the incident involving the cleaver.
That was the night when Johnny emphatically imparted to Tony the lessons that gamblers are scum and that gamblers who borrow money and fail to make timely repayment are even bigger scum. If, in the last half of season 6, Tony’s subconscious was stuck on the cleaver incident as the true genesis for his life trajectory and was subtly pushing him to rebel against his father 35 years after-the-fact, then borrowing huge sums of money, gambling it all away, and shirking the responsibility to repay the loans would be a natural, safe course for that rebellion to take. Making Hesh the victim of his irresponsible borrowing would be a bonus, since Hesh’s age and relationship to Johnny and to Tony himself make him another natural father figure.
Of course this is exactly what happens in Chasing It. Having already borrowed 200K from Hesh in the prior episode, Tony visits his home one night. In a near-replay of his gift to Beansie, he brings Hesh a Cleaver hat while expressly denouncing the movie itself as unfit for viewing, a blatant self-contradiction reconciled only in that it signals Tony’s ongoing subconscious preoccupation with the movie’s cleaver logo and themes of violent retribution against a father figure. In any case, Tony shares gossip about Phil’s “boss” party from which he’s just returned and offers an almost stunning sentiment when Hesh questions why he left the party and the company of his crew so early. “I look at my key guys . . . what’s number one on their agenda, you know? They’re all fuckin’ murderers for Christ’s sakes,” Tony jokes, only you get the feeling he’s more serious than not. “What I’m tryin’ to say is, it’s nice bein’ here.” “Here” of course meant in the company of a guy who he fancies is able to put friendship above business, who makes his living under the auspices and protection of the mob but without directly participating in its violent aspects.
The warm fuzzy feelings disappear pretty quickly, however, when Hesh reminds Tony of the outstanding loan. Even though Hesh makes clear he is only wondering about repayment of the principal and is not looking for a “vig”,” Tony unreasonably seizes on this debt reminder as grounds for judging Hesh to be a stereotypical, money-grubbing Jew. He insists on paying Hesh a vig anyway and rubs two quarters together in derision when Hesh stops by the pork store the following week. Suddenly Tony is offended at the notion of folks collecting debts and profiting from gambling loans, something he’s unapologetically done himself directly or indirectly all his adult life. Then again, his subconscious is in a different place than it’s ever been before, fixated on the pivotal events and people in his past that contributed to him becoming what he is instead of what he’d like to have been.
The always-prescient Hesh ominously notes that this is not the usual Tony. “He’s all worked up, or something. I don’t like the way he talks. Hostile remarks. It’s not like him. Makes me worry.”
A secondary thread in this episode deals with Vito Jr. experiencing behavioral and social problems in the wake of Vito’s death. He dresses full tilt “gothic” with black lipstick, overturns headstones for fun, kills a neighbor’s cat, bullies a handicapped girl at school, and craps in the gym shower as revenge on hateful peers who tease him because his father was gay and notoriously died with a pool cue rammed up his butt.
Marie Spatafore asks Tony for $100K to move far away where Vito Jr. can start with a clean slate. Reluctant to give her that kind of money, Tony tries first to make Phil, as Marie’s cousin and Vito’s executioner, assume financial and quasi-paternal responsibility, with predictably bad results. Underscoring yet again the fatheson/surrogate theme of season 6, part 2, Tony tells Marie, “It’s not easy to substitute for a dad. I know. But maybe I can fill in here.”
Tony does talk to Vito Jr., employing a tact reminiscent of his intervention with AJ in Johnny Cakes and polar opposite of the one his father undertook with him after Satriale’s. He tries to plant or reinforce in Little Vito’s own mind a fundamentally good self-image by praising that he’s always been a “good kid.” Vito rejects Tony’s presumptuousness, noting that Tony is such a stranger to their family that he often mistakenly calls him “Carlos, Jr.” instead of “Vito Jr.” Still Tony tries to accentuate the positive. “Look, all I know is I couldn’t shut your dad up about what a good kid you were,” he scolds. “We were friends you know.” “But buddies?” Vito asks sarcastically. After excusing the zinger, Tony offers some genuine compassion for what it’s like to lose a father you loved and yet who caused you shame or disappointment at the same time. “I’m sure you miss him . . . a lot . . . whatever he was.”
Obviously this encounter is included in the story for what it says about Tony, not for what it says about Vito Jr., an inconsequential character in the overall scheme of the show. Tony’s counsel reveals his own latent conflicts, that despite what Johnny Boy was, and what Junior was, they were his father and uncle, the most important men in his life, the men who were around him throughout his formative years and who provided what measure of paternal love he knew. Not all of it was bad. Very much like what Tony recounts regarding Christopher’s childhood -- holding him as an infant and riding him around on his butcher bike -- there were endearing memories and experiences, enough that he could still love these men despite all the harm they caused him.
Little Vito is correct that Tony has no idea whether he (Vito) is an intrinsically “good kid”, and we have no idea whether Vito Sr. ever said or harped on that fact to Tony (probably not). But it doesn’t really matter whether either is true. Tony says these things because he intuitively recognizes how damaging it was to his own psyche and self image as a kid to hear his father euphemistically tell him after the cleaver incident that he innately possessed the sadistic, evil, or predatory nature to do what he witnessed in Satriale’s. He knows at a core, unconscious level that living up to his father’s concept of him was more important than living up to his fledgling concept of himself, a self-concept which, stripped of his father’s corruption, is revealed in all its relative innocence and idealism in Join the Club. That Tony is a mild-mannered salesman, loves his wife and kids so much that he sabotages his one chance at an illicit affair with an attractive woman, is naturally uncomfortable with minor credit card fraud, and is positively stunned at a level of violence in which another person merely slaps his face. So his effort to make Vito Jr. think of himself as a “good kid” and to internalize his father’s ostensible view of him as the same is Tony’s effort to help Vito Jr. avert the self-doubt and sense of innate moral inferiority that paved his own path to a life of crime.
Though I don’t think Chasing It asks us to make this juxtaposition, I can’t help but recall another, early episode featuring Hesh, Denial, Anger, Acceptance. There the Hasidic motel owner tells Tony he is a “golem”, a “monster, Frankenstien”, prompting Melfi’s question near the end of the episode, “Do you feel like Frankenstein . . . a thing, lacking humanity, lacking human feelings?” We don’t hear Tony’s answer in the therapy room, but it’s provided years later in his Test Dream when Tony the “mobster” (“monster” minus an “n” plus a “b”) runs from a torch-bearing, lederhosen-clad mob. Yes, he feels like Frankenstein, a monster, albeit one created by other people, against whom we can presume he bears a serious grudge.
Chris’ Displaced, Murderous Rage as a Precursor to Tony’s In Walk Like a Man, Chris finds himself “ostrafied” by his mob cohorts because, in his effort to stay sober, he spends very little time with them at the Bing. When he does see them, he is ridiculed for drinking non alcoholic beverages and witnesses his once-favored status and earning opportunities in Tony’s crew being usurped by Bobby Bacala. Chris seeks Tony’s understanding for the fact that he inherited alcoholism from his mother, making sobriety especially difficult for him to maintain. But Tony doesn’t buy this “excuse”.
Tony: I know a crutch when I see it.
Chris: So my dad? You obviously musta knew he had a crutch.
Tony: What the fuck are you talkin’ about?
Chris: Com’e on, Tone, huh? Between the coke, the vodka, whatever the fuck else he was squirtin’ up his arm. Let’s be honest about the great Dickie Moltisanti, my dad, your hero. He wasn’t much more than a fuckin’ junky.
Tony is speechless. He doesn’t know what to think or say in the face of a son calmly debunking a lifetime of false paternal myth and hero worship and replacing it with naked, unvarnished, and unflattering truth. He is undoubtedly also disturbed to see the pedestal he built under another of his own father figures crash to the ground so suddenly and emphatically.
Elsewhere in the episode, Paulie provokes a squabble with Chris over stolen power tools that ultimately results in Chris beating and throwing Little Paulie out of a second story window and Paulie driving his car like a high-speed plow over the expensive new landscaping at Chris’ home while Kelly watches in terror. Tony forces a truce, which Chris seals with a drink to placate Paulie. This sacrifice and effort to fit in is rewarded when Paulie mocks Christopher’s drunken soliloquy about his daughter and makes her the butt of two cruel jokes in front of the crew. As Chris’ “friends” convulse in laughter, and especially as he absorbs the depths of betrayal written in the broad smiles of his “father figures”, Paulie and Tony, Chris storms out of the Bing and to the home of JT Dolan.
There’s a natural symmetry to him showing up in that moment at the home of the screenwriter who helped him express his covert hatred of Tony Soprano in a movie script. But on this night, the hatred spurting out of him is far more urgent and tangible. He threatens to “bring everybody down” by revealing sensitive secrets, like the truth behind the murders of Ralph and Adriana, and notes the rewards of the Witness Protection Program. He even mentions that Sammy “The Bull” Gravano is “living large” in the program in Arizona, a remark with some portent for the next episode.
JT repeatedly warns that he doesn’t want to hear these things that could get him killed and is unmoved by Chris’ plea for sympathy. “You know my father abandoned me,” Chris cries. “I thought you said he was shot,” JT fires back coldly before trying to shock Chris back to the realities of the life he chose: “Chris, you’re in the Mafia!”
Clearly Chris doesn’t subscribe to the “don’t shoot the messenger” theory. He impulsively draws his gun and blows a hole through JT’s head, but driving the action is the anger accompanying his sense of paternal betrayal and abandonment. It’s a transparently displaced act of rage reminiscent of the beatings Tony administered to Georgie through the years when the motivating anger was actually aimed at others or at himself.
A Reprise of Tony’s Paternal Guilt Just as Christopher’s paternal hatred was exploding, Tony’s was imploding. And, once again, the explicitly acknowledged guilt Tony feels as a father and the unacknowledged blame he dispenses as a son are part of the same, swift current.
In Walk Like a Man, Tony has decided to quit therapy once and for all following Melfi’s demand that he honestly assess its value to him and whether he is serious about continuing. But before he can share his decision with her, Blanca ends her engagement to AJ, plunging the younger Soprano into a deep, suicidal depression.
When AJ cries that Blanca was “the best thing that ever happened” to him, Tony makes his most concerted effort of the series to boost AJ’s self-esteem and convince him of his intrinsic worth, telling AJ that plenty of girls would love to have a guy like him. AJ tearfully scoffs.
AJ: Yeah, right. Like I’m so special.
Tony: [earnestly] You’re damn right you are. You’re handsome and smart . . . a hard worker. And, let’s be honest, white.
I guess Tony had limited raw material to work with, but he did his best to sell all points.
AJ’s crisis causes a reversal in Tony’s decision to quit therapy, making his position in his next session paradoxical. On one hand he declares that therapy has been one big “jerk off” but allows that he is now “trapped [there] forever”.
The immediately striking aspect of this scene is that Tony is intellectually aware of the reasons for AJ’s depression: painful, personal rejection and the demise of his first, serious romantic relationship. That could happen to any young person in any walk of life with any kind of father or background and produce serious depression. But Tony’s awareness of this fact doesn’t stop him from feeling he is to blame for AJ’s plight.
Tony: Obviously I’m prone to depression . . . a certain bleak attitude about the world. But I know I can handle it. Your kids, though.
[His watery eyes and frangible voice betray the sincerity of his emotions as he continues.]
Tony: It’s like when they’re little and they get sick. You’d give anything in the world to trade places with them so they don’t have to suffer. And then to think you’re the cause of it.
Melfi: How are you the cause of it?
Tony: It’s in his blood, this miserable fuckin’ existence. My rotten fuckin’ putrid genes have infected my kid’s soul! That’s my gift to my son.
A long pause ensues as Melfi absorbs the importance of the moment. These words are almost a verbatim echo of Tony’s emotional outpouring years before in Army of One, the only time he came really close to condemning his gangster way of life and particularly its harmful effects on his son. His verbiage here is even stronger in that he speaks of having “infected [AJ’s] soul”, a metaphor with considerably greater moral and spiritual weight than implied by the innocent, biological conveyance of a defective gene for regulating serotonin uptake.
So, as before, this confession of guilt and sorrow is clearly about more than genes. It’s about more than Tony wanting to save AJ from romantic heartbreak. This is about Tony feeling an inexorable corruption of his own humanity and sense of worth by the influence and value system of his violent father. And it’s about his concomitant guilt for fearing that, as a man like his father, he has done the same thing to AJ.
Just as in Army of One, Melfi’s gentle tone of voice signals how much she’s pulling Tony to make these realizations while his angry tears show how much he’s pushing to resist them.
Melfi: I know this is difficult. But I’m very glad we’re having this discussion.
Tony: Really? Really? ‘Cause I gotta be honest. I think it fuckin’ sucks.
Melfi: What does?
Tony: [yelling] Therapy! This! I hate this fuckin’ shit!
And there, in a nutshell, is the problem. He can’t stand to feel sorrow or indulge the pain of deep introspection, a theme recurrent through the series and explored openly in House Arrest and The Ride.
It’s no coincidence that Walk Like a Man and a number of other episodes from the final nine essentially begin by showing Tony soundly asleep in his bed. It’s also no coincidence that, after waking in Walk Like a Man, he plods downstairs while singing a verse from the Pink Floyd classic “Comfortably Numb”, a song which also features prominently in the following, culminating episode. Remaining numb to his deeper feelings of conscience and humanity is both the secret to Tony’s success as a gangster and the reason why some of his most personal, tactile acts of violence have followed moments of great sorrow (e.g., belt-whipping Zellman, killing Ralph, viciously beating a drugged-out Christopher after the Adriana hit.) Psychological distraction and extreme sensory manipulation are the keys, whether achieved by adrenaline-inducing violence, compulsive sex, compulsive eating, compulsive spending/material acquisition, or compulsive sleeping. The objective in all cases remains to either feel anything but pain or to feel nothing at all.
Walk Like a Man brings these deeply repressed feelings close enough to the surface that Tony glimpses the price of dredging them all the way up. And it’s not a price he’s willing to pay.
He knows that in order to “grow”, to truly progress in Melfi’s office, he has to be willing to essentially condemn an entire lifetime of immoral choices and acts that inflicted immense suffering on other people. He has to be willing to experience the guilt and remorse associated with that process. He has to be willing not only to smash the pedestal he erected under his father and denounce his way of life and his example but to own the fact that he willingly followed in his footsteps as an adult, compromising the potential of his children and especially of his son. In short, he has to do what the monks in his coma dream were suing to make him do: take personal responsibility for his life and actions. No more blaming Livia consciously or Johnny Boy unconsciously. No more blaming Junior or Paulie or Dickie because they were equally poor surrogate fathers. No more “going about in pity for himself” because of his upbringing.
All of this is why the explicit admission never comes, the breakthrough never truly occurs. It’s too hard. It opens him up to too much sadness and regret and sense of waste and failure in his life. As hard as it is at times for him to live with the repression of those feelings, repression is easier than confrontation and all its consequences.
Of course the very fact that Tony has such feelings to repress has always been paramount for me. Though his actions grew increasingly dark over the course of the series, he always betrayed evidence of some conscience, some capacity for love, some capacity for sorrow and moral conflict, without which I can’t imagine that I would ever have been as obsessed with this show as I became. I cared about him and devoted so much passionate energy to trying to understand him only because his vulnerability and shreds of goodness made him, in my judgment, worthy of caring and understanding.
The humanity was often microscopic, but it was there, even in relation to some of the darkest deeds on the show: the way he was haunted briefly after killing Matt Bevalaqua, who he recognized was barely more than a “kid”; his reaction to the way Richie Aprile maimed Beansie; his long resistance to the idea that Pussy was a rat that had to be killed as well the way the murder troubled him well afterward; the way he uniquely (among the crew) was saddened by and took moral issue with what Ralph did to Tracee. We glimpsed his humanity in his red, grief-swollen face and defeated voice in All Due Respect when he instructed Chris where to find and bury the body of Tony B. We even saw it after he coldly ordered Adriana’s execution, both in the angry beating he administered to Chris (classic distraction from sorrow and punishment of Chris for having “created” the whole situation to begin with) and in his lumbering, emotionally oppressed frame and countenance in the closing scene of Long Term Parking.
So by the time of Kennedy and Heidi, even though there was nothing new about Tony killing people for whom he felt some form of affection, there was something entirely new about him killing a loved one without any trace of regret, sadness, or moral conflict. That’s why his seemingly remorseless, defiantly triumphant murder of the young man he thought of as a surrogate son forever changed the way I view Tony Soprano. Or at least I thought it did.
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2020.08.06 02:58 CanadianEthos Naked with my mother
Many religious syncretists, and occultists, would have us believe that the morning star exclusively refers to Lucifer. And that all 10 persons listed below in the Mythology and theology section from Wikipedia are one in the same entity.
From a Christian Perspective
The Gospels and The Old Testament are not open to interpretation. It requires years of study under a proper Christian theologian or priest, to fully understand the meaning of scripture. Unfortunately many people believe they can interpret God's Word as they please. This is a delusion of pride, it is false humility. Prelest a result of Fantasia. False humility (pride) resides in the heart and mind, hidden from the world. It strengthens itself through a false narrative. The spiritual deception many Orthodox and non Orthodox experience, consist of a synthesis of the following
The Bible code (Hebrew: הצופן התנ"כי, hatzofen hatanachi), also known as the Torah code, is a purported set of secret messages encoded within the Hebrew text of the Torah. This hidden code has been described as a method by which specific letters from the text can be selected to reveal an otherwise obscured message.Note: Interconnected thinking is nothing more than an outline of thought. It's not some sort of secret way of thinking. Unfortunately the people who stumble onto this, erroneously believe that it helps them to miraculously open the mind to divine supernatural sources. We see this in popular culture through books like The Doors of Perception by Aldous Huxley.
2020.08.06 00:40 imalwaythisweird I think i might have to end it with him. I really don't want to though....
I've (27f) been with my boyfriend (39m) for nearly 2 years now. I've grown so much as a person since I've met him. Coming from an emotionless and affectionless family, he has shown me how to feel and how to express myself. I've honestly never felt so alive or have been so in love. We communicate so well, we're a team, always laughing and looking at the brighter side of life. The sex is awesome too. We live together, have 2 beautiful kitties and regularly talk about our future and the beautiful babies we will have together. Our relationship is perfect........except...
His ex girlfriend (34f), mother of his children will not butt out of our lives. He works hard (16hr days) and tries to provide as much as he can for them. He gets 2 days off a week, one of which is spent with me, the other he drives 3 hours there and 3 hours back to spend as much time as he can with them. He is exhausted, and to make matters worse, she puts him to work in (her parents house, she lives with them), minimising the time he actually gets to spend with them. She will not let him take them for a weekend, every so often. He has to go up and spend the day with her also or no time with his children at all. She demands to know where he is all of the time and calls him daily while they're both at work, when I know the kids are not around so I know he's not calling to talk to them. She's so super controlling. I've asked him to set boundaries with her, I've asked him to take her to court, he won't.
Back story: Last year, they had gone through a rollatcoaster of a year, being civil towards eachother, and not talking to one another. One night I was at his house and I caught him texting her about her sex toys... i blew up. He said she was depressed and it was the only way he knew how to snap it outa her. I was going away with my gals that weekend and I found out he was having her and the kids down to his house for the weekend. He had tried to keep it a secret from me. I told him I was uncomfortable with her staying in the same house as him after i had just caught them sexting. He assured me he would sleep at his moms house and just spend the day with his children. I left my gals a day early and drove to his house at 2am just to see. I caught her in his bed completely naked, except for the blanket, he was sat at the end of the bed fully clothed and talking to her. He got mad at me for interrupting them and sent me home and stayed with her. I tried to break up with him then but he begged to have me back, I reluctantly accepted but our relationship has been very good since the incident (I call it armageddon). It did take a long time to build up trust again but I thought we had got there. He swears blind that nothing happened between them that weeked, and to be honest I kinda believe him. We have gotten past it. This one event is not the issue.
Looking back, its only been so good when she's not talking to him. When she is i get very jealous. I don't want to be this way. I understand he need to have some working relationship with the mother of his children but I can't help it...
Present day: Last weekend she was fighting with him on the phone as he was on his way to visit them. She wasn't getting her own way on the phone call so she shouted "just turn around and go home" so he called her bluff and did. Initially I was so proud of him I was so happy to see him stand up for himself, finally!!! Later that day she text him a big long message about how he is the worst person in the world and all she wanted was a day that he came up to have fun with her. He never text her back...
I want him to set boundaries. I want him to tell her that he does not want to have fun with her. He goes to the house to spend time with his children, NOT her. Mainly because she wont let him take them. I want him to tell het it's not appropriate to talk on the phone everyday, I want him to tell her that their relationship is gone past the point of "having fun together". But he won't.
Part of me thinks it's because he is cowardly and he's afraid she'll deny him acces to his children all together. Part of me thinks he's playing her.... he wants to allow her to behave this way.
All I know is, by not setting those boundaries with her and allowing her to think and act like that, is a complete lack of respect for me and our relationship and I don't know if I'm comfortable with that...
I'm not going to be the person who gives an ultimatimum but I have decided myself, if he does not have a boundaries talk with her, im ending our relationship.
This will be the hardest thing I will ever have to do, I love him so much, but I love myself too. I don't think i could love myself if I just sat back and watched this behaviour escalate to the same level it did in the past, or worse...
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2020.08.05 23:55 Nointerest12months Naked with my mother
Zombie apocalypse setting and not for the feint of heart, although this first chapter doesn't really show it. The chapter takes place about 5 years into rebuilding,or the lack there of.
Her eyes opened but there was nothing to be seen. She was engulfed in darkness as she recognized a familiar, metallic grinding sound.
she thought out loud. Her voice was weak and hoarse, her body flinched without will.
"It's that time again," she said as her eyes began to glaze with tears.
The light seeped through as the door opened. Her eyes fluttered as they tried to adapt to the new brightness, which threatened to be as bright as the sun quickly rising over the horizon. A large sillouette stepped into the doorway, it seemed to loom over her, making her feel small and weak in comparison. The door creaked back and locked violently, taking all light with it and thrusting her world back into inky darkness. She shut her eyes forcefully and her face tightened to a wince.
As the pure lack of light made her eyes useless, it seemed to also enhance her other senses. She could hear the steady breathing above her. Her naked body shifted in anxiety. Her pulse pounded in her head, each heartbeat slamming like a drum. She pushed herself backwards and against the wall with her hands and legs. The wall was cold and rough on her bruised skin and offered no solace.
She opened her eyes. A deeper black image in the dark moved swiftly and she felt a hand clamp tightly on to her ankle. She yelped as her foot was violently yanked and her bare butt skid across the carpeted floor until she was flat on her back. A rugged paw ran along her outer thigh, to her butt, and up her side.
"C'mere slut." the ominous voice spoke from the dark figure.
As her face became wet with tears she closed her eyes again and mentally disappeared from this world and into her own.
Weeks... Months passed by, she wasn't sure.
Not seeing the day and night cycle for so long made it hard to determine the passage of time. But in her mind she knew it had been long enough.
Her eyes opened wide as the door cracked just enough to drop a bowl into the room. She rushed to it. She attempted to refuse the meals before but after the third day the hunger pangs won. The bowl was half full of a watered down grain type meal. There was no seasoning, no taste. It was a meal only to keep her alive and she knew it.
Some time later she cracked her eyes open from a half slumber in the infinite dark. Muffled voices could be heard outside the door and she knew it was not meal time.
Click clack screech... The sound seemed to come in slow motion to woman's senses.
The door opened slowly. It's time again. But this time it was different. As the door closed there was a shimmer of light off of the sillouette's waist.
'A knife? You can't be fucking serious.' she thought to herself.
She did not expose her emotion, or excitement. Her mind was twisting painfully to take the opportunity right now but she resisted.. She felt a warmth and weight lie down on top her. She could feel the very threads of the fabric of the entity's shirt. She could smell the stink of sweat and grain alcohol.
"Now then, hurry up noobie!" someone yelled, muffled, from the other side of the door.
The man pressed his lips on her neck and breathed deeply. She grabbed his waste with her hands on either side. She ran her hands down his pants and back up as he clumsily shuffled with his belt buckle...
'First time?' she thought to herself, as she wondered if she should feel remorse for what she was about to do.
Her fingers found purchase, and wrapped around the handle of the small knife.
This is the sort of opportunity she'd been waiting for. She didn't necessarily care if she made it out alive, instead, she wanted revenge. Who she exacted that revenge on didn't really matter at this point and she felt her current suitor was a fine beginning.
His breathing nearly stopped as he began to penetrate her...her body became rigid and tense... But suddenly very relaxed... She accepted him. She accepted what she was about to do, her mind became nothing but raw focus. If she could see, she knew it would be through tunnel vision.
She pulled the blade out its sheath slowly... Her opponent was unaware and preoccupied. She ran her other hand up his lower back to his neck, then his jaw. The man grunted as she violently forced his jaw upwards, exposing his neck, and brought the blade forcefully across his throat in one swift motion. The whites of his eyes were almost visible in the dark, or maybe she just imagined his surprise as she provided him with a red smile.
Blood streamed out of his gaping throat, like a water hose turned to full blast, while her legs wrapped around him tighter. He gurgled violently as thick ichor and air escaped his throat. Each panicked attempt to breath spewed more blood out of his throat and onto her, until it came to a steady trickle.
The man became limp in her grasp and she felt a sick satisfaction as she plunged the blade through his eye socket for good measure.
The cool breeze blew leaves gently through the air. Just inside the woodline, covered in shade from the sun, two survivors set up into a recon position. They lied in wait a few hundred meters away from a medium sized industrial building, a factory. The foliage was overgrown and ivy grew up the sides of the brick building. Several armed guards kept watch on the perimeter.
"I count nine targets", said a man.
"I see them." replied the woman as she lined up her scope on one of them.
"On my mark." he said confidently, holding an old flip phone in his hand.
She nodded as she slid her finger into the trigger well of her Remington 700 rifle.
The two guards walking the outer perimeter seemed relaxed. One carried his AK type rifle by the handguard, the other had an ar15 slung behind his back.
"So is this how we are gonna live the rest of our lives in this fucked up New world?" one of the guards said harshly.
"Your assuming we are gonna live much longer." the other man replied with a laugh.
His laugh was cut short and his eyes widened. He stopped but his partner didn't.
"WHAT THE FU.." his sentence was cut off as the device he spotted exploded with an ear splitting boom, churning into a cloud of fire, dust, and debree. His partner became a thick fog of red chunky myst before his eyes and he was sent flying off of his feet, to land on his back. Only a ringing sound filled his ears that seemed to reverberate inside his skull. As he tried to grab his rifle he drew up only mutilated stubs of what used to be his arms. He tried to scream but could only gurgle. Blood filled into his mouth and nose and he began to sputter and choke. His skin was on fire, every one of his senses were screaming at him. Run, yell, get help, save yourself. I'm dying, was his last thought as eyes grew heavy and he succumbed to the darkness.
The other guards heard the explosion and scrambled to grab their weapons. The guard closest to the front door never had a chance to react. The 308 round left a dime sized hole in his forehead. Blood, bone, and brain matter splattered the wall behind him in an impressively large area. His knees violently hit the ground before he fell to his face, revealing the gaping, jagged, exit wound.
The sniper ejected the casing and chambered another round then found her next target.
"Pushing up." the man said speaking into his headset.
"I've got you covered." she replied as her rifle cracked off another round, the concussion throwing a small cloud of leaves and dirt from the ground at the end of the barrel. She carressed the bolt and pulled it back, throwing the empty bullet casing. She pushed the bolt forward and slammed another round into the chamber.
The distance between the woodline and the warehouse was littered with old machinery and debree. It was probably some sort of steel mill. The man sprinted up, with a slightly unnatural canter, and took cover behind a rusted and dilapidated fork lift. He signaled to his partner that he was moving forward again. He swung out from the corner as another round exploded out from behind him. He raised his m4 to his shoulder.
Two guards were behind the cover of several stacked steel beams. They located the sniper and were trying to return suppressing fire. The man was on their flank about twenty yards away. He swapped his m4 to his left shoulder and leaned around the large i-beams. Firing a couple controlled bursts of fiery lead towards the two guards.
"bratatat, bratatat" the rifle sang loudly.
Both fell to the ground, one limp, the other writhing in pain. Another shot clapped from the woodline and as he turned around he saw a man fall over and blood quickly filled into the cracks of the concrete around his head. 'One left.' he thought to himself. At that time the radio on his chest chirped.
"Last one retreated inside." the woman's voice said calmly.
The man walked over to the two guards he downed and pulled his pistol. Putting a round into each of their heads.
Suddenly a gunshot rang out from inside.
"New guy, what the fuck, pull up your pants were getting shit on out there!" the guard yelled while banging on the door.
He unlocked the dead bolt and pulled the door open, then held out the new guy's rifle. A feminine, bloody, hand reached from the darkness and grabbed hold of the rifle. His eyes grew from the sight just before a blade entered into his throat and twisted. She removed the blade and blood gushed from his wound. Pouring like an open faucet. He weakly relinquished the rifle to her and fell to his knees. He gripped his neck to stem the blood but it poured fast between his fingers and down his forearms. His eyes shot back and forth and his face became full of pain and fear. She drew the rifle to his head and squeezed the trigger.
After looking through the windows and scouting around the building, the man stood beside the front door and signaled his partner to move around the back of the building. He watched as she slung her rifle onto her back and pull a pistol from the holster on her hip.
She was in her early thirties with a thin but curvy build and average height for a woman. She wore a loose fitting, long sleeve, green shirt underneath her tan plate carrier. She had short dark brown hair and wore dollar store sunglasses that covered her deep brown eyes.
Short hair was a necessity in this new world. Long hair was only a leash for anyone or anything that could get their hands on it.
He was in his mid thirties, just under six feet tall, and a stocky but well toned build. His dirty blonde hair was short and an unruly beard covered the bottom of his face. He wore a long sleeve, button up, flannel shirt, beneath a multicam plate carrier similar to hers. His loose leg jeans were dirty and fit over the top of his ragged and worn out polymer toed boots.
She nodded towards him, turned around, and quickly began to move around the building in a crouching run. He watched her body and his eyes wandered, scanning her. The jeans she wore hugged her body tightly, accenting her every curve. He drew in and let out a deep breath, enjoying the view.
He turned back to the thick metal door with the rifle in his right hand and took the door handle with his left.
It was locked. He sighed in aggravation as he pulled his rifle sling to tighten it to his chest. He opened a pouch on the side of his plate carrier. Quickly he pulled a lock pick out and placed it deftly into the door handle. The lock made a satisfying click, a moment later, and he placed his tools back in the pouch and zipped it back. He pushed the quick release strap on his rifle and picked it back up in his right hand. Again, he placed his left hand on the handle and twisted. He slowly opened the door and aimed his rifle steadily, looking from right to left through the sights of his weapon. As the door swung the rest of the way open he grabbed the foregrip of his m4 and leaned into the open doorway.
A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead.
Entering a building or room, with possible enemies inside, was one of the fastest ways he could think of to get killed.
Inside was a short hallway, a sliding window to the right and another door infront. He moved in. Once again pieing from left to right into the office with the window. His feet gently laid on the carpeted floor, from heel then to toe. He breathed a deep calm breath. The air was musty but it didn't smell like death. He moved to the next door slowly pushing it open with his left hand while holding his rifle in his right while peering down the barrel and sweeping it from right to left.
His heart pounded, almost deafening, as the blood thrummed against his skull with each pulse. Another bead of sweat dripped from the tip of his nose. There was a gunshot from inside... He knew he wouldn't want to kill a potential friendly but he also knew he couldn't hesitate to protect himself. It wouldn't be the first time he had made a mistake, but that was the world he lived in... Or more accurately Survived in.
He entered into a larger room lit only by the upcoming sun through the windows. Tables and chairs decorated the middle of the oversized room with cubicles on the right. The carpeted floor felt sticky on his boots. In the back of the room was a set of hallways, one on the left and one on the right. They were eerily dark.
Something caught his attention in the darkness and he thumbed a switch on his m4s handguard. A bright beam of light shown on a figure and he quickly realized it was a woman.
She was covered in blood and completely nude, It was not his curvy companion.
She walked forward pointing a rifle in his direction but squinted from the bright light shown into her eyes.
"Those bastards are dead, ain't noone gonna hurt you. " He said genuinely with a calm southern accent.
She seemed surreal. Like a figment of his imagination. Pale like a ghost but bloody and bruised from top to bottom...like an image straight from a horror movie.
The man placed the head of the apparition in line with his iron sights.
"Get on the ground NOW!" He yelled out forcefully, as his patience grew thin from having a weapon pointed at him.
"I'm done being forced to the ground." She said with an eerily calm in her voice.
"Fuck." He grumbled, loud enough only for himself to hear, as he placed his finger inside of the trigger well of his rifle.
"I will not be beaten and raped anymore." she spoke softly as her finger began to squeeze the trigger.
Suddenly she felt an intense pain in the back of her head and her world faded into black.
The man watched as the naked woman fell to her knees and crumpled over after being pistol whipped from behind.
"God Damn... You couldn't have come a little faster?" he said loudly as he dropped his rifle, allowing it to swing down freely by the sling, and wiped the sweat from his brow.
"I'm sorry... There was fresh coffee in the break room..." his partner replied with a tone of annoyance.
He looks at her and shakes his head.
"She's butt naked...and scary...Your turn to do the tieing up." He retorted with a sharp exhale through his nose.
His partner cut through him with a glance of her eyes.
"If looks could kill.' he thought to himself.
"Were you serious about that coffee though?" he asked with a genuinely curious look.
The woman rolled her eyes.
The captive woman awoke in the break room of the warehouse to a headache equivalent to a weekend binge on cheap whiskey. The feeling of the skin on her head stretching over a painful knot reminded the thin woman of her encounter before she was rendered unconscious.
"Glad to see you're awake." the man said sarcastically.
She attempted to stand but quickly realized she couldn't move. She was entirely tied to a chair and her mouth was taped all the way around her head. She had been dressed in some ill fitting clothes. She breathed deeply and could still smell the metallic essence of the blood that covered her body from earlier.
"My name is Liam... And the lady that put you to sleep is Meredith." He said gesturing to himself and then to his partner.
"Mere." she sharply said. She couldn't stand being called by her full name and Liam knew it.
"We killed most of the mother fuckers that have been torturing you, but it looks like your quite capable on your own. While you were resting we found the two that you encountered..." Liam nodded approvingly and pointed towards a streaming cup in front of her.
"Coffee?" Mere asked as she stepped towards the captive.
"Or vodka?" Liam asked as he filled a small cup from a near full bottle of clear liquid.
She couldn't make sense of the situation. Her head was pounding and her body was exhausted, but her mind traveled at the speed of light. She didn't know whether to cry or struggle.
"I'm going to take the tape off your mouth." Mere said gently.
"Is that OK?" Mere said as she walked behind the captive. The captive didn't react.
"I want to know your name." Mere said soothingly as she slowly pulled the duct tape away from the captives mouth.
The captive felt intense anger. Hate. Her heart began to pound in her chest. Her face became red and hot.
"Slut... " she quietly said through clenched teeth as visions of the men that raped, tortured, and abused her crossed her mind. The names they called her. Slut seemed to be their favorite. They broke her. Trained her almost. But they were ignorant to think they took all of her fight. The sides of her lips began to rise to a slight smile.
"Your real name." Liam said, in an unsurprised and dry tone of voice, as he took a shot of vodka and lit a cigarette.
Mere gave Liam a look of disapproval at which he returned a half furrowed face clenched in a way that always made him seem like an asshole and at the same time made Mere feel stupid.
Liam had lived this nightmare long enough that he hardly felt anything. His only instinct was his and Mere's survival. Survival, supplies and... Sex. What exactly else was there in this new world?
The captive clawed through her mind. The deepest of depression turned to madness. She was a shell of her former self. She felt like little remained of her true self. But she painfully remembered her name and who she used to be.
"Michele." she said as tears of every imaginable emotion welled in her eyes..
Liam sighed...but then upon realizing he was being a total asshole, he spoke. "Your ok here...with us Michele....I'm sorry about...what you've had to endure." He said in a clumsy sentence full of hesitation, like when you know what you want to say but can't form it into words.
Mere pulled a knife from her boot and slowly approached Michele.
Mere reached towards Michele with the knife and cut her hands loose from the tape.
Grasping the bottle of vodka with both hands Michele brought it straight up to her dry lips and began to chug.
Liam's eyebrows lifted and his lips cracked half a grin as he quietly laughed through his nose.
Mere glanced at a trashcan, having a premonition of Michele vomiting from the alcohol, 'Fuck it... Not my floor.'
Michele immediately regretted her choice of beverage.
"Ughhgghhh" she slowly murmured. Feeling the effects of the liquor on her dehydrated body . She exhaled loudly still trying to decide whether she was safe or in more danger than the empty cleaning closet she occupied for longer than she was sure of.
Yet part of her didn't care, she felt too unlucky for a bullet or blade to the head. Which to some could be considered a blessing in this time.
Liam looked at Mere then back at Michele.
Liam noticed that Michele was malnourished and beaten to the core, her eyes were surrounded by dark circles and her cheeks slightly sunk in. He recalled the bruises that covered her body. Liam shook his head, disgusted.
"I'll be back in a bit with the truck. Hold down the fort." Liam said to noone in particular.
As he walked out through the front door, Liam breathed deeply and sighed. The warmth of the sun touched his face. He wasn't sure if the southern October weather took a turn or if the vodka was helping make him feel so uncomfortably warm. He began a steady jog towards the woodline that he and Mere emerged from.
Mere turned away from the door that she watched Liam exit out of and turned towards Michele.
As Mere approached the young woman, she pulled her headset down to her neck and set her rifle against the wall. Sliding one strap of her backpack off her shoulder and grabbing the other strap, she put the backpack on the table. Mere unzipped it and shuffled around for a few seconds before pulling out a whole bottle of water and a protein bar. She set them in front of Michele, zipped her bag up and set it on the floor at her own feet.
"Go ahead. There's more." Mere said to Michele while gesturing towards the treats placed on the table.
Michele picked up the bottle of water and downed it in several continous gulps, she then opened the protein bar and devoured it.
Mere felt sorrowful.
"I can be of use to you." Michele said looking up at Mere.
"We will see." Mere replied with doubt infused words.
Liam and Mere didn't like to take on anyone else. There had to be a certain loyalty and it was never really there. It always became a burdon to babysit.
About thirty minutes later the faint sound of tires churning on concrete and rock could be heard outside. Mere grabbed her rifle off the wall and pulled her headset over her ears.
"Liam?" she said into the microphone of her headset.
"It's me, dear." his deep voice crackled into her ears.
Mere rolled her eyes.
Liam and Mere decided to spend the night in the warehouse as it took some time to scavenge through the plentiful supplies and travel at night was asking for trouble.
They weren't concerned about anyone returning to the warehouse in the middle of the night from a distant run because the mockup living and sleeping quarters only accounted for 8 individuals. 8 previously occupied beds. Dirty and musty sheets were telltale signs of regular use. On top of that they hadn't seen anyone leave on a run over the few days they had been watching the location. While that alone wasn't a very good confirmation, the limited sleeping accommodations made the team feel a bit more at ease.
Mere and Liam were settling in. Mere cleared a mattress, the sort that was pretty much plastic on the outside instead of fabric, that made her feel better about sleeping on it. She pushed the musty sheets off with the blade of her kabar knife and laid down a couple blankets she'd retrieved from the truck.
Mere removed her belt with the holster and pistol attached and set it on the floor next to the bed. The velcro of her vest scraped loudly as she tore it loose. She lowered her head and pulled the vest off, it was heavy after such prolonged use. She crouched down and removed her boots, then peeled her socks off.
'Ripe.' she thought to herself as she laid the socks, pinched between pointer finger and thumb over her, also ripe, boots.
Lastly she unclasped her bra and in some magical way pulled it out of her shirt.
Mere breathed a deep breath through her nose and released it quickly. She jumped into the air and plopped down on the bed. She hadn't slept in a bed in over two weeks. If there were such a thing as a mental and full body orgasm she was having one, she thought. Her eyes were so heavy. The muscles surrounding her spine released all tension and her back became relaxed like a sunbathing reptile. Within seconds she had drifted off to a different world.
Michele slept across the main room of the building. Liam and Mere didn't think she would be a threat but erring on the side of caution placed her in a cubicle and moved a mattress to it where she could be watched by whoever was on guard.
Liam, on first watch, patrolled the interior of the warehouse. He was bored. Oh man...the zombie apocalypse could be so boring. He would occasionally point his flashlight at an object and look it over.
"Fucking stapler." He said, cursing for entertainment, while eyeballing the object and running his fingers across it like a child in a convenience store. Always having to make physical contact, just because.
Liam still wore his vest, pistol belt, and his rifle strapped tightly across his chest. He would prefer to sleep with his vest on, capable of stopping all but the most powerful rounds, but Mere would scowl at him and no doubt talk plenty of shit, like when he slept with his shoes on. She felt it important for him to relax, but he thought of it as readiness.
He finally sat down in an uncomfortable chair next to the table that he'd put his back pack on. The thick vest made it impossible to slouch backwards, between the lack of relaxation and his inability to easily fall asleep, although he was not concerned about drifting off. He began breaking down his m4. Even though there was little light shining from the moon, through the windows, and it was hard to see the small details he wiped the important bits of his weapon down with a rag from his back pack. He removed a small bottle of oil from a side pouch of his back pack and dripped some onto the rag. He took the worn rag and rubbed it along the bolt carrier group of his disassembled rifle and then into the upper and lower parts. He rubbed the dry end of the rag onto his trigger assembly in the lower, to clean any dust, then turned the rag around to the damp side and wiped it with oil. He enjoyed the smell. It was much better than the smell of decaying flesh.
In the past, before this fresh hell of an apocalypse, Liam donated monthly to children's hospital, he was the guy that would cover the extra change that someone lacked in line at the dollar store. Liam had, on multiple occasions, unloaded an elderly woman's groceries into her vehicle... He could recall one elderly woman in specific that would buy several bags of ice. He would gladly load them into her car when he was a cashier. He was also at one time a soldier... Not some hero like you see in the movies, he joined after 9/11 but never even got deployed. After a while he decided the military wasn't for him. The training still stuck though. For all intents and purposes Liam was a good man. Not to say he's not a good man anymore but as the world changed, human instinct tended to be more like animal instinct. Hard decisions had to be made, even more so in the earlier months after day zero. They tended to haunt him still.
Mere was on watch for the final few hours before sunset. Everything they wanted was packed into backpacks, duffel bags, and even a large polymer case, like the ones soldiers had on deployment to store their personal effects. The haul was good she thought. She looked at Liam who was asleep in a seemingly uncomfortable position. He rested his head across his arm rather than the rolled up blanket excuse of a pillow. One arm jutted out while the other tucked around his abdomen as he lay on his side.
Mere pulled a baggie out of her pack as well as a rolling paper. The sweet smell of Marijuana soon filled the room. Liam would pitch a fit if he knew. However she didn't smoke herself stupid. She also knew he would have a drink or two on watch, but never to the extent of risking the mission. It was just a way to put a little distance between the mind and the horrors it has experienced over time.
Mere had a constant feeling of sadness in the back of her mind... She had survived this hell so far but always remembered how things used to be a several years ago. When waking up on Monday morning to the alarm clock was just about the worse thing that could happen that day. She had maintained parts of her humanity, almost to a fault, but not to the point where she felt sorrow over the people she had killed. She's a survivor above all... She knew if she lost sight of that, then she would be among the dead and lost. She was an emt in her previous life. She'd seen and did initial treatments on all manner of injuries, but nothing she had seen in those years on an ambulance could have prepared her for the horror of this new world. Furthermore, she could have never been prepared to take as many lives as she has had to.
Mere turned on the propane burner, struck her lighter, and started a pot of coffee.
Liam, Mere, and Michele stood from their empty mugs a short time later and loaded everything into the truck.
As Mere drove past the location of the initial IED, that started their skirmish, Liam noticed the half corpse of one of the guards. His stumped arms were pushing against the ground moving the torso slightly and his mouth was gnawing at thin air. As the guard's head turned to the moving vehicle, attracted by the noise, his pale blank eyes seemed to lock onto Liam's.
submitted by Nointerest12months to writingcritiques [link] [comments]
2020.08.05 23:21 Antifa_LEAKS Naked with my mother
Just a few examples. I personally know an anarcho-feminist who claims was beaten and raped by a fellow leftist, a politician no less. When I was told this my first question was: "did she call the police?" The answer was: "no, she's an anarchist!" The most idiotic thing ever, because what if he goes on and rapes another woman? As a supposed feminist it is your duty to protect your fellow women and as an anarchist it is your duty to demand justice and legitimate punishment regardless of what form it comes in. Instead she asked her comrades to start a gossip "war," basically a smear campaign, because if you don't put your money where your mouth is and call the police people will naturally be skeptical of your claim.
Then there was the case between two anarchist collectives in America (I don't even bother googling the case for you, because it's such a typical ailment of the new left) where someone from the first collective accused someone of the second collective of sexual harassment and both groups agreed not to call the police. The second group asked to uphold due process and hear both sides of the story together to which came the accusation that they are already victim blaiming. That is to say "we don't have to prove shit, if you don't kick him out, your group is reactionary." Thus the solidarity deteriorated between the two groups. The alternative, again, would have been to call the police because it's the only third party that has a certain degree of neutral commitment in this case (yes, I know, it's a bourgeois legal system, but it jails actual rapists all the time if you haven't noticed yet). This could have saved the solidarity between the two groups, but the left chose instead to cannibalize itself instead.
(Because all of the cases I know of, and because it can be used as baseless wrecking, hell, even as CIA ops -- see the manufactured Assange case -- I became the fervent supporter of communist parties adopting the following policy: if there's no sufficient proof [no alibi, eyewitnesses, physical evidence, etc.] of a crime that would uphold in a court of law, the accuser is obliged to inform the cops, and the accused has to have his membership suspended for the duration of the official investigation. If the legal system can't decide, the comrade must be readmitted and the two separated into different branches of the org if both wish to stay and work towards communism. If he's proven guilty, he gets kicked out for life for hindering our cause. If she's proven to have been making up the case she gets kicked out. Professional revolutionary practice requires you to be vigilant and live a collective life inside the party and separate your private life. A communist party is not a social club. It's not recommended to marry inside the party, because if you divorce and gets dirty, the cause could loose one of you. It's not recommended to go to pubs together with comrades, because alcohol leads to dumb shit. Your comrades inside the organization are not your friends, potential significant others. If you are desperate for a comrade as a significant other, then a Leninist chick should seek out anarchists boys or other communist party members and vica versa. Such is life as it is now. Own up to it.)
And finally the case of Bernie which just proves how fucked you are as a leftist now. When his mike was taken from him by BLM activists one side called him a weak or cuck or unprofessional (for legit reasons, imo), the other tried to justify this. When not long ago when naked vegans did the same his team made them fuck off and then was accused of being insensitive, aggressive, male chauvinist, what ever. This "damned if you do and damned if you don't" situation in my eyes shows how deeply unprincipled the left is today.
The Marxist position is that the policeman is an unproductive worker. This means that unlike a productive worker who produces value he is maintaining the current system with all its niceties and vices just like a social worker or a judge. He's a wage earner like you and has inherent class interests like you, some of which are shared: he wants his kids to get medical care, good schools, he hates corrupt politicians, etc. It is the specifics of his jobs and the characters of the national institutions that makes him in effect, but not necessarily as a person, often times the enemy of the working class. In this sense, structurally speaking, ACAB most of the time holds, but it can also be the case that he's on the side of the worker when he captures the lumpen who stole from a worker, when kills, yes, kills a racist mass shooter, or in the very rare case under capitalism when he has to arrest a bourgeois (for tax fraud, whatever).
As I said the characteristics of the national institutions are also very important: it fucking matters whether the police has guns or not, whether they are recruiting and training sadists and power trippers or not, or try to filter these out. The United States isn't the only country in the world, if you haven't noticed yet. It is also important to situate them in time and space and not eternalize them under idiotic buzzwords like ACAB, because if you don't you voluntarily let go of analytic insight about your world.
Under deep economic or political crises the way cops are used gets more extreme and reactionary for obvious reasons, and when the crisis ends the system can loosens up, go back to its normal state, or remain reactionary. You need to be able to tell these things as a communist, because the state of the police has to inform your praxis.
During these crises they are 24/7 overworked, thus often demand wage raises. A lot of them also get demoralized either due to a lack of sleep or because some of them actually agree with the demands of the protests. If you are demanding the end of the Iraq war and he has a brother there he agrees with you, if you demand better schools and has kids he agrees with you, but will beat you with his stick and get further demoralized for it.
The Russian revolution proved that during the civil war a lot of former whites turned towards the Bolsheviks for a few simple reasons: the Bolsheviks proved to be the only force capable of state-formation thus offering a return to normalcy, and that they drew a large chunk of the population to their side, because they had the right slogans and policies. THIS is when the above mentioned demoralized elements of the police turns to your side, because they want the schools to reopen, the war to end, etc. and you'd be an idiot to stop them from joining your ranks by executing them or barring them from joining just to show how radical or moral you are, because communism is about the turbulence of messy as hell class politics and winning, and not about virtue signaling and "staying pure."
It is also a common myth that the members of the police can't be sympathetic towards socialism. I know for a fact that in my ex-socialist country nostalgia for socialism is wide spread among their ranks for the very simple reason that they had to work much less and earned more in terms of real wages just like the rest of the fucking population. Duh!! When I spoke to some of them (and even admitting that you had a conversation with a policeman is taboo in some left circles, that's how regressed our discourse is) they told me about the fact that since the regime change a lot of them started getting psychologically effected by all the truly horrible, gory, insane, inhumane cases they started to have to deal on a regular basis. Turns out that policemen are human too and don't like photographing chunked up bodies and recording the testimony of crying rape victims with dry blood dripping between their legs cry on a regular basis. Who would have thunk it?
Stereotyping as the basis for politics is part and parcel of reactionary politics. Yes, a lot of them are dumb, drooling even, have a fat ass and eat doughnuts all the time, but this doesn't rule out that some of them can actually be bright and inquisitive and could stumble upon on socialist works. Further, the police is stratified, just like any group of worker under any mode of production with a high degree of division of labor. Detectives and office workers tend to be on the intellectual side not just because their training is beyond "write ticket, hit worker, eat donut, don't question orders", but because you simply can not but learn through the job about human psychology, misery, pain, motivation, and typical personal histories, which makes them further investigate these topics. What you need to understand is that probably these are the people who most often ask themselves: "what the fuck is wrong with this world?" and some actually start investigating it.
(This is why I hate riot porn threads, btw, because apart from becoming a spectacle of its own for a certain subculture it just helps regurgitating a black and white view of the world where you are always in the right and the other is always literally Hitler and hinders class analysis proper.)
I have a few suggestions to make in terms of changing communist praxis, because as we stand the reaction has the advantage of freely mingling with the police without difficulty, while we simply can't allow them among our ranks as the DSA did until they prove their alliance during a revolution. (I'm not sure about ex-cops, since my feeling is that there should be like a 5 years limit during which they have worked in a completely unrelated job [so no private security shit] as proof that they quit the whole culture, shifted their class allegiance, and can't turn on you as informers...) What definitely needs to change is the left's communication on cops. Slogans should be discarded if they don't reflect the nuances of reality or they will hurt you. "ACAB" is thoroughly idiotic first and foremost because it's a simplistic moral judgement ("bastard"), and second because in the eyes of a large section of the population it aligns you with the lumpen proletariat. How large? 10% is too large. 20% is too large. Any percentage is too large when the content is "you are with those who killed my kid or got him hooked on drugs or with those who burglarized my home."
I know a lot of comrades will disagree with me, and I get why. Who among us doesn't know a comrade, friend, family member, or workers who were victimized by the police? All of you have my solidarity. I know I won't change the minds of most anarchists, and I understand the theoretical differences underpinning this. But every Marxist must have the basic understanding that we are first and foremost against institutions, structures, classes, and only second to persons beholden by these. Why would you execute a bourgeois who volunteers his enterprise to be collectivized? Or the one who passively accepts it and doesn't conspire against it? (Yes, reeducation camps are a valid topic. Yes, systemic revolutionary terror will follow in strength that of the reaction, killing otherwise innocents based on merely former class association and our often lofty suspicions. All of this is sound and law-like.) I think you get my point.
I expect Marxists to drop the ACAB and riot porn shit and actually face the complex reality as adults. I expect better chants and slogans, especially now, considering the burger revolt. In effect chanting "all cops are bastards" or graffitiing "ACAB" only communicates that we think we are the good guys and they are the bad guys. It's tribal-tier. I think chants like "today, they fight us, tomorrow, they'll join us!" communicates much better how deep the crisis is and how high the stakes are, not to mention much more accurately predicting what's about to go down if a revolution actually happens, much more optimistic, forward looking.
I'd like us to better understand the dynamics of these protests and clashes and what opportunities we currently miss. It's absolutely essential. A protest begins not when you start gathering on the street, but way before it at a police station nearby, where the superior of the squad to be deployed gives a long speech to an already tired and demoralized police force on how they are doing the right thing, how we are scum, nihilists, the agents of chaos. They are conditioned to hate us and not understand us. Then, when they are deployed, the two forces usually have that eery peacetime period before the clash moment. I would propose that you and your party write up a little pamphlet targeting the police, explaining them what you fight for, how would you winning benefit them, what kind of alternative you want, and finally explaining that under current circumstances this clash that may or may not happen seems kind of inevitable, since he's on the side of what is and you on the what is ought to be. Offer these to them, standing there mutely, and be polite. I can guarantee you they are bored as hell, standing there, merely waiting for a command to strike. Some of them will accept it, most will not, but these are recurring settings where you will meet with them and the demoralization deepens with time. I'm not asking here for an idiotic hippy gesture of putting flowers inside gun barrels, I hope you understand that. You want to decondition them from their superior's and their institution's brainwashing and make them think instead as fathers and mothers, black and latino, and wage earners. A lot of times a clash wont even happen, and they'll stand there like morons for hours doing nothing. Get a mike and shout out what's on your pamphlet so they are forced to hear. You are fighting a war of competing ideas. You are fighting for their allegiance. You want to further demoralize them and question their current standing.
When a revolution comes this could speed up the rate at which they betray the side of reaction, because a lot of them will, and at a crucial time such as a fragile revolution, the rate at which the order crumbles is even more important than you working on increasing your numbers, because a deserter to the regime isn't merely a one up to you. It's a minus one from the strong, and a plus one to the weak. Every ex-white is literally worth 2 newly recruited red, and gets you closer to the final event, getting the last jenga piece out.
It's dialectics, baby.
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