#end solitary confinement

[news4dzhozhar]

Boston Marathon death sentence up in air as court orders juror bias probe

[cheerfullycatholic]

In this country, people and the courts still are debating if the death penalty constitutes a legally prohibited "cruel and unusual punishment," but there is less and less debate about torturous conditions of solitary confinement. All complaints that were filed to U.S. Courts agree that Solitary Confinement violates the Eighth Amendment's prohibition of Cruel and Unusual Punishment. No rational legislature, judge or jury could ever impose Cruel and Unusual Punishment or Torture on anyone. It's prohibited by the Eighth Amendment, Customary International Law, and offends the evolving standards of decency that mark the progress of a maturing society. And nevertheless, many death row inmates in this country spend 15, 20 or more years in torturous conditions of confinement without any legitimate penological purpose but that they were sentenced to death. This is the result of the dysfunctional postconviction system. Such a system is unconstitutional, inhumane, and requires that the death sentence be vacated. The damage inflicted by solitary confinement cannot be undone or reversed, but a remedy for this form of torture must be provided.

[ausetkmt]

I recently heard a trailer for a radio programme, in which the announcer asked us if we knew that reaching out to others can enhance our health and even help us live longer. He sounded somewhat surprised himself.

Yet I remember writing about the power of social connection way back in the early 1980s, on publication of the latest report from the Framingham Heart Study, a long-term investigation of the heart health of residents of Framingham, Massachusetts. It had revealed that having close relationships was more important for the heart than standard protective factors, such as taking exercise, having a good diet, and not smoking. (The article, in the British edition of Cosmopolitan, was even given the chirpy title, “Love your friends and save your life.”)

Research on Loneliness

This was quite astounding at the time, and supportive findings from other studies followed, such as one that found that men who felt loved by their partners were less likely to suffer heart attacks than those who felt neglected.

Much more has been discovered, of course, in the intervening years, about the power of connection with others and its wider impact on health, protecting against not just heart attacks but also other ills. It is now scientifically accepted that the human brain is a social organ and that we need social connection to survive.1 Put bluntly, loneliness can be a killer.

As the late John Cacioppo, an eminent psychologist in this field, described in his book Loneliness: Human Nature and the Need for Social Connection, not only does loneliness adversely affect the stress system, which enables us to deal with major or chronic stressful circumstances, but it also slows healing and reduces brain power.2

The findings continue to accrue. For instance, Finnish researchers recently showed that those who described themselves as lonely were at higher risk of contracting infections that needed hospital treatment.3

Strikingly, Cacioppo showed how people who are lonely have heightened sensitivity to social threats. In a test in which participants had to name the colour in which positive and negative social and nonsocial words were printed (for instance, "cooperate," "reject," "delicious," and "vomit"), only lonely people were slow to name the colours of socially negative words like "reject."

Fear of Rejection

“The brains of lonely people are on high alert, focused on social connection and social rejection in everything they do, which is why they see evidence for rejection or unkindness, even when its existence is questionable,” John Cacioppo told me in an interview for Human Givens Journal.4 Unfortunately, the fear of being rejected can make us too demanding or too critical of others or too passive—and so we manage to sabotage the very thing we want—genuine, meaningful connection with another person. Alas, the lonelier we are, the lonelier we may get.

I have worked with many university students struggling with loneliness and fearful about reaching out to others. Social anxiety is behind most of it. Just recently, one told me that he couldn’t speak when in a group of students, fearing they would find him boring. It was just after the beginning of his first term, when people were starting to form their friendship groups, and so it was important that he quickly learned how to manage himself better.

I suggested that he needed to recognise what he might be contributing to situations he found awkward, through the way he presented himself in them. Did he appear reluctant to be spoken to? Aloof (through fear)? Did intense concentration make him seem judgmental?

I advised him to ask questions of others. “Be like a journalist,” I told him. “Be genuinely curious. Ask about their interests and listen to the answer, instead of worrying about what they may be thinking of you. If you listen to the answer, you will have your next question, and quite quickly the conversation can start to flow more naturally.”

Understanding Loneliness

Find counselling near me

Having an external focus instead of an internal focus is, of course, the key. He tried this and reported back that he had felt comfortable in, and accepted by, the group. (Not surprising, as he alone had been excluding himself.) The experience gave him encouragement and confidence.

I also suggest lonely or shy people try out activities where the focus is not on meeting people but involves being with others in a natural way—such as through joining a park litter-picking group, acting as a tour guide, signing up for rambles, taking someone’s dog for a walk in the park—that can lead to a lot of chat, all unthreateningly dog-focused—and so forth. Oiling the wheels of social communication makes connection easier.

So, as the radio programme proclaimed, reaching out to others can indeed enhance our health and well-being—and maybe it does need saying over and over again.

[fferthe]

40 YEARS.

[randomly--accessed--memories]

Alastor didn't even bring Niffty with him in the immediate aftermath of her ordeal, he just dumped her in an alley and decided he'd call on her when he needed her. He summoned her on occasion throughout the following six decades, but for most of that time, she was living on the streets/in the sewers.

[lady-astras]

Solitary Confinement - Febuwhump Day 2

Face your fears, was what Gem had written, her flowy handwriting shaky and barely legible - the last thing she’d left before having gone no-contact with everybody. Etho had been quietly petrified, then, because what could hurt The GeminiSlay so badly? But now looking at it…

Twenty-four hours, that’s all he had to do. The slip of paper vanished into smoke in his hand, leaving no trace. Just one day in this room? He could do it.

The heavy metal door clanged shut and a deep, resounding voice said, “Face your fears.”

Etho didn’t fear the dark.

This wasn’t so bad, he’d spent more time alone in the wilderness. The start of season nine, trying to prove his self-worth wasn’t even that bad. So what was this room trying to tell him?

Well, it was a small room. Once the door had closed, stealing the sliver of sunlight with it, he couldn’t see a single thing. He checked what time it was but found that his communicator had been taken.

That was when the first hint of panic wormed its way in. No contact with the outside world.

Twenty-four hours left.

~~

Humming songs to himself and coming up with new base ideas only sustained you so far. It wasn’t like he could write it down or type it up anyway. But again, it wasn't so bad. Maybe he’d take a nap.

Twenty-three hours left.

~~

He couldn’t sleep. Well, if his judgement of time passing was right, it was only around 1:00 PM - four hours since he’d been chucked in here. Normally, taking a nap right now, or before now, would be out of the question.

Staring at the wall wasn’t so entertaining, though.

Twenty hours left.

~~

It was too dark. It wasn’t even like a moonless night sky with no torches lighting up the surrounding area, because then the pinpricks of starlight could be grounding. No, here it was so dark that the seams of the walls blended into each other. Rather like falling into the void, when you were far enough that you couldn’t see the end islands any more and your elytra had failed you.

Etho was curled into a corner just to keep some semblance of sanity - being able to tell where the floor was, and where two of the walls were, was like those little white specks in the sky for him. 

Maybe he could try counting to pass the time. One, two, three, four, five…

Sixteen hours left.

~~

The higher the numbers ticked up, the more nervous he got. How long was he going to be here? At a rate of maybe one number per second, he’d gotten to one thousand. Doing the maths that was… sixteen minutes? Seventeen, almost? No, no, that couldn’t be right. No way. Oh, it was… well… 

Time was so slow, too slow.

He’d given up a while ago.

Fourteen hours left.

~~

Void, Etho had to be the most pathetic sentient being ever, didn’t he?

His tears weren’t even justified. If it were BDubs in here, the little mossy man would have found a way to entertain himself, maybe crack jokes to the dark air around him, make whoever was listening laugh. But here he was, still curled next to the wall, silent tears dripping into his black cloth mask. The dark was cold, pressing him further into the corner, hard to breathe, think, function. It was leering at him, telling him to face the dark and lonely, grow up and be a real man.

The room was so impossibly big, and yet it was too tiny altogether.

An audible sob wrenched from him, he clutched his soft white hair almost desperately, to feel something, anything, other than this dark SILENCE.

This was going to be the rest of his day, week, year, life. It wasn’t going to end, because that’s how things always ended. Dark, silent, loneliness.

He wanted to scream, cry, beg for mercy, and escape.

Maybe he should take his mask off. It might be easier to breathe. His tears dripped down his face even more, landing on the corners of his lips, so he could taste the salt, that pathetic salt.

He gasped for air.

Nine hours left.

~~

Were those voices in his head? Or were his ears processing them? Were they his, or was someone coming for him? Had it been time yet?

No, they were just his pitiful whimpers for escape.

He was so tired…

Five hours left.

~~

There was a click. Etho looked up, blinking his bleary eyes. He had nothing left to cry, but everything hurt. He’d been sitting still for too long. The room was flooded with bright light from the open door, that metal door.

Everything was too bright. It hurt, it hurt, make it stop, MAKE IT STOP-

“ETHO!” A familiar voice shouted, footsteps sounding on the black concrete floor. They were too loud, he covered his ears. Slowly, slowly, he lifted his head to adjust to the light.

BDubs was knelt next to him, wavering uncertainly - not sure whether to put his arm around Etho or leave it be in case it’d scare him.

Etho made his decision for him, tentatively grasping his hand and tugging him closer into a hug. BDubs obliged, pulling his taller friend in a full embrace, murmuring quiet nothings. It helped to hear a familiar voice, a soothing drone on. He looked up at his friend’s face, twisted into a gentle smile.

Between his senseless murmurings, he could pick up, “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine, I’m here for you.”

That’s when it clicked.

The start of season nine hadn’t been that bad because he could talk to anyone at any time. They were all at the push of a button, any time of day because at least one person - cough, Xisuma - was always awake (those insomniac types). 

There wasn’t much time he’d ever spend alone, and it scared him to be unsure whether anyone was even there for him.

So he leaned into BDubs’ warm touch and sighed contentedly.

[animalsoutloud]

[ghost-bard]

Thinking about my dao fic i started writing that was meant to be a recruitment quest for my hof if they weren’t the warden, that was basically a choose your own adventure bc i wanted it to feel like a quest given to you in the game….

[dismalzelenka]

Febuwhump 2 - Solitary Confinement

Context for this one: Miriam's been subsumed by Hadar as a consequence of betraying her pact and has been brought back by her sister with some questionable divine help.

Her magic is volatile, and there's a lot of holes in her memory, and even though Eleanor checks on her every day, she doesn't remember the visits.

This contains spoilers for one of the available companion endings.

Pairing: Gale/Tav

CW: briefly mentioned failed suicide attempt

Read From Beginning || Previous || Next

"It didn't work." Eleanor stands at the altar, arms crossed as she wills Gale's avatar to come face her. She's found he tends to appear faster if she kneels, but this time, she refuses to offer him that courtesy, not when he owes her a massive explanation.

He answers with a faint whoosh, the charged scent of Karsite magic rippling in the air as he materializes before her. It's an odd space Eleanor occupies these days, because by all conventional definition, this is the god she worships, if it could even be called that. She prefers to consider them allies in pursuit of a common goal, but she supposes the nature of her divinely inherited powers these days doesn't particularly care about that little nuance. Sometimes, she thinks, neither does Gale.

"Explain," he says. "I sense her presence here, so I assume something must have gone according to plan."

"I've reconstructed her body using the theories we've discussed, it's true." She pauses, studies the body language of Gale's avatar in fascination. She wonders idly how many people in this life have had the experience of playing sister-in-law to a god. "Her mind is in tatters. I fear the Far Realms have taken something from her that cannot be recovered."

Gale's avatar ripples, becomes more corporeal, shrinking into something deceptively human. His skin loses its lustrous pallor, his eyes fade into their old soft brown with a tiny smattering of wrinkles at their edges. Grey streaks thread through his hair. In this form, he almost looks kind. "Show me."

---

Miriam doesn't know how long she's been in this room. It's a familiar room, familiar beyond the fact that she's been trapped here so long she can feel her mind unraveling. The clock above the polished mahogany desk circles the same hour every hour, and try as she might, she can't seem to keep track of the minutes that it does measure.

She's tried writing them down, but the parchment always vanishes when she puts it down; and she's tried holding onto it, but her mind wanders so erratically that she forgets what its doing in her hand within seconds of rolling it up. She's tried carving notches in the wall, too. That would have been an effective solution, except at times she finds herself carving them into other shapes, and by the time she comes back to herself, the orderly rows of lines she's been carefully curating has become a jumbled mess.

The worst is the silence. It presses in on her like a vise clamped around her ears. Sometimes she screams to break it -- obscenities, hysterical laughter, poorly recreated songs she only remembers a handful of words at a time -- but inevitably all that does is break her more when she runs out of sounds.

There is a balcony on the far side of the room. Sometimes she steps beyond the doors and finds herself looking across a harbor she doesn't recognize. She'd tried to throw herself over it into the water below, once, but there is an invisible enchantment that ripples with power that locks her in. Sometimes the sunlight is soothing. Mostly, it's another reminder that she's lost something she cannot wrap her mind around.

There is a blank section of the far wall that once housed a bookcase she's long since torn down piece by piece in sporadic fits of rage. Now there is only a messy scrawl of black ink across the stone:

my name is miriam my name is miriam my name is miriam my name is miriam MY NAME IS MIRIAM MY NAME IS MIRIAM

How many times can she repeat a name before it, too, becomes lost in the endless wash of history that refuses to straighten into an order that makes sense?

---

"You've locked her in my old study?" Gale almost sounds amused as Eleanor leads him to the scrying screen she's installed beside the door. "You do know this is where her entire plight began."

Eleanor clamps down on a familiar ripple of annoyance. "If you'd been paying attention, you'd know it's also the only room warded heavily enough to weather her outbursts of magic. I require further testing to be sure, but I suspect the traces of the True Weave in her blood are directly at odds with the magic that brought her back." Your magic, she thinks darkly to herself. "It took me three weeks to restore your old bedroom after she spent one night in there."

"Curious." He runs a hand along the scrying screen, and Eleanor wants to scream at how detached he sounds. She barely stifles a cruel, vindicated laugh when he jumps at the sound of something slamming against the door.

"Let me out!" Miriam screams. "Please! You can't keep me alone in here forever!" Her sobs never get any less heart wrenching. "Is anybody out there??" Then the pounding begins anew, and Eleanor steels her heart against what always comes next.

"When was the last time you saw her in person?" Gale asks, and with each blow that rattles the wood as Miriam throws herself against the door, his porcelain visage finally begins to crumble.

"This morning," Eleanor says. She means to sound as detached as he always does, means to try to hurt him with how little he's made her care, but her words come out as a choked whisper. "She never remembers me."

[classywhump]

Febuwhump Day 2: Solitary Confinement

Warnings: none except the one suggested by the title

~

He’d always thought he was good at being alone. It was so easy at the cabin. Wake up to the morning sun slanting across your face. Put on slippers and pad into the kitchen to make coffee. Water the flowers on the back porch. Sit down at the computer and start typing. Get up mid-day maybe to go on a run, then eat lunch after working up a nice appetite. Back to typing. Sunset made it easy to go to bed – but sometimes even then the bad thoughts would come at night, and so he would go out back again, and either stand just looking up at the moon, or gather up some spare twigs and throw them in the fire pit and have a nice roaring fire and pretend he was Prometheus or Shere Khan and dance around it like a maniac. Some music didn’t hurt. Listening to MP3’s 24/7 almost didn’t count as being alone.

This was nothing like that. Here it was minute by minute. Boredom was its own form of torture, and there was nothing to distract from it. He got up, walked back and forth, sat down. Paced in circles a while. What time was it? The white lights bored into his brain. They never stopped. They seemed to burn through his eyelids. He knew, somewhere in his mind, that he should be trying to break up the time somehow. But he’d lost the will to come up with new ideas. At least for now. Whatever “now” was. His mind had let go of the will to focus on anything, and he sat in a kind of fugue state, the same meaningless thoughts, a word, a phrase, circling over and over.

Try talking out loud.

Great, already a raving lunatic who talks to himself.

Perhaps it was saner than the alternative. He started humming, a random tune which quickly turned into a childhood favorite. The breaking of the silence was like the breaking of a spell. He began to sing, softly, feeling the fog recede. Silly rhymes. Lines of poetry. Stanzas. Anything to keep the darkness at bay. He stood again, paced again, every step a beat, every word a prayer for hope. He thought it was working. Maybe.

[news4dzhozhar]

Do you know what they mean by saying he's now an indulgent??

Indigent. It means he has no money and therefore no way to pay for lawyers or anything else. Because of the ruling that he has to pay millions to the victims in reparations (which he obviously never will be able to) most money sent to him is taken towards the victims fund. The same is true if he were allowed to be part of PI (prison industries...it's like a work program/job that inmates can do but the pay is pennies and honestly I don't know if the Supermax even allows it). He's allowed a certain amount to remain on his books (on his commissary account) to buy basic things at the prisons commissary. The exact dollar figure hasn't been made public but if his family or anyone else puts too much money on his account, it's just taken for the reparations fund. Same with the money he received as part of the COVID stimulus (yes, oddly even people in prison received some of that money).

Hope that helps/makes sense.

[ivygorgon]

An open letter to the U.S. Congress

👮Pass the The End Solitary Confinement Act!

719 so far! Help us get to 1,000 signers!

Last week, U.S. Senators Ed Markey, Elizabeth Warren, Bernie Sanders, and Peter Welch introduced the End Solitary Confinement Act, companion legislation to HR 4972 introduced in the House of Representatives by Missouri Rep. Cori Bush in July. This bill would end solitary confinement in all federal custody and incentivize states and localities to do the same. The End Solitary Confinement Act is a product of years of advocacy and activism from campaigns across the country led by people who have survived solitary and had loved ones inside, and draws from the best policy components of enacted and pending legislation. Specifically, the End Solitary Confinement Act does four key things: End all forms of solitary confinement, ensure that all alternatives to solitary are *actual* alternatives, enhance due process protections, and create oversight and enforcement mechanisms. Over 175 organizations nationwide have already endorsed the End Solitary Confinement Act and I hope you will as well. Solitary confinement is torture. We must end this barbaric practice. Thanks.

▶ Created on December 11, 2023 by Jess Craven

📱 Text SIGN PECNCK to 50409

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[seldomscilence16]

Whumptober Day 3:

"Like crying out in empty rooms, with no one there except the moon." 

Journal | solitary confinement | "make it stop."

Fandom: Voltron

Prompt used: All

Soooo this ones a little intense- at least to me as I write this. Its never specified but Lance is alone for awhile, so tread carefully just in case. I think I may do a continuation on one of the other days for this one so keep a look out if you like this one.

TW for self harm, and Torture

...

There was little light in the room. He'd tried to figure out where it was coming from, scratched at the lips in the walls until his nails were broken and bleeding. He'd decided they simply glowed. 

There was no window, and the door disapeared- no it blended in, it had to be there still it had to, it could just be gone that made no sense- after that first day. That first day when he'd woken up, confused and in pain, and had a strange alien come in and speak to him. He couldnt tell you everything they said, broken translator glitching every couple words or other sentence. But it was an experiment, and a punishment. 

Lance wanted to go home.

"Journal entry uh… whatever. The water and bread like stuff appeared when I passed out again, I dont remember falling asleep… It tastes weird, but they got angry when I didnt consume it before… the walls are still glowing… or maybe it is dark and Im going crazy… how many days has it been journal? Why… what did I… its not like your gonna answer anyway…" 

His head hits the wall with a solid thump, the sound better than when all he can hear is bodily functions, so he does it again. And again, until his ears ring and his head aches, and the noise has blended in too much to be different and he stops. His heart and head beat to the same toon, he holds his breath to stop hearing the inflation of his lungs only for the beating to get louder. Frustrated tears come to his eyes as he releases the breath in a shout, which turns into an angry yell as he turns and pounds his tender fists into the wall.

Its not the first time, there are smears of blood- old and new- from his many little moments. He thinks hes allowed such moments after all, locked up for who knows how long with no interaction. He cant even talk to Blue, the thin connection in his soul the only thing telling him shes okay. In the beginning, he equated his moments to Keith, when he went ham on the training gladiatiors. But now… staring at his ruined fists, and wall still intact besides the smears, he feels as pathetic as ever. 

He knows for a fact the rest of the team would have found a way out by now. Pidge's curiousity and spite always leads her to solutions of some kind. Hunk would have found out how this box worked and rebuilt it ten times over. Keith would have samuraied his way out of course, and Shiro would probably find this childs play. But really the main difference… is they arent him. Lance did something wrong. Lance was stupid and weak and easily caught. Lance hasnt been able to find a way out. Lance- is referring to himself in third person. Again. 

He deserves to be here. The team hasnt found him yet, blue is out of range, and Lance is being punished for something. He wouldnt want any of them in his situation anyway, theyre probably off saving the universe still, probably relieved hes gone. He… he hopes theyre getting enough sleep. That Pidge isnt stuck with her face in a screen, refusing to sleep. That Hunk isnt spreading himself thin, and bottling things up. That Allura is recharging her quintessence, and taking care of herself and not pushing too hard on her own mind and the teams. That Coran isnt lonely and doing everything by himself. That Shiro is remembering to laugh and relax and chill. That Keith isnt isolating himself and training to death and… 

He misses them.

Lance thought that… even if he never saw Earth again, never saw his parents again, thatd at least, the last thing he saw would be his friends- his space family- safe and alive. Not some creepy alien, or the four same walls, but the people he cares about. He knows… he knows he wasnt their first choice. That Blue deserves better, the team deserves better. But… he still loves them so much. He just wanted to know they were okay. 

A stinging sensation disrupts the static ache hes fallen into, his motions drag like paper through water and he looks down at his arms. His nails, brittle and broken and cracked, have still managed to drag angry red lines across his arms. Blood and that watery fluid have bubbled to the surface in some areas, and he feels a detached sort of dissapointment. His nose whistles.

The not bread and the ucky water have appeared again. Hes on his side, he doesnt remember falling asleep, from how tired he feels, hes not even sure he can call it that. He knows they get mad when he ignores the susstenance, but he can only stare at it blankly. What was the point anyway? If he was just gonna keep waking up here, he didnt want to anymore. 

He thinks he counts for moment, to determine how long it takes them to get mad, but when he tunes back in to his own brain hes simply repeated the same line of lyrics over and over. He cant recall the song, or any other lyrics, and all its really doing is annoying him, but he cant find the energy to yell at his brain to stop. 

'One. I can count to one. Two. I can count to two. Three. I can count to three. Four. I cant count no more. I can only count to four, I can only count to four, I can only count fooouuuurrrr-'

The room brightens and Lance tenses as a noise fills the room. But the noise was always there, a ringing in his ears, but it grows louder and higher until everything is screaming. He hold his hands over his ears, finds a warm wetness with undertones of crusty, his mouth is open his throat feels shredded, hes curled up as much as his ribs will allow- they poke out, he can see where theyre wrong, they warp as the noise increases. His heart pounds wildly in his chest, tears streak his face, he cant see anything, theres red in his blurred vision before it whites out completely, a warmth below his nose. Shivers wrack his tense body as the cold he'd been trying to ignore sets in bone deep.

"P'ease…m…m-make it… st…stop…" 

He doesnt know when he went limp, eyes open but seeing nothing, the ringing is everywhere, the feeling of liquid drying on his skin makes him itch, but he cant even twitch. 

"M'ke it st…stop. Make eh stop… make it stop." A sob from deep in his chest, voice hoarse, everything hurts. "Make it stop please." 

He couldnt even tell you if he'd actually spoken, or if wordless noise escaped a ruined throat. The pounding of his heart, the ringing of his ears, nothing seemed to exist past that. 

Warmth on his cheek, he must be crying again… 

Pressure on his back, his shoulder thanks him for rolling over, he cant recall doing it.

Something touches his neck. 

He flinches violently, surprising himself and whoevers touching him. He throws his arms up, his back now against the stupidly familiar walls.

"Make it stop! I dont want to anymore! Just kill me already, Make it stopmakeitstopmaKEITSTOP!!"

Something rumbles in his mind, loud enough to block all the stupid noises, filled instead with crashing waves and warm sand, foreign yet familair. 

"Lance." He flinches, he can only half hear what was said, head in a fishbowl of water and one ear clogged, but it was definetly his name… 

"Leandro, please look at me hermano." 

Tears bubble in his eyes as he realizes what this is.

Hes lost it completely.

Hes halucinating now. Maybe it really is finally the end-

"Lance please." It sounds so broken, she should never sound like that-

He looks up. 

The door. It did exist, lying in sparking pieces as it is. Shiro is in the doorway, face drawn in concern, galra arm still smoking from whatever he used it for. Behind him Keith is glaring down his sword at something Lance cant see. Infront of him however, curled up in the too small room, knees an inch from his own, back bowed so his head wont hit the ceiling, arm brushing the smaller one next to him. Two sets of warm eyes, wet with tears and dark with bags, look at him with mournful sadness and yet, tentative hope, relief. 

The tears spill over, his lips wobble as he sobs,

"Make it stop please. I cant handle it if youre not really here. Please." 

"We're here buddy. Hermano, we're here. Give me your hand Lance, I promise we're real." Hunks voice wavers with emotion, Lance knows he's seconds from breaking down. 

"We're late, but we're here Lance. Please." Pidges voice is small, hand held out beside Hunks, both tremble. 

Lance is going to regret it. He is. He's gonna regret it. 

His hands- cold, achey, maybe broken, filthy- meet the warm calloused palms of his friends. He slumps forward like his string have been cut, but the two dutifully catch him. Warmth. Not from blood or tears, but from real people. Lances eyes slipped closed, feeling safe for a moment, if he wakes up alone… at least he got to see their faces one last time…

>>next

[razzle-zazzle]

Whumptober Day 03: like crying out in empty rooms, with no one there except the moon

Solitary Confinement

2339 Words; Divergent AU

TW for abandonment, deterioration

AO3 ver

The sunlight creeped in through the windows. Motes of dust floated through the beam like tiny flakes of snow.

He had never seen snow before. But Father had once lived in a forest full of it, and would sometimes liken the morning-sun-dust-beam to the “flurries” that would fill the forest. Unlike Father, he had never seen snow before, but he had seen lots of dust.

Eventually, the sun had risen high enough that the beam of light fell towards the bottom of the wall, hitting upon the solar panel of the bot resting in that particular spot. A few moments later, and Tai-D came to life, gears whirring as it scooted forwards to get more sun.

“Good morning.” He said. He had been sitting there all night after moving Tai-D to that spot, waiting for the sun to rise again. As Tai-D wheeled off to inspect its surroundings, he stood up. His joints and gears creaked with the effort, but once he was on his own two feet he held steady.

Tai-D was already attacking the pile of scrap in the corner, pulling it apart to sort it. He would have to pile it all up again after the sun set and Tai-D went inactive, but he didn’t mind. It was good for the helper bot to have something to do every morning.

He waited. Perhaps he should try to walk down the stairs, today, and check the door? There was likely nothing there, but it had been a while since he’d managed the stairs successfully. But his joints had not creaked as much as usual, today, so perhaps they might permit the excursion.

Tai-D had finished sorting the scrap, and wheeled over to check the dishes in the cupboard. He hadn’t touched those—the cups and plates were meant for people like Father, people who needed to eat. Still, Tai-D pushed the cupboard open, checking that the few cups and plates were all in order.

He made his way to the stairs. They were treacherous, dangerous, and sometimes terrifying—

But even Father’s knees could handle them when needed, and Father’s knees would hurt going up and down. His knees never hurt at all, no matter how much they creaked.

Still, the stairs spiraling down loomed beneath him ominously, taunting him with memories of his knees locking up and his body tumbling down, down, down.

In his hesitation, he was passed by Tai-D, who, despite being only waist-height and getting around on wheels, was more than equipped to traverse the treachery of the steps through the use of its arms.

“Right.” He steeled what little courage he had, and slowly, carefully, feeling out the stiffness of his joints the entire time—

One step became two steps, then three, then four. He had descended far enough to see out onto the floor of the workshop, which stretched tall enough to hold three living spaces, with a single balcony wrapping around halfway up. Tai-D was already roaming around, checking every nook and cranny, clambering up onto shelves and sorting old blueprints. Perhaps he should set up another scrap pile in here for Tai-D to sort? It’d mean braving the stairs more often, though, for all that he needed to visit the workshop every so often to repair himself.

The workshop was far from the bottom of the lighthouse, though, for all the space it took. Carefully, keeping close to the wall, he continued his descent. It wasn’t long before he was level with the workshop’s bottom floor, the stairs below him much more treacherous than the stairs previous.

His joints creaked, old bolts and ball bearings straining at his little exercise. He still felt much better than usual, though, so he continued downward.

There were no windows below the workshop—the workshop itself only had one. But past the grease-stained floor of the workshop, there was nothing but the stone walls of the lighthouse and the stairs spiraling down. The lamps were long burned out, and he was loath to waste any oil on them.

He pressed a metal hand against the stone wall. Slowly, he made his way down. One step after another. The bottom was empty, the stone floor covered in dust and cobwebs. There was a puddle by the old door, the water creeping in under the wood.

Carefully, mindful of the puddle, he pushed at the old door. It wasn’t locked—it hadn’t been locked for months—but it still held firm, the hinges rusted still. The wood was rotting, though—perhaps he might be able to break it down soon.

His curiosity satisfied, he made his way back to the stairs. The ascent loomed before him, but he couldn’t stay down here. So up he went.

+=+=+=+=+

The sunlight creeped in through the windows, motes of dust floating in the beam like flakes of snow.

Tai-D whirred to life under the golden rays, and as the helper bot moved to resort the scrap, he stood. “Good morning.” He greeted, and Tai-D beeped back in reply.

Sitting in one place all night was boring. But he was used to boring, used to long hours spent waiting in one way or another. Waiting for Father to finish a project. Waiting for the Skulkin to return. Waiting for the sun to rise once again.

So he waited.

There was little else for him to do, really. He couldn’t leave the lighthouse, let alone the island it was situated on. Nobody ever came by, and nothing ever really changed out here. It was just him, and the sea.

Well, him, the sea, and Tai-D. So he wasn’t completely alone.

But it was still awful, being trapped here. Father had told him about the land that Father had come from, a vast continent of solid ground covered in different biomes. He could hardly fathom an island ten times as big as this one, let alone a whole continent.

He wanted to see it, this continent. Wanted to see the snow and the flowers and the birds and the fish. Wanted to see the people who were like Father, made of soft flesh and wrinkling skin. Wanted to see the mountains and forests.

But he could not leave the island. He had no boat, and could not handle the salty water. It was how Father had been kept trapped here, reliant on the Skulkin to provide supplies and parts.

So it was just him, the sea, and Tai-D. Trapped here until…

He didn’t know. He didn’t know how long. Father had left with… not the Skulkin, though the Skulkin had stopped showing up long before Father left. The ship that had come for Father had only stopped at the island briefly, and he had seen nothing of it since.

It had felt like a dream, if he were capable of such. He had been hidden away for the first time in months, and he had stayed quiet and still. When he had finally been retrieved by Tai-D, Father was already gone. Just like that.

Just him, the sea, and Tai-D from that point on. The Skulkin made no new appearances since the last, since long before the ship that had taken Father away. That was good; the Skulkin would not have taken kindly to him.

The Skulkin would take apart anything that wasn’t part of the war machines they wanted, so Father had kept him hidden, had built him out of what little scrap that Father could successfully squirrel away. Tai-D’s existence had been justified to the Skulkin; by having the helper bot maintain the building, Father was freed up to spend more time serving the Skulkin’s demands.

But he had no such justification. So Father had kept him hidden, kept him safe. Approaching ships could never sneak up on the lighthouse while the monster roamed the waters—Father always had plenty of warning to hide him.

Perhaps Father could have justified him to the Skulkin; the tea that was used to keep Father alive gave the man memory problems. It was a large part of why he’d been built; his mechanical memory would not falter. But still, Father insisted it safer to keep him hidden, and he trusted Father.

He trusted Father still, for all that he had not seen the man in so long. Surely, one day Father’s memory would be jogged, and Father would come to the lighthouse, come for him. Surely.

He held that hope close, and he’d hold it as long as he needed.

+=+=+=+=+

The sunlight creeped in through the windows. The motes of dust still looked like snow in his imagination—though the way Father described it, snow sounded much prettier.

He waited for the sunlight to hit Tai-D’s solar panel. Once the helper bot was up and moving, he stood. His joints and gears creaked, and he was forced to stop halfway up, his knees locked. He was having more difficulty this morning.

The sea air was a constant menace. Father hadn’t had the materials to build him water-resistant, and the salty air was no better than the waves. Keeping himself rust-free was a near-daily chore, and his joints constantly threatened to break down. It seemed that today was simply one of those days.

With the groan of rusting metal, he made his way down the stairs to the workshop. Tai-D was quick to follow, already moving for the limited supply of oil they had.

“Thank you.” He took the oil can from the helper bot, and set to work. He had spent many days watching Father work, asking questions to keep the man’s mind steady. He wasn’t Father, but he could maintain himself to an adequate degree.

But adequate might not last forever, he knew. As he checked over the components in his chest cavity, unheeded by any chest panel that might rust shut, he mentally cataloged the supplies that were left.

The Skulkin no longer coming by was a blessing and a curse. He no longer had to hide, but there was no longer a steady delivery of supplies.

Not that the Skulkin would return, anyway. Father was gone. Father was who they wanted. Without Father, there was no point in the Skulkin ever returning.

But still, he held hope. Hope that Father would one day return, hope that he wouldn’t be trapped on this tiny island forever. Hope that he might one day see the wider world.

It was a faint hope, but it was a hope he held nonetheless. As he worked on fixing the elbow joint he had damaged by falling on it, he held that hope tight.

It was hard, but he’d hold out. The alternative—rusting away here, slowly falling apart until he couldn’t move, until his memory stopped processing—didn’t bear thinking about.

So he hoped, hard as it was.

+=+=+=+=+

The sunlight creeped in through the windows, the ever-present dust floating in the beam.

The angle of the sun changed slowly, almost imperceptibly when measured day to day. But he’d seen many sunrises, and the wall where Tai-D slept was marked with the fruits of his labors. It was a simple matter to move Tai-D ever so slightly to the right or left as needed, matching the marks on the walls with his memories of sunrises past.

Indeed, Tai-D was quick to charge, moving to the pile of unsorted scrap that he had pulled together for it. He stood, joints and gears creaking with the motion.

It was the same as every other day—Tai-D moved on from the scrap, and he pondered whether it might be worth it to brave the stairs today.

Probably not. His left arm had been very loose, lately, constantly threatening to fall out. Better to leave the stairs for another time.

With little else to do, he made his way to the window. For all that the sea air was a menace, the sea itself could be quite beautiful. He had spent long hours watching it while Father worked, and longer still after Father was taken.

Waves crested with white flung themselves across the surface. He rested his hands on the bottom of the window, peering out into the blue. Blue sky, blue seas. Endless blue, as far as he could see.

Wait.

A shape appeared in the blue, quickly growing.

No, not growing—getting closer.

He leaned forward, trying to get a better look—

A ship!

Oh no. Oh no no no.

The last time people had come by in his memory, they had taken Father away. Would they take Tai-D next? Would he be left alone here, to rust and decay? Or worse, would they be like the Skulkin, and take him apart like Father always said?

He should hide. He needed to hide—he shouldn’t be out when the lighthouse had visitors. It wasn’t safe, he needed to hide—

In his haste to make it to the workshop, to the “faulty” lever that would open the hidden room, he missed a step, his body tilting forwards. He had scarcely a moment to recall every other time he’d fallen down the stairs (Father had always been there to patch him up, before, but Father wasn’t here anymore—) before his body was careening down, thumping and slamming and rattling as he rolled. He fell out of the spiral entirely more than halfway down the workshop, landing on the grease-stained floor with an echoingly, painfully loud CLANG.

He couldn’t move. His arm had fallen off, at one point, and one of his legs was damaged. He couldn’t move, lying on the floor, staring up at the workshop ceiling as the panic closed in.

Footsteps ascended the stairs below—two sets. He turned his head towards the sound, the fingers of his still-attached arm twitching uselessly.

Three heads appeared. Two were like Father, flesh and skin, but with darker hair. The third was unlike anything he had ever seen before, purple scales interspersed with white patches.

Tai-D was wheeling around in circles, beeping erratically. The strangers stared.

“Um… hello?” He tried.

The stranger with a streak of green in his hair stepped forwards. “What the fuck.”

[splendidissimus]

September 1998 - Time Alone

((Content warning: depression, isolation, caretaker failure))

((Promptspiration: @whumptober 2023: day 3: Solitary Confinement ))

Genre: angst

Romance level: none

Angst level: 5/5

Draco's headspace: depressed / isolated

((words: ~700))

------------------------------------

From the beginning of the school term when Theo went back to Hogwarts, Draco was alone. He wasn't actually alone, of course — not technically. He had his mother, and of course he was still infinitely grateful for that. But it wasn't like she was someone he could actually talk to. He wasn't a little pre-school kid anymore who could follow her around blathering and making a nuisance of himself just because he wanted to be near her.

Now that she was relaxing a little about his health and trusted him to be out of her sight, she checked on him in the mid-mornings when she woke; he tried to force himself to maintain a reasonable schedule so that he was always presentable by then, but it slipped so that she would occasionally be waking him out of his dreams. Maybe they'd have breakfast together. After that, maybe they would cross paths once or twice. Then she'd check on him before she turned in for the night.

On Sundays, they ate dinner together, as was tradition, although it felt empty without his father there and uncomfortable around the table where they had gathered as Death Eaters. 

He was left to his own devices otherwise. Sometimes he spent mornings brewing potions he'd need, but there wasn't much he needed that he didn't already have and it was mindless, empty work that served only to keep his hands busy and fill time; other than that, he felt like a ghost wandering the manor. A restless spirit that passed through the world without having any effect on it. 

Nothing gave him anything to hold onto. His mind couldn't really focus on anything; it all seemed so small and distant. He'd sit for a while in the library, trying to keep his mind occupied, reading the same page of a book for an hour. He'd retire to his room or the drawing room with his school books and come away with half a page of notes for the day. He'd try to make attempts at simple spells without his wand that accomplished nothing and didn't even feel like using magic at all. 

A lot of his time he'd just end up in either the parlour window or the second floor landing, looking out at the gardens, not doing anything, not pretending to do anything — just looking at the world on the other side of the glass, where he couldn't even actually smell the flowers or hear the fountains or catch sight of the remaining peacock.

For a while, he'd take to spending his time in the drawing room so he would be around when she came and went, and she had a habit of touching his hair on her way past when she found him there, which he found reassuring in a way that simultaneously made him feel small for needing it. Occasionally, she would sit in there with him, reading or writing correspondence. He didn't know what she was doing; he supposed he could have asked. He could have done a lot of things. He could have asked about her and Father. He could have tried to tell her something — anything. He could have tried to just talk to her. But he didn't know how, and the more he didn't talk, the larger the words became, and the more he stayed silent. 

Either his mother started spending more time there, sitting with him quietly, or he became more aware of it. Over time, how much better it made him feel was more and more overshadowed by how much worse it made him feel to be making her do that. He didn't want her to have to, he didn't want to take her attention from what she needed or wanted to be doing, he shouldn't be making her worry, he shouldn't even be seen…

He managed to apologise, once, apropos of nothing. She asked what for, but he couldn't find the words, and she let it go.

Eventually even the polite small talk of "Good morning"s dried up; he'd answer questions, but the words for anything else were beyond his reach.