#zombie strip that needs to be put out of its misery

[kafrinfwute]

i fucking hate garfield. worst strip in the paper by far, i like love is more than that shit ass cat

[heyyy-hey-babyyy]

The Way This Ends

Chapter 1 

Summary: A few years into the Apocalypse Y/N, Sam, Dean, and Lo were surviving the best they could. When one of the members of the group is taken, the hunt begins to get everything back to normal. Or as normal as it could possibly be.

Pairing: Sam x Reader, Dean x Reader (platonic), Dean x OFC

WARNINGS: Canon-typical violence, mentions of assault

2150 words.

Supernatural/Walking Dead AU

The death and destruction hit hard and fast. Before anyone knew what was happening, the dead were walking, and the world was reacting as the movies always told us. The walking dead were dangerous, but the more dangerous part was the fighting human to human. A few years in and people could handle the walkers, but a group of looters and men with automatic weapons were a whole other story.

You had been with the Winchesters since the beginning. Hunting with Sam and Dean long before the apocalypse and falling for Sam long before that. He finally made his move one dreary Saturday while you were lounging after a particularly rough hunt. He was adorable and nervous trying to tell you that he liked you and you ended up wrapping your arms tight around his neck and pulling him toward you in a deep kiss. The two of you had been inseparable ever since.

Life was normal, a new hunt every week, falling asleep in Sam’s arms every night, when a much more unknown foe reared its ugly head. Before any of you knew what was happening outside, the bunker was locked down tight one afternoon and you all knew it was something bad. Alarms blaring, you all tried desperately to contact anyone outside to find out what was going on, Dean’s occasional shouts into his phone the only sound other than the blaring alarm. You had all tried for an entire day to figure out what was happening and to try and open the door. Weeks passed without any answer. But eventually, with food running low and the power out, you all had to move on, regardless of what was creeping outside. Grabbing every weapon you could think of and all of the gas out of the cars in the garage, you packed up Baby and hit the road, running over your first zombie straight outside of the bunker’s garage. It was just the three of you on the road for weeks, just driving.

That was where you met Lola. Hitching a ride with us one afternoon while hiding from some looters, she jumped into the backseat with you and never left. Preferring to be called Lo, her spunky and sassy personality was entertainment for everyone and all three of you hunters fell in love with her instantly. But no one as hard as Dean. The two of them fit together like long discarded pieces of a puzzle, and the four of you quickly became a force to be reckoned with. And above all, for the first time in anyone’s life and despite the dead walking, you all were truly happy. That is, until the day Lo was taken.

It was supposed to be a simple run. You four went on them all the time, often splitting into groups of two to get in and out quickly. But for this one, Dean wanted all of us to go so we could split up once we got to the strip malls and search individual stores. Sam had heard over his handheld walkie that this particular area was full of looters, so stealth was going to be key and  leaving Baby at our small compound was decided. The walk wasn’t far, but with inadequate shoes and tired limbs it felt like much longer.

You had all walked for a while before anyone spoke.

“I’m not usually one to complain,” Lo started earning smirks from all of us. She looked around before smacking Dean playfully on the shoulder when she saw his look of ‘you complain constantly.’ He ruffled her hair lightly and put his arm around her shoulder earning her brilliant smile in return.

“But!” She continued loudly. “This sucks. Normally I’d be passed out in Baby getting some much-needed beauty rest.” Lo sent a fake pout toward you and Sam, and you giggled, Dean rolling his eyes a smile playing at his lips.

Lo was a natural beauty with long brown hair and olive skin that highlighted bright green eyes that made Dean’s look dull. The idea of her needing beauty rest was comical to say the least. But everyone was exhausted from the last couple of trips. The bags under Sam’s eyes began to resemble bruises and you were pretty sure he was sneaking part of the small meals the group shared onto your plate when you weren’t looking. You poked him gently in the ribs feeling how skinny he was, earning you a look of confusion in return. You simply shrugged and kept walking, making a mental note to find a few candy bars or something to sneak to both Sam and Dean. The boys took good care of you and Lo, but they needed to take care of themselves as well.

Dean and Lo were talking up ahead, Dean heading forward to trip a walker heading toward us. It fell with a grunt and Lo quickly drove her machete into its’ head. You smiled at how well they worked together, even though the scene was rather depressing. Death followed the small group everywhere, and everyone agreed early on to find some light in the darkness.

Even though it was more dangerous to be such a small group, you all hadn’t tried to find more survivors since the last time. About a year ago, you four stumbled upon a cul-de-sac with survivors living deep within the houses. The leader decided we were okay to stay for a while, and a month later you four were still there, the cul-de-sac group not willing to give up Sam and Dean too easily. However, when a few of the men were a bit too friendly with you and Lo one afternoon when Sam and Dean were out on a run, the boys had us packed and on the road as soon as they got back. We had been on our own ever since. It was safer this way anyway.

You had reached the small strip mall parking lot, which was deserted save for a few long-abandoned vehicles. The black tar asphalt reflected the sun back harshly, and you began to lag behind as the heat took you over. Sam stopped with you for a second, giving you a quick drink from his water bottle when the bullets began to fly, the harsh ping of bullet on gravel startling you. Sam grabbed you roughly by the waist and pulled you to dive behind the nearest car to avoid the spray of bullets, you scrapping your hands roughly on the asphalt and banging your head against the car, causing stars to cloud your vision. Sam reached into this waistband and pulled out his gun, crouching low and glancing around wildly for who was shooting. He focused on you quickly and grimaced noticing your skinned hands and knees, but you just shook your head at him to tell him to worry about it later. You could see Dean and Lo behind a car up ahead, Dean with his gun out and Lo with her machete out and at the ready waiting for the next assault. Sam and Dean caught eyes, and Dean made a motion forward, indicating to his brother to head toward the threat. Sam looked at you anxiously and you nodded, getting to your feet, ready to run toward Lo and the other car.

The next few moments happened in slow motion for you. Dean and Sam headed forward quickly toward where they figured the threat was coming from, when a dark tinted van pulled up beside Lo and you, barely coming to a stop before the door was flying open and two strong arms grabbed at you and Lo roughly. Before you could react, you were being pulled into the backseat, both you and Lo fighting against the men holding onto you tight. The strangers grip on you was bruising and he let one of your arms go as soon as you were in the vehicle and dug it into your hair wrenching your head back.  

“Sam!” You yelled as loud as you could, and you saw Sam and Dean turn around up ahead and begin to fire at the van. The man holding you took out a knife as you kicked and shoved at him, not allowing him to get close to the van door to close it, but the van began to drive anyway. With one more heavy kick, you shoved the man away and fell backwards through the open door, clutching for Lo’s hand before you landed roughly on the pavement, the van continuing to speed away as Sam and Dean fired at it desperately. You went to stand and run after the van when a blinding pain shot through your lower abdomen, just above your hip bone. You looked down and saw the hilt of the knife the man was using moments ago sticking out of your body, and blinding pain shot through you, causing you to lay back roughly onto the hot blacktop, while Dean and Sam continued to fire and yell.

“Lo!” Dean screamed desperately one last time as the van tore through the parking lot toward the road we just walked from. Dean dropped to his knees clutching at his short hair, as he watched Lo continue to fight desperately from the open van door you had just fallen out of, before another man slammed it closed, and the van disappeared from sight.

From your position on the ground you turned your head weakly to glance at Dean on the ground and Sam who placed a hand over his mouth in shock. You reached a hand toward him as your body continued to burn, when you realized they must not have seen you fall out of the van.

“Sam.” You tried weakly, as the wound in your lower half continued to bleed. You watched the boys while in complete misery, desperate for them to turn toward you. Desperate for Sam to tell you everything was going to be alright. Taking in a huge gulp of air, you prepared yourself to yell.

“Sam!” You tried again as loud as you could, making your head throb, and you cried out in pain again. Sam turned suddenly locking eyes with you laying on the ground across the parking lot before he began sprinting toward you, his hands coming to rest on either side of your face.

“Y/N. Oh my god, baby, where are you hurt?” He asked, his voice and words going a hundred miles a minute, while staring demanding into your drooping eyes. You glanced down with your eyes, and Sam’s landed on the hilt of the knife sticking out of your leg.

“Okay. Okay, it’s okay.” He muttered to you comfortingly as his hands moved to your leg and you let out a yelp of pain when his hands gripped the area around the knife. “I know. I know it hurts, but I have to try and stop the bleeding baby.” He looked at you desperately as you began to cry, tears leaking out of your eyes. “Dean!” Sam shouted over his shoulder at his older brother. “Please!”

Shaking himself out of his stupor, Dean rushed over after hearing his brother’s call and dropped down to his knees next to you two, taking in the scene. You could see how bright his green eyes were, and saw the trace of tear tracks on his dusty cheeks.

“Hey,” he began, brushing a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “There’s my fighter. It’s gonna be okay, sweetheart. We’re going to get you out of here.” He words were being drowned out by the groan and moan of walkers emerging from the woods responding to the gun fire. He glanced around quickly looking for their exit plan.

“Dean,” you started, watching as his eyes darted back and forth from your leg to the walkers trying to decide how to get you out of here. “I’m so sorry, Dean.” You tried again, your voice barely above a whisper. “I tried to grab her hand when I fell.” You were crying openly now, thinking of Lo’s face and where she was right now. “I’m so sorry.”

“Shhh, Y/N.” Dean stated, taking over pressing to your wound for his brother as Sam’s hands returned to your face smoothing your cheeks comfortingly.

Dean looked off into the horizon staring at the walkers before speaking. “We’re going to get her back, Y/N. We are going to get her back.”

Read chapter 2 here! 

[endangered-liaison]

Strays

((In reply to this letter by @norhimorovine​ ))

Content warnings: racism, descriptions of zombies/decay and gore/viscera, diremites/insects/arachnids, asphyxiation, injury

The wood wailer patrol wanders close to the entrance of Tam-Tara Deepcroft. It’s been all quiet for a long time, ever since that business with the wedding, but it’s still worth checking. Every so often, a skeleton or some more unusual undead abomination wanders its way out of the croft, and the Wailers have to bring it down with spears and determination.

Stabbing a skeleton to death with a spear is even harder than it sounds.

This day, the Deepcroft isn’t quiet as can be. The source of the noise is a strange half-cobbled-together corpse that had shambled out half a bell ago. Its leg is snared in a bear trap, and it has an arrow sticking out of its shoulder.

The wailers approach, spears raised at the unusual sight. “Weird. Adventurers?”

The one closest risks leaning forwards, yanking the arrow from the shoulder of the rotten creature. “Nay. These arrows aren’t standard adventurer fare. Poachers, I’d wager.”

One of the others, a redheaded Elezen man, makes a disgusted noise. “How many times we have to tell those strays they aren’t welcome here?” In the darkness, Max smirks.

“Strange, though.” The one with the arrow steps back, arms crossed. “Why would they put a snare down here? No animals come this way, only the undead.”

The redhead scoffs. “They’re idiots, that’s why. Now, come on, we’ve wasted enough time here already.” He approaches the zombie, raising his spear to try and aim a jab through its head. A sure way to put it out of its misery quickly.

Max yanks the wire by her feet, and the bear trap falls apart. The zombie shambles forwards, suddenly free but stumbling with its broken ankle.

“Shite!” The red-haired Wailer yelps in surprise as the zombie steps past his spear. The others move back, frantic, surprised.

Max’s smirk widens. She presses a button on her vox.

...And the thing explodes.

Viscera coats the poor unfortunate racist wailer from head to toe, and he stands there, mouth agape. Max has never been more glad for her mask, because she can imagine the smell must be awful.

It’s all Max can do to try and suppress her cackling as she slips out behind the disarrayed patrol. Out of the Deepcroft, and into the evening light of the Shroud.

_ _ _

Her second target of the day is a sergeant. An archer of the Gods’ Quiver tied to the Wailers, if one cares about technicalities. Max doesn’t care about technicalities.

She doesn’t need to cross-reference her map - she’s got it memorised. Southeast from the Deepcroft, hop the fence, use a tree to drop on the other side of a thick set of brambles.

She’s a little out of breath by the time she skids to a halt next to a tree and catches sight of the patrol. She knows it’s the right one - Gods’ Quiver leading the group, all five foot three of the smug midlander midget.

She’s aware that’s her calling the pot short.

They’re close to her ambush point, at this point. She reaches into her satchel, pulling out a bottle with a strip of fabric sticking out of the top. Slipping around the squad is easy enough, and she fumbles the lighter in her grip before she manages to get the bottle lit. She takes a breath without her mask.

Max reaches over...and tosses the bottle into a hole next to her feet. It smashes against rocks beneath the surface, and she takes the opportunity to clamber into one of the tree branches. Smoke begins billowing from the hole, and she knows all hell is about to break loose. She grins, clipping her mask back into place and lowering her goggles.

Sure enough, within a few moments, a veritable swarm of mites.

A diremite phobia is really a terrible thing for a Gods’ Quiver sergeant to have.

She hears the frantic yelling from the squad, and looks down from her perch to them, laughing. Nothing fatal, but...this many mites can’t be fun for anyone to deal with, especially not those with weaker constitutions.

Except the archer isn’t looking at the approaching swarm.

He’s staring into the treetops.

Staring at her.

“Fuck.”

He launches an arrow toward her, and it’s all she can do to roll from the top of the branch and cling to the underside of it. “Fuck!”

An archer. An archer. Of course he’d have better eyes than the others! Idiot!

She clambers her way back to the top of the branch, climbing to her feet and starting to run. She leaps, landing on another branch of an adjacent tree, then another. Pulls out a spare smoke bottle and lights it, tossing it at the base of the tree to try and give herself more cover. Another arrow heads her way, whizzing by her head, and she launches herself at a tree ahead of her. She grabs hold of its trunk, gasping and wheezing as the impact knocks the air from her lungs. “Fuck’s sake.”

She glances down at the floor. She’s made good ground away from the swarm. She can drop down now, make her escape, then she-- another arrow impacts right by her head.

“Oh, come the fuck on!”

Max drops, landing hard on the floor and kicking up a flurry of leaves. The breath is knocked from her lungs again, and she feels them complaining. Yeah, hate you too.

Staggering to her feet, she promptly gets tackled by a supremely pissed-off archer. Her head impacts the tree behind her and she feels her skull rattle. Her vision blurs, and she lashes out without thinking. Her leg hits something and she feels something snap.

The archer yells in pain and grabs her throat. “Fucking stray! Think you can fuck with my team? With me?!”

He squeezes, hard, and Max makes choked rasping noises. She’s pinned between the tree and the sergeant, nowhere to go.

“I ain’t even a fuckin’ miqo’te, idiot.” she manages to wheeze out, with the last air in her lungs. 

His eyes flash with something manic, something twisted. “No? You’ll die the same.”

She jerks forwards with a knife, stabbing her service knife clean through the man’s arm. He screams and lets go of her neck with that arm, giving her the room to break his grip. From there, her training kicks in easily enough. Use both hands to break out of the hold from the other hand. Elbow to the nose, a knee to the solar plexus, a kick to the head as he doubles over.

She grabs the knife from his arm, yanking it free and pinning him down. Her breath is coming in rough, broken gasps, and she grabs his throat while pointing the knife down at him. He reaches to try and grab her arm to stop her, but with the hole in his forearm his strength is lacking.

And, for a moment, it’s not a Gridanian archer beneath her. It’s an Ishgardian soldier. The same hate in his eyes. The same frantic energy as she fights to push the knife closer. The same obnoxious self-righteousness, always painting her as the aggressor. Always painting her as the villain. Never fair. Never, ever fair.

You promised, Max.

She screams in frustration and hits the man in the face with the pommel of the knife. It leaves a nasty mark, but he’s fine. Still struggling, even.

She hits him again, then clambers to her feet. He doesn’t follow her.

The smoke is starting to thin. She staggers back, knife held loosely in her fingertips, blood dripping from her hands.

And she runs.

_ _ _

Norhi, obviously, doesn’t receive a letter through a letterbox, nor a parcel, nor anything so easy. No. Instead, she’ll find a delivery laid out in the back room of her shop. Baby steps, one supposes.

There’s a handful of diremite thread, sticky and hard to handle. And there’s a smooth, clean fingerbone. Alongside them both, there’s a bottle of Ilsabardian vodka. Where the hells does Max keep finding those bottles? Does she make them? The note next to the assorted objects is far shorter than the letter Norhi had sent to Max.

From one stray to another? They deserved worse than I threw at them.

- M.S.

[the-tales-of-horror]

A valet, a fancy car, and things that go bump in the night

Original Link By manen_lyset

I work as a valet at a casino in Atlantic City. It’s not the most glamorous job, but it pays well and it’s fun. Who wouldn’t want a taste of what it’s like to drive sweet-ass sports cars they could never afford? Usually, my nights are pretty uneventful: I park the cars, walk back to the valet station, wait, walk back to the parking lot, and drive the cars back to their owners waiting at the entrance. If I’m lucky, my patron will reward me with a good tip. If my patron was unlucky, I’ll get a scoff and the stink eye, as if it’s somehow my fault they came out of the casino several thousand dollars poorer. Worst is, I’m pretty sure it’s more a question of bruised egos; the types that come to my casino consider a couple thousand bucks to be “pocket change”. This isn’t the place for down-on-their-luck alcoholic husbands looking to gamble their paychecks away: this is a place of expensive cars, flashy watches, fancy suits, old money, and men who think they own the world---and probably do.

I never let any of that bother me. I’ve always just done my job and lived by the valet’s cardinal rule: if we see something, we say nothing. Whether it be a sack of cocaine or evidence of a backseat orgy, we keep our mouths shut. Our job isn’t to police or judge: it’s to get cars from point A to point B, which is literally just around the corner, but apparently too far for rich folks to walk. Just like shrinks have doctor-patient confidentiality, we offer valet-car confidentiality. The other night, I had to break that unofficial confidentiality agreement, and here’s why.

His name was Edward Smith, and he looked just as pretentious as his name suggested. He showed up late at night with the shit-eating grin of a man who shops for wives based on bra sizes and waistlines. He had a small, busty woman on his arm who sported a massive diamond on her ring finger that blurred the line between ‘expensive’ and ‘tacky’, and who wore a leopard print dress so tight it might as well have been a skin suit. She looked twenty years younger, but every bit as entitled. Edward, on the other hand, had applied so much gel his hair looked like plastic, he had gone all-out with diamond-studded cufflinks, and he wore a suit so perfectly tailored, it had probably been sewn directly on him.

Without a single glance in my direction, Mr. Smith tossed me his valet key and said, “Don’t scratch her.”

Entitled asshole or not, he was a client, and I was going to be careful with his car. I always was.

I opened the door and immediately caught a whiff of something strong. It was like a plume of lavender perfume had crashed over me like a tidal wave. I could taste it as it burned my nose and made my eyes water. It was so strong I had to open all the windows and hold my breath just to survive the short drive to the lot right around the corner. I was distracted, I could barely see, hell, I could even hear ringing in my ears as though I were sucking on a lemon.

Just as the car came to a stop in its parking spot, I heard a thud coming from the back. Not a light thud, either. A nice, strong thud that made the car bump.

“Shit!” I cursed.

I must have hit something. Something big. Something I hadn’t seen through the veil of tears my eyes had been producing to wash out the perfume.

I could just imagine roadkill crushed under the wheel, blood sprayed over the pristine gold paint job, and maybe even a nasty dent. It wasn’t going to come out of my paycheck – the casino had insurance – but I was as good as fired.

I resisted the urge to bash my head against the steering wheel out of frustration: I couldn’t risk causing more damage, and lingered in the driver’s seat as I tried to figure out how I was going to explain this to my boss. People don’t hit animals in parking lots. Driving at 5mph. With enough floodlights to light up a football stadium. That’s just not something that happens.

Another thud sent the car bouncing again, and this time, I was more scared than surprised because the thud was followed by a very light, barely audible whimper.

“Oh shit,” I whispered to myself.

It was still alive.

I didn’t know what to do. Back up? Stay put? Drive over the cement strip and onto the grass? Was I going to have to put the poor creature out of its misery?

As another bump rocked the car, I started to worry about how big it must have been to be able to shake the car in its injured state. Was it even safe to go outside? What if it was a coyote? What if it reared its head and bit me?

A peek. I needed to sneak a peek of it---to know what it was, before I proceeded. I opened the door and shuffled onto my stomach, careful not to scuff the leather interior. Edward would notice if I scuffed anything, and I’d be in twice as much shit. Patrons always noticed every little defect. They didn’t notice when we took the liberty of throwing away used condoms or cigarettes forgotten on the driver’s seat, but they definitely noticed if we so much as left a piece of lint behind. Once I was in position, I took a deep breath, braced myself to see some poor eviscerated animal, and craned my neck down to look under the car.

There was nothing there, just four wheels on the pavement. No blood, no guts, no animal crawling away with half its body dragging behind it like a zombie.

“What the fuck?”

I raced out of the car and bent down on all fours, scanning the wheels more thoroughly. I pushed myself to my feet and circled around the car, my attention split between trying to find the animal I’d hit, and checking for damage. The car looked as sparkly and shiny as the day it’d left the dealership, and there wasn’t so much as a tuft of fur left behind.

As I stood there by the back right wheel, the car suddenly bounced, and I heard another whimper. The trunk, I realized, someone’s in the trunk.

I felt a mix of emotions. On the one hand, I was relieved I hadn’t almost killed something, on the other hand, the situation was suddenly much worse.

See something, say nothing, that was our cardinal rule.

No matter what kind of shit we saw in those cars, we were not allowed to do anything. It wasn’t our place. It wasn’t my place. If I tried to help, they’d have my job, but…

Nervously, I said, “Is anyone there?”

I heard what sounded like sobs as the car shook in response.

I was right.

“Hang tight, I’ll get you out of there!”

I ran around front and pulled the key from the ignition, then circled back to the trunk. I put it in, turned right, turned left, turned right again: the key didn’t work. Of course it didn’t work. That was the whole point of a valet key: keeping the valet out of your stuff.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

I paced around back-and-forth, wondering what to do. That’s when the thought occurred to me: maybe Edward kept a spare key. I headed back inside the car and started searching the glove compartment and dashboard hoping I’d find one. I found everything from a gold flask to a custom mahogany business card holder, but no key. Meanwhile, the car continued to bounce every so often, and the whimpers persisted.

I sat on the curb, biting my nails as I pondered what to do: risk my job by snitching to the cops, or let it go. It wasn’t too late, I could save my own neck. I could bury my head in the sand and convince myself this was some sort of fetish thing and the girl was totally into it. I could pretend nothing happened. But, then again, how could I live with myself if I did that?

I grabbed my cellphone and called the cops.

The wait was unbearable. I spent my time trying to calm whoever was inside the trunk. I gave her my name and made one-sided small talk, even as the thuds grew weaker and the whimpers came to a stop. Finally, I saw the red and blue lights of a squad car turning into the parking lot. I flagged them down, but by then, the trunk had gone quiet. They said something about just cause or probable cause…or something they say all the time in those cop shows. Point being, they couldn’t open the trunk just yet. They had the casino security track down Edward Smith, who showed up looking as sheepishly self-satisfied as he had earlier. This time, with three women on his arms instead of just the one.

“What can I do for you, gentlemen?” he asked the policemen calmly.

I could just barely hear the conversation from behind the squad car where I was giving my statement. The cops explained they suspected someone was being held against their will, and the slimy guy just smiled and shrugged.

“I have no idea where someone might have gotten that idea,” he said.

“Would you please open the trunk?” asked the cop.

He smirked broadly, releasing the women in his arms. He shooed them away with playful slaps on the ass, then said, “Why, of course. You need only ask.”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out his car key, not hesitating for a second to unlock the trunk and open it. I stretched my neck as far as it could go to see who was inside, but what I saw sent my stomach tumbling to my feet.

The trunk was empty.

“Impossible,” I whispered.

I had heard her. I had felt the car bumping up and down from the inside. I had seen it moving from the outside.

My boss came out, face red with anger. I could tell he was about to scold me. Probably fire me, too, but Edward Smith stood between us and smiled.

“Now, I don’t want you to do anything to him. He took good care of my car. I’m sure this was just a misunderstanding. I expect to see him here next time I visit,” he said.

He winked at me. A wink that made my skin crawl.

My supervisor blundered out, “Y-yes, of course.”

The police searched the car, then shot annoyed glances my way.

I went home that night shaken by what had happened. I went through it in my head over and over again, but I couldn’t explain it. Was the car haunted? Had I felt an earthquake? Could … could lavender perfume make you hallucinate?

A few weeks passed, and I finally saw the car pulling up around the corner. At first, I thought it was him---I thought that entitled prick had come back to taunt me, but there was a blueish sheen to the paint and the driver looked completely different. Just some random guy with the same car model as Edward.

You know, this might sound weird, but even after weeks, I never forgot what Edward’s trunk looked like. The image of the empty space stayed with me, nagging me every day. I could see it in my mind’s eye so clearly that if I had any drawing skills whatsoever, I could have shown you exactly what it looked like in spectacular detail.

The random patron with the same model car stepped out, but kept hold of his key. He apologized as he ran around back to get something from his trunk. It was the same exact trunk, but then I saw him reach around and pull a latch.

The floor retracted.

There was a compartment underneath, just barely big enough to hold a person, if you broke a few bones and really crammed her in there.

I promised her I’d get her out.

I gave her false hope.

And then I let her die.

[rolandfontana]

Does Reform Matter? The Hopelessness of a Life Sentence

Throughout Victor Hassine’s decades of imprisonment in Pennsylvania he achieved remarkable things, from receiving awards for his writing to, most notably, the publication of Life Without Parole: Living and Dying in Prison Today, which is used as a text on several college campuses.

But there will need to be an epilogue to future editions that reads “Mr. Hassine committed suicide after he was denied release for the sixth time.”

Hassine’s death on May 2 has given me pause. And it should make anyone who considers the fate of those serving life sentences wonder whether anything that a lifer does to remake himself into someone who could meaningfully contribute to society means anything.

Without freedom, all of that potential for success is meaningless.

My life is a testament to this meaninglessness.

I’ve achieved extraordinary things in spite of my life sentence. I am not being arrogant: I am simply stating a fact. The adoption of my legal analysis by the Washington Court of Appeals is one illustration.

Yet make no mistake about it. Nothing that I have accomplished—from earning my bachelor’s degree through independent means to publishing in law journals to writing a regular column in The Crime Report—has positively affected my subjective experience of imprisonment or improved my conditions of confinement.

All is the same in both respects so long as I remain behind razor-wire and fences.

Intelligent or ignorant, hard working or lazy, accomplished or a failure—all of those who are imprisoned share the same benighted experiences.

Had I spent the last decade using my meager resources purchasing marijuana rather than pursuing correspondence courses and textbooks, I would still be in the same situation that I am at this moment: Residing in a cell with no privacy, impoverished and indebted, starved of physical affection, and scarred psychologically.

I can change myself, but I cannot change this reality.

Nobody serving a life sentence can change this reality.

I have potential—potential that I have painstakingly developed—but potential does not improve one’s physical surroundings or sense of wellbeing. Award-winning writer Arthur Longworth, confined with me at Washington State Reformatory, can attest to this. Rest assured that he too would trade in his success for a release date in an instant because, without freedom, our lives will forever be spent imagining what could have been—and regretting the crimes that brought us here decades ago when we were lost and angry teenagers.

You can, however, find meaning by fooling yourself into believing that having a positive effect on others and trying to make prison a better place are worthy endeavors—as if this airy nothing could ever be a sufficient substitute for one’s liberty.

Call it the Change Agent Delusion. I used to suffer from it. I was bright-eyed and optimistic in the grips of this madness.

As a leader in the Concerned Lifers Organization long ago, I helped to organize regular presentations to audience members ranging from policymakers to mental health professionals, highlighting inequities in the criminal justice system and proposing reforms. When the presentations were over, I returned to the cellblock and life continued as miserable as before.

As a member of the Prisoner Advisory Committee for the University Beyond Bars, which is a nonprofit higher education program at Washington State Reformatory, I helped to guide the curriculum and assist the outside Board fulfill its mission. When the meetings ended, I returned to the cellblock to the same monotony and deprivation.

For years, I helped shepherd younger prisoners through their sentences, trying to instill all the knowledge and sense that I could in them. After giving them an embrace or handshake before they left to return to the community, I returned to the cellblock to continue serving out my life sentence.

Always back to the cellblock.

Reform is irrelevant.

You can receive praise from the highest quarters. But it means nothing because you will still remain imprisoned serving your life sentence. I have received praise from such quarters.

This Facebook post from the King County Prosecutor’s Office about me manifests that even if the agency that was instrumental in securing your life sentence is impressed by your efforts and wishes you the best, it is nothing more than an ironic anecdote to share with the rest of the lifers on the cellblock.

I regained my sanity after being denied parole in 2017. It was then that I truly understood the irrelevance of reform. Since then, working to help change the lives of others and trying to have an impact on society is no longer satisfying. I continue to do it out of routine and the absence of alternatives that seem worthwhile aside from sleeping.

But my heart is no longer in it.

Ultimately, wasted potential is destructive to a lifer’s psyche because long after hope is gone, they continue moving forward like zombies. Stubbornly, we cling to the hope that one day we will be freed due to a change in the law, a successful appeal, parole (if you’re eligible), or executive clemency.

I see them on the cellblock every day.

I see one in the mirror every morning.

We grow older. Our hair grays and hairlines recede. Yet our skills, intellectual gifts and positive qualities continue to be wasted on the cellblock solely for the sake of retribution.

Atif Rafay can write the Best Canadian Essay for 2013 and become a Nietzsche scholar, but he knows full well that his potential is shackled.

Arthur Longworth can be a role model for prisoners such as Michael J. Moore, helping him publish his novel After the Change, but Longworth is still destined to die imprisoned notwithstanding his remorse, reform, and writing awards.

I use these two examples due to my affinity for the writers who are confined with me. Yet countless rehabilitated prisoners across the country have the potential to meaningfully contribute to society and will never have the opportunity because of a life sentence.

Victor Hassine undoubtedly knew this better than me, given his 35 years in captivity.

For decades, he must have taken heart in the belief that his writing was affecting future policymakers. He surely saw himself as a voice in the battle against mass incarceration. Prisoners probably saw him as someone to emulate. Officials likely gave him kudos for his efforts.

Yet getting out of prison was unmistakably his highest priority. Such is the case for everyone who has sense and is serving a life sentence.

I can assure you that he wanted to use a word processor instead of a typewriter circa 1990. He wanted to lecture at Pennsylvania State University rather than to guests at Graterford Correctional Institution. Yet at the end of the day, neither his acclaim nor curriculum vitae enabled him to escape the grim reality that prisons dispense misery quite generously.

Success cannot inoculate against despondency.

So, while college students studied his text, he continued to be strip searched, face the threat of violence, and suffer the other countless indignities that are a product of punishment in America.

Jeremiah Bourgeois

He reached his limit, put down his prize-winning pen, and ended the cruelties by taking his own life—underscoring that acclaim and a curriculum vitae are the zenith of wasted potential for those who are imprisoned serving life sentences.

Jeremiah Bourgeois is a regular contributor to TCR, and a Washington State prisoner who has been serving a life sentence since he was 14 years old. He is due for another hearing before the Washington State parole board in early August. Those who wish to support his release can sign the petition here. He welcomes comments from readers.

Does Reform Matter? The Hopelessness of a Life Sentence syndicated from https://immigrationattorneyto.wordpress.com/

[candelariabrouss-blog]

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