#tw murder

I usually don’t post about big events but I haven’t seen anyone post this yet. This is the piece of shit ICE agent that shot and killed a woman trying to get away from him. Nothing has been publicly revealed about the woman other than she’s described as middle aged and white. No name or photos given.

Don’t let them think that just because they put on a mask they’re safe from public scrutiny

And of course, the police are claiming "no foul play" in Murry's death.

I hope every disabled person, living or dead, knows they are loved. I love you. I understand you. The world is changing, progress is being made, and one day, we will no longer have to live in fear. One day, we will not need a disability day of mourning.

Any form of hormone replacement therapy or sex-change surgery is illegal unless the participant is intersex. Intersex genital mutilation is legal and even encouraged.

A (thankfully-unenforced law) is that any homosexual relations, even if consensual, are punished by death.

Crossdressing is illegal and extremely frowned down upon.

Then I see people on social medias calling transgender men “theyfabs” and “transandrobros” for daring to speak up.

Then I see entirely new binaries being made to justify oppression olympics (looking at you, TMA/TME)

Then I see some of the most rancid and pointless discourse, coming from people who live in nations where being out as transgender, as gay, as intersex or as any marginalised identity is encouraged.

From people who don’t have to suppress themselves to stay alive.

From people who don’t have to face some of the worst queerphobia each day and keep a smile throughout.

From people who have allies for family, for people who have so much support.

simon doesn’t remember much of that night. he can’t remember the sounds of joseph’s wails as his uncle stabbed his daddy thirty-seven times in the belly, or the sound of the toddler’s dainty neck snapping when his screams started to too-closely resemble sirens, nor can he recall what it felt like to crush beth’s skull in between his bare hands. all he remembers was being very, very afraid, convinced that he was in danger, that roba had found him and his family and had come back to finish the job.

the judge called it a psychotic breakdown, an unfortunate side effect of what he went through in captivity. they sentenced simon to twenty years, fifteen if he behaved himself, and that was that—an irreversible tragedy that would likely be forgotten by the next time he saw sun. he wasn’t the first soldier who shouldn’t have come back, and he will not be the last.

that’s what war does to a man. it changes him, it chews him up and it spits him out anew, mangled, unrecognizable from who he once was.

simon often wishes it would’ve swallowed him whole. if it had, tommy would still be here. beth, too. joseph would’ve lived to see his seventh birthday. he spends most of his time nowadays loathing manuel roba for not finishing him off when he had the chance.

in prison, there’s nothing to do but think, to remember, to regret what happened, what he did. that, he imagines, is the whole point. it forces him to face the man in the mirror, as loathsome as he might be. every time he dares to look, he sees less and less of simon riley and more of the ghost.

five years, he’s been here, with nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company, and the rats in the walls. there’s no one to visit him, no one inside willing to call him a friend, not that he wants to be, nobody to drown out the voices.

until you.

this anxious, wily little creature, laughing with him even when all your most primal instincts tell you to run, to get far, far away from him, like he might snap you in two. he could, if he wanted to. luckily for you, he doesn’t.

you’re the first person in five years to address him as a human being, to hold a genuine conversation with him not because you have to, but because you’re decent enough to look upon a murderer and take pity.

he’s surprised you’ve lasted so long in this place. you’re either terribly fortunate, or incredibly resilient. he hasn’t decided which yet.

during the week he spends in the infirmary, you tend to him patiently, loyally, humming under your breath while you work, and never daring to broach the subject of what landed him here. but he’s sure that you know. someone must have warned you by now. still, you do your duty with such diligence he can’t help but admire it. he remembers what it felt like to be so devout.

you’re still skittish, scarcely looking him in the eye, avoiding his teeth and hands at all costs. it excites him, almost. people don’t fear him in this place. they look down on him, they sneer at him, but they are not afraid of him like they should be. every time your breath hitches when he grins, it sends a thrill up his spine.

when it comes time to return to his cell, he’s rather disappointed. he’s alone again, pacing the floor like a rat in a cage, thinking of tommy, of beth and joseph, of you. he lasts two weeks before he decides that he can’t take it anymore.

this time, he’s ready for them when they come. the same fuckers who tried to take him out last time, the ones who led him to you. when the shadows reach for him, he lets them, lets them pound his face into an unforgiving ground, lets them crack his ribs and beat him bloody. just enough that he’ll be sent back, that you’ll have no choice but to smile at him and coddle him like you did the first time. he won’t let them kill him, though he deserves it, but he’ll let them have the satisfaction of bludgeoning the biggest, baddest beast in the block and living to tell the tale.

his reward far outweighs theirs, anyways.

“back so soon, riley?”

he grins at the sight of your tired eyes and wry smile, the way you flit just out of his reach.