u/LVBikeGuy

​

People always ask why I didn't just get locked in a closet like other kids. I wish that's all it had been. (Part 2)

People hear "locked in a closet" and flinch. It's the image everyone already has ready — a door, a dark, a child folded into some small space nobody's supposed to be folded into. It sounds like the worst thing a house can do to a kid.

I'd have taken it. Gladly. Every time.

A closet has walls. A closet has a door, and a door — even a locked one — is a boundary, a line between you and whatever's on the other side of it. Inside it, whatever else is happening, you're contained. You're not reachable. Whatever's coming has to open something first, has to make a decision and act on it, and in that half-second of a door swinging open, there's at least the smallest warning that something is about to happen.

We didn't get a door. We got a position that gave us nothing — no walls, no cover, no boundary between us and a hallway anyone in the house could walk through at any moment, for any reason, or none. Legs straight, hands on the floor, bent all the way forward, for hours, in the open, in the one place in the house everyone had to pass through to get anywhere else.

That's not confinement. That's the opposite of confinement. It's total, permanent exposure, dressed up as punishment, and it comes with its own physical torment built directly into the shape of it — the ache starting in your legs and climbing everywhere else, no part of the position that gives, no way to shift the weight anywhere it might hurt less. A closet asks a kid to endure only the dark and the waiting. This asked us to endure the dark and the waiting and the pain and the exposure, all four at once, with no wall or door standing between any of it and us.

I've thought about this more than I probably should have. Which was worse. And I keep landing in the same place: at least a closet would have let me not be seen. At least it would have made me harder to reach. What we had instead made us easier — easier to kick, easier to hit, easier to have a shoe thrown at from clear across a room — because there was nothing left of us that wasn't already open, already offered up, already exactly where anyone in that house could get to us without even having to try.

That position wasn't the worst thing that happened in that house. It was just the thing that made everything else possible.

Part 3 coming soon.

The lead is small enough that I have to pinch it between two fingers to keep it from disappearing into the floor. It isn't a pencil. It's what's left of one, the wood long gone, just the gray stick of it, worn down to almost nothing from all the writing.

I will not steal at night.

I write it in the left column. Then again in the right column, a few inches over, because one column isn't enough — there has to be two, so it takes twice as long, so there's twice as much proof by the time I'm done. Legs straight, knees locked, hands flat on the floor on either side of the paper, bent all the way forward at the waist until my face is close enough to see nothing but the blank floor around it. There's no part of this position that gives, no way to shift the weight off one part of me onto another — it's built to hurt everywhere at once, all the time, for as long as it's held, and my hands shake a little by the time I've written it forty, fifty times, because that's exactly what it's built to do to a kid.

I will not steal at night.

There's a bologna sandwich next to me on the floor. That's dinner — not the table, not what everyone else is having, just bread and a single slice of meat, eaten in pieces between lines, bent double the whole time because nobody said the punishment stops for food. I stole real food once, in the middle of the night, so now real food isn't something I get to have while I'm being reminded not to do it again.

Upstairs — or maybe it's just across the room, but it feels like upstairs, it feels like somewhere I'm not allowed to look toward — I can hear the table. Forks. My father's voice doing the big warm laugh he does when other people are watching him be a good time. Someone says pass the rolls. Someone else laughs at something I don't hear the start of.

I will not steal at night.

I don't look up. Looking up costs something I don't have enough of tonight.

When it's over — when the table's plates are scraped clean and everyone's had their fill, second helpings and all, the good parts of dinner already finished without me — that's when my father's chair scrapes back and his voice goes bright, the same voice from before, like nothing happened, like I hadn't spent the whole meal bent over a piece of paper eating a bologna sandwich in pieces.

"Let's play a game!" he says, and everyone perks up because a game from Dad means the fun part of the night is starting. "Let's see how much everybody can eat in two minutes. Go!"

And I'm allowed to the table now — allowed, like it's a gift — and there's nothing left but scraps, the picked-over parts nobody wanted after they'd already eaten their fill, and I'm standing there shoveling it into my mouth as fast as I can because the game has a clock and everyone is watching and laughing, and I don't understand yet that the laughing isn't about the food.

Dogs. That's what we looked like. That's what I was, for two minutes, on Thanksgiving, in front of everyone who was supposed to love me.

Nobody at that table called it a punishment. They called it a game.

That was the first Thanksgiving I remember clearly. It wasn't the last one that went that way. It wasn't even close to the worst thing that happened in that house — I just didn't know that yet, standing there with scraps in my hands, two minutes on a clock nobody let me see.

There's more. There's a lot more. I'm going to keep writing it down, one piece at a time, exactly the way I remember it.

(Part 2 coming soon.)

Warning : This and subsequent posts in this series will contain content that describes abhorrent and graphic child abuse. Reader discretion is advised.

People hear "locked in a closet" and flinch. It's the image everyone already has ready — a door, a dark, a child folded into some small space nobody's supposed to be folded into. It sounds like the worst thing a house can do to a kid.

I'd have taken it. Gladly. Every time.

A closet has walls. A closet has a door, and a door — even a locked one — is a boundary, a line between you and whatever's on the other side of it. Inside it, whatever else is happening, you're contained. You're not reachable. Whatever's coming has to open something first, has to make a decision and act on it, and in that half-second of a door swinging open, there's at least the smallest warning that something is about to happen.

We didn't get a door. We got a position that gave us nothing — no walls, no cover, no boundary between us and a hallway anyone in the house could walk through at any moment, for any reason, or none. Legs straight, hands on the floor, bent all the way forward, for hours, in the open, in the one place in the house everyone had to pass through to get anywhere else.

That's not confinement. That's the opposite of confinement. It's total, permanent exposure, dressed up as punishment, and it comes with its own physical torment built directly into the shape of it — the ache starting in your legs and climbing everywhere else, no part of the position that gives, no way to shift the weight anywhere it might hurt less. A closet asks a kid to endure only the dark and the waiting. This asked us to endure the dark and the waiting and the pain and the exposure, all four at once, with no wall or door standing between any of it and us.

I've thought about this more than I probably should have. Which was worse. And I keep landing in the same place: at least a closet would have let me not be seen. At least it would have made me harder to reach. What we had instead made us easier — easier to kick, easier to hit, easier to have a shoe thrown at from clear across a room — because there was nothing left of us that wasn't already open, already offered up, already exactly where anyone in that house could get to us without even having to try.

That position wasn't the worst thing that happened in that house. It was just the thing that made everything else possible.

No Remorse Part One can be found here : https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1vng0o8/my_family_had_a_tradition_at_thanksgiving_i_was/

(Part 3 coming soon.)

The lead is small enough that I have to pinch it between two fingers to keep it from disappearing into the floor. It isn't a pencil. It's what's left of one, the wood long gone, just the gray stick of it, worn down to almost nothing from all the writing.

I will not steal at night.

I write it in the left column. Then again in the right column, a few inches over, because one column isn't enough — there has to be two, so it takes twice as long, so there's twice as much proof by the time I'm done. Legs straight, knees locked, hands flat on the floor on either side of the paper, bent all the way forward at the waist until my face is close enough to see nothing but the blank floor around it. There's no part of this position that gives, no way to shift the weight off one part of me onto another — it's built to hurt everywhere at once, all the time, for as long as it's held, and my hands shake a little by the time I've written it forty, fifty times, because that's exactly what it's built to do to a kid.

I will not steal at night.

There's a bologna sandwich next to me on the floor. That's dinner — not the table, not what everyone else is having, just bread and a single slice of meat, eaten in pieces between lines, bent double the whole time because nobody said the punishment stops for food. I stole real food once, in the middle of the night, so now real food isn't something I get to have while I'm being reminded not to do it again.

Upstairs — or maybe it's just across the room, but it feels like upstairs, it feels like somewhere I'm not allowed to look toward — I can hear the table. Forks. My father's voice doing the big warm laugh he does when other people are watching him be a good time. Someone says pass the rolls. Someone else laughs at something I don't hear the start of.

I will not steal at night.

I don't look up. Looking up costs something I don't have enough of tonight.

When it's over — when the table's plates are scraped clean and everyone's had their fill, second helpings and all, the good parts of dinner already finished without me — that's when my father's chair scrapes back and his voice goes bright, the same voice from before, like nothing happened, like I hadn't spent the whole meal bent over a piece of paper eating a bologna sandwich in pieces.

"Let's play a game!" he says, and everyone perks up because a game from Dad means the fun part of the night is starting. "Let's see how much everybody can eat in two minutes. Go!"

And I'm allowed to the table now — allowed, like it's a gift — and there's nothing left but scraps, the picked-over parts nobody wanted after they'd already eaten their fill, and I'm standing there shoveling it into my mouth as fast as I can because the game has a clock and everyone is watching and laughing, and I don't understand yet that the laughing isn't about the food.

Dogs. That's what we looked like. That's what I was, for two minutes, on Thanksgiving, in front of everyone who was supposed to love me.

Nobody at that table called it a punishment. They called it a game.

That was the first Thanksgiving I remember clearly. It wasn't the last one that went that way. It wasn't even close to the worst thing that happened in that house — I just didn't know that yet, standing there with scraps in my hands, two minutes on a clock nobody let me see.

There's more. There's a lot more. I'm going to keep writing it down, one piece at a time, exactly the way I remember it.

(Part 2 coming soon.)

The lead is small enough that I have to pinch it between two fingers to keep it from disappearing into the floor. It isn't a pencil. It's what's left of one, the wood long gone, just the gray stick of it, worn down to almost nothing from all the writing.

I will not steal at night.

I write it in the left column. Then again in the right column, a few inches over, because one column isn't enough — there has to be two, so it takes twice as long, so there's twice as much proof by the time I'm done. Legs straight, knees locked, hands flat on the floor on either side of the paper, bent all the way forward at the waist until my face is close enough to see nothing but the blank floor around it. There's no part of this position that gives, no way to shift the weight off one part of me onto another — it's built to hurt everywhere at once, all the time, for as long as it's held, and my hands shake a little by the time I've written it forty, fifty times, because that's exactly what it's built to do to a kid.

I will not steal at night.

There's a bologna sandwich next to me on the floor. That's dinner — not the table, not what everyone else is having, just bread and a single slice of meat, eaten in pieces between lines, bent double the whole time because nobody said the punishment stops for food. I stole real food once, in the middle of the night, so now real food isn't something I get to have while I'm being reminded not to do it again.

Upstairs — or maybe it's just across the room, but it feels like upstairs, it feels like somewhere I'm not allowed to look toward — I can hear the table. Forks. My father's voice doing the big warm laugh he does when other people are watching him be a good time. Someone says pass the rolls. Someone else laughs at something I don't hear the start of.

I will not steal at night.

I don't look up. Looking up costs something I don't have enough of tonight.

When it's over — when the table's plates are scraped clean and everyone's had their fill, second helpings and all, the good parts of dinner already finished without me — that's when my father's chair scrapes back and his voice goes bright, the same voice from before, like nothing happened, like I hadn't spent the whole meal bent over a piece of paper eating a bologna sandwich in pieces.

"Let's play a game!" he says, and everyone perks up because a game from Dad means the fun part of the night is starting. "Let's see how much everybody can eat in two minutes. Go!"

And I'm allowed to the table now — allowed, like it's a gift — and there's nothing left but scraps, the picked-over parts nobody wanted after they'd already eaten their fill, and I'm standing there shoveling it into my mouth as fast as I can because the game has a clock and everyone is watching and laughing, and I don't understand yet that the laughing isn't about the food.

Dogs. That's what we looked like. That's what I was, for two minutes, on Thanksgiving, in front of everyone who was supposed to love me.

Nobody at that table called it a punishment. They called it a game.

That was the first Thanksgiving I remember clearly. It wasn't the last one that went that way. It wasn't even close to the worst thing that happened in that house — I just didn't know that yet, standing there with scraps in my hands, two minutes on a clock nobody let me see.

There's more. There's a lot more. I'm going to keep writing it down, one piece at a time, exactly the way I remember it.

(Part 2 coming soon.)

Simple point and click interface. So easy a 10 year old could use it. Tells you whats going to go bad, how soon. And creates recipes around the oldest household items in inventory.

[https://fridge-app.swiftservellc.com\](https://fridge-app.swiftservellc.com)

Looking for feedback, suggestions.

https://fridge-app.swiftservellc.com

Looking for feedback, suggestions.

https://fridge-app.swiftservellc.com

Looking for feedback, suggestions.

Simple point and click interface. So easy a 10 year old could use it. Tells you whats going to go bad, how soon. And creates recipes around the oldest household items in inventory.

Are you a closer who's tired of selling someone else's overbuilt SaaS?

I built a lean B2B verification engine from scratch — live, deployed, validated in the field. $100-$2,500/month per customer. Straight commission, founder equity, no ceiling.

I don't need a resume. I need someone who can walk into a logistics office and walk out with a signed customer.

If that's you, let's talk.

We built a 128-bit verification engine (80KB) to kill PII in parking apps. Is Event Parking the right wedge?

Most parking apps fail because they demand too much personal data up front (email, phone, payment info). This kills trust for peer-to-peer driveway rentals.

We have an engine that verifies users anonymously (128-bit, 80KB footprint) without storing any PII.

The specific use case we are testing: Event Parking (concerts/sports).

The fan: Books a driveway near the stadium without creating an account or sharing their identity.

The homeowner: Gets paid without exposing their address to random strangers until the booking is confirmed.

The platform: Uses the 80KB engine to prove the user is legitimate (no bots/duplicates) without holding a single record of who they are.

The Ask:

Is "Event Parking" the right Segway into the market? Or should we focus on corporate parking first?

Would you use an app that doesn't require your phone number or email just to park for a game?

Think Turing Correctness, the Liars Paradox, and The Ship of Thesus paradoxes