The Slow Sort Of Bad - Scheherazade Project

He used to think that flooding at test depth would be the worst way to go - a massive surge of pressure as the ocean overwhelmed the submarine would cause the men within to essentially implode. An instant yet ultraviolent death.
But waiting to die? This was much worse.
It had been 17 hours since a torpedo hot run had filled the forward compartment with cyanide gas, the faint scent of almonds lingering in the air. The subsequent explosion irreparably damaged the seals on the hatch separating the torpedo tube from the compartment.
It had been 14 hours since the knocking on the airtight door between the forward compartment and engine room had stopped. It had started out as a cacophonous banging but slowly degraded to an almost inaudible tapping as the men on the wrong side of the hatch succumbed. Only one of the remaining 11 crewmembers on the right side of the hatch made any effort to open it, but he was quickly restrained by the others. Opening that door would only slightly extend the life for the few lucky enough to survive the initial blast but would mean certain death for everyone else as the gas and smoke filled the only compartment not yet inundated with them.
So they sat there and listened to the banging turn into knocking turn into tapping turn into silence. None dared make eye contact with anyone else as the waited for their comrades to die.
Alexei dreaded the impending shame he would feel in the event they were rescued. How could he look into the eyes of the wives and children of the men he let die? How could he face his own family, his own father knowing he was a coward? He had been trained to fight fires and combat flooding. He had been drilled on every conceivable casualty scenario. But he had never been trained on how sacrifice other lives so that he may live.
Their initial expectation was that rescue was imminent. They could hear the emergency beacon reverberating of the sides of the hull and transmitting a signal to the other ships in the area. Surely it would be heard.
Hours passed before beacon faded to nothing as the ship's battery weakened, it's output now a trickle as the lights began to slowly dim. This was among other signs that their situation was getting worse rather than better - the aft section rising as the bow filled with water, the periodic bursts as the forward compartments & tanks collapsed under the intense pressure, and the undeniable diminishing of the ever-present hum of machinery and electronics.
The only officer present assigned teams of two to alternate pounding on the hull with wrenches, weighing the importance of signaling their position with the inescapable fact that the more energy they expended, the more oxygen they consumed. The sound would resonate through miles of seawater in hopes of reaching the sonar arrays of rescue ships.
They kept this up for 11 more hours, their efforts sustained only by drinking handfuls of water from the bilges and eating packets of sugar found in one of the lockers.
The monotonous sound of wrenches pounding against the bulkheads began to be interspersed with the sound of grown men weeping - weeping for sons & daughters never to be seen again, weeping for words unspoken to their wives, weeping for wasted years and weeping for their impending doom. Some began to write letters on whatever scraps of paper they could muster. While not knowing how much time they had left, the notes were rushed and absent of any extraneous thought or emotion. One was even a remorseful confession to his wife for infidelities too numerous to mention.
Then it began to happen.
At first it was the overweight diesel mechanic that drifted off to sleep. Then it was the 42-year old electrician. Not a word was spoken but every single one of the remaining men was secretly relieved - more air for them.
But the distress beacon MUST have been heard. Or at least some ship must have heard the rhythmic metallic beating against the hull. It was only a matter of time before they were rescued. They just had to stay awake.
But now gathered in the aft-most bay and surrounded by silent machinery, the men slipped away one by one. Some attempted to only inhale tiny amounts of air at a time, hoping against hope to buy just a few more minutes. Others discreetly took slow deep breathes, consuming more so that others would have less.
But not a single person moved. Not even an inch, fearful that any wasted movement would mean wasted air. But no matter how they tried, they couldn't stop their own hearts from beating faster and faster, racing away in panic and knowledge that rescue efforts would come too late. The more rapid their hearts fluttered, more oxygen was stripped from their lungs.
Then there were just eight left.
Then seven.
Four others went in rapid succession - one moment with tears running down their cheeks and the next moment..... nothing.
Alexei watched as his officer's eyelids began to slide down, pause for just a moment then continue all the way shut.
"I don't want to die. Please God don't let me die", begged his last remaining comrade.
Those were his last words, repeated over and over again until they became a whisper.
Alexei reached over and removed the philanderer's letter from the grip of his lifeless fingers. Pulling out his lighter and fully understanding it's oxygen-burning implications, he lit the note and brushed the ashes into the bilge below. He scribbled "I'll always love you" on a page ripped from his bible and put it in place of the original goodbye.
Then he held his breath and waited - waited for the slow sort of bad that robbed him of tomorrow.

A Hard Truth - Scheherazade Project

It's easier than you might think.
By the time I volunteered to do pro bono counseling at Mansfield Correctional (not to be confused with the Mansfield reformatory, site of Shawshank Redemption, Tango & Cash, etc - it's been closed down for over 15 years) most of the work had already been done. By then I already had a fairly comprehensive list of all the inmates, their crimes and sentences. From there it was only a matter of developing a profile for just the right target. God bless the internet.
You'd also be surprised at how easy it was to get inside. Prisons are so desperate for counselors that the background check consisted of little more than a basic criminal history (I didn't have one - my record has been expunged) and a set of my fingerprints.
Done.
Within two weeks of my initial offer to volunteer, I was counseling inmates in my own non-tape-recorded office. It was pretty much what you'd expect - anxiety over their wives fidelity on the outside, feelings of hopelessness, rough facades replaced by tears, etc. Not that I gave a shit about them or their problems. That wasn't what I was there for.
I started out hoping that one of the prisoners I had targeted would just walk right in, but after a week or so I started to get a little anxious. Thinking that I'd have to settle for less than desireable, I started amending my plans.
But I didn't have to. Because that's when I met 50 Grams. And he was perfect.
He was nicknamed 50 Grams because that's the smallest amount of pure methamphetamine that will trigger the harsher mandatory minimum of no less than 20 years. He was busted after a routine traffic stop turned up the meth in the trunk of his car - boom, first offense. The subsequent search warrant for his apartment turned up another 75 grams - boom, second offense & twenty to life.
Already 51 years old, it was essentially a death sentence and he knew it. He was going to die behind cinder blocks and razor wire.
I meant to work him along slowly, but I was just giddy in anticipation. I turned every session towards his feelings of remorse and regret for not being able to take care of his family. Week after week after week, I fed his inner turmoil until he was ready to explode.
"You have a daughter graduating high school this year, right? Is she planning on going to college" I asked innocently.
He answered that she had done well in school, but there was no money for college. Personally I found it remarkable that she even made it that far. I'd already searched the county records to find that she'd been in and out of foster care as her biological mother fought her own drug demons. The kid certainly deserved a better fate.
"But there are all sorts of scholarships and grants out there for deserving students, especially if there's a financial need. She'll find something". I just egged him on. "As a matter of fact, I give a $5,000 scholarship to children of inmates. I've done it for the last 3 years".
His eyes lit up.
Criminals know another con when they see one. It's just an awareness they have after having lived the Life for so long. And he knew right then that something devious was in the books.
I continued - "She really does sound quite deserving. Plus, it's not like you're some lowlife kiddy rapist. You know, kinda like the one living right down from you on the block - the guy that molested all the pre-schoolers. That guy is a real scumbag and deserves something else entirely."
His shoulders squared to me as he responded.
"So what would think he deserves?", both of us NOT having the same conversation.
"Oh, I don't know. But if it were me, I'd want him to get some of what he'd been giving to those little kids. A taste of his own medicine. Then I'd want him to bleed out as slowly and painfully as possible. Too bad he's locked up here though".
We both walked a little farther across the line.
"Well, things like that have been known to happen here behind bars. Guys like him usually don't make a lot of friends" he said, tacitly agreeing to his half of the deal.
"Frankly I think there's a certain honor in dealing justice like that. It's scary knowing that he's up for parole in 16 months. I don't see how he got 4 years while you got 20. It's just not right. But I'd bet that someone will take care of your family while you're in" I said as I tacitly agreed to my half of the deal.
We did one more session before he stopped coming. I did another month before I told the associate warden that I wouldn't be able to volunteer anymore. It was just becoming too big of a burden on my professional life.

A child molester was buried in scarcely marked grave on the prison grounds a few weeks later. The daughter of a meth junkie started community college four months after that.

And my pain still hasn't gone away.
Not after the molester.
Not after the punk that shot a gas station attendant for 27 bucks.
Not after the babysitter that shook an infant to death.
And not after the drunk driver that killed my fiance.

But maybe after the next one........