This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Saturdead on 2026-08-07 21:25:02+00:00.
A couple of years ago, I walked in on my wife Laura and her coworker, Henry. The same guy she’d promised there was nothing going on with. Same guy we’d had not one, but four different fights about. Especially after the Christmas party; someone shared a picture on their socials with the two of them slow dancing. She had insisted and sworn that nothing was going on, and yet here he was with his tongue down her mouth.
It feels strange to be in a moment like that, where you know there was one distinct life before, and a separate life after. But in that moment, all I could focus on was the sweat bead on his brow, and his hand on her chest. Part of me wanted to cry, but another part of me wanted to fight. The fighting part won. I ended up beating Henry within an inch of his life. He got a jaw fracture, a concussion, and lost nine teeth. It took three men to pull me away. Next thing I know, I’m in county jail.
It was a fast trial. I took a guilty plea. The judge acknowledged that I had no prior record, and that it was an emotionally charged situation. Despite that, he couldn’t condone vigilantism. I got a three-year sentence with the possibility of parole after one. And, of course, a restraining order. Needless to say, Laura is now my ex-wife, and I found out how expensive a divorce can get.
I could write a whole book about my experience in jail, but what I want to talk about is what happened after that first year. When it was time to review my options, I was asked to stand in front of the parole board. Five people who were to decide what to do with me. I’d behaved. I’d showed up for the anger management classes. I didn’t have any beef with any of the inmates, and I kept to myself. Odds were on my side.
“After reviewing your case, we see no issue with proceeding as intended,” they said. “Do you agree to the terms of your parole as outlined in the agreement presented by the board?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Have you been given the opportunity to properly review the conditions with your legal counsel in a timely manner?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Then unless anyone has anything to add, I think we can proceed with-“
One of the board members on the far right raised a hand and looked at the others, waving their fingers a little for attention. Miss Wells. She was in her mid-30’s. African American with a bright smile and square glasses. They all turned to her. She was a little younger than the others and dressed in more expensive clothes.
“Sir, are you aware that this parole is scheduled for the next 24 months?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Have you been informed that there is an option for a suspension of the last 14 months of sentencing?”
That made me raise an eyebrow. I looked over at my lawyer. He shrugged at me. Turning back to miss Wells, I shook my head.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Interesting,” she said, looking at the others. “Very interesting. There is an option for a 10-month parole, but with alternate provisions and requirements. Have you not been given the opportunity to review this?”
“No, I have not.”
“We’ll rectify that.”
The conditions of my parole were pretty bog standard. I couldn’t procure a firearm, I was to submit to random drug testing, not to associate with criminals, reporting to my parole officer, that sort of thing. It was scheduled for 24 months, but I was given the opportunity to start a 10-month program once I’d had time to review the alternate conditions. They handed me a folder and shoved me out the door.
At first I was just happy to be out, but after a couple of weeks I realized how the odds were stacked against me. My parole officer didn’t give two shits about the context of my incarceration; a felon is a felon. I was on the same level as drug dealers and gang bangers. You don’t get special treatment for being nice; they just look you in the eye a little longer.
I was having trouble finding a stable job. I was barely holding on to a part-time thing at a gas station and sleeping in my car in the church parking lot. And yeah, I wasn’t my best self. I kept seeing Laura living the high life on her socials. She wasn’t dating Henry or anything, their connection meant nothing. That somehow made it worse.
But looking at Henry’s scarred chin on his LinkedIn profile, I can’t say the fucker didn’t deserve it.
The 10-month program they’d offered me was called the ‘pilot enhancement scheme’. I’m not one to walk right into something named ‘scheme’, so I read through the folder cover to cover about three times over. It sounded a little too good to be true.
The pilot enhancement scheme was supposed to be this experimental program that allowed the state to invest less resources to monitor and control paroled inmates. I’d still have to submit to random drug tests, and I still couldn’t carry a gun, but there were certain improvements. I didn’t have to physically check in with my parole officer more than once a month, for example. But I had to agree to an external monitor device.
That’s where things got murky. It was called the compound wave pattern control, or the CWPC. This little electronic thing you kept behind your ear, no larger than a hearing aid. It came in six different colors, including transparent. It had a wireless charger and had a 20-hour battery life. But it wasn’t entirely clear what it actually did.
I remember lying in the back of my car, balancing my phone on my forehead, trying to read in the dark. I read the same sentence ten times over, but it didn’t make any sense.
“The CWPC monitors corrigible intentions and suggests alternate action patterns in accordance with provided guidelines of good personal conduct parameters. This is done through a mild and reversible external wave stimulus.”
The fuck does that even mean?
I scheduled a meeting with miss Wells from the parole board. The one who’d suggested the scheme to begin with. She’d given me her number, allowing me to ask further questions about the enhancement scheme. Not only were questions allowed, they were encouraged. I could schedule a meeting with her instead of going to a parole check-in, so it was a win-win.
I met miss Wells downtown on the third level of a small office building. I kind of forgot that she had an elected position, meaning she was in no uncertain terms, a politician. That made me more nervous then the stupid tech jargon. You can trust a nerd with specifications. You can’t trust someone with smiling posters of themselves plastered on the wall. She was short, reaching no taller than 5’1. I think her small stature served her; it made her less imposing. You don’t want someone scary to offer you strange tech. As I entered her office, she walked over to shake my hand.
“Right this way,” she said. “And thank you for your consideration.”
“I haven’t agreed to anything.”
“Oh, I’m sure you will.”
She showed me the CWPC. It really did look like a hearing aid. The thing was so light that I was scared to pick it up. Who knows how much something like that even costs? Miss Wells clapped her hands together and sat down on top of her desk like a cool youth pastor.
“Isn’t it handy?” she said. “I’m sure you’ve read the specs already.”
“What does it do?”
“Why don’t you try it on?”
I looked at it and shook my head. She picked up the CWPC and held it out to me, giving me a knowing look.
“It’s not dangerous,” she said. “Yes, it’s a pilot program, but the results are astounding. You’d have to get struck by lightning for this thing to bother you, and by then, you got bigger problems.”
“So it’s not dangerous?”
“You tell me.”
I picked it up and turned it around. Putting it to the back of my ear, I could feel it slotting into place. There was a little startup beep, and that was that. I couldn’t feel a thing.
“Now what?” I asked.
“Now it’s monitoring. That’s it.”
“So it’s a camera?”
“No, it’s all local, like a filter. We’re very serious about client privacy, as outlined in the extended agreement.”
“If you wouldn’t mind, please talk like a real person.”
She snorted at that and adjusted her glasses.
“You want real? Alright, let’s talk real.”
She got off her desk desk and looked up at me, pointing at my ear.
“That thing will get you off the hook in 10 months. You can’t break it. You gotta charge it. But if you sign the papers and walk out of here with that thing, today, you’re gonna notice that life will be a whole lot easier.”
“What’s the catch?”
She rolled her eyes.
“Raise your hand.”
I did.
“Now, think about hitting me.”
I put my hand back down, but she grabbed my arm and raised it, putting me back in the same position.
“Think about hitting me,” she insisted. “Don’t do it, but think about it.”
I did as miss Wells asked – sort of. I thought about pushing her away, because she was annoying. But something took hold of my conscious thoughts. The moment I thought about pushing her, a black square blinked in the top right corner of my eye, and my vision shifted. There were flashes of images. Each one went off in my head like a gunshot. I saw miss Wells falling and breaking her foot. Screaming on the floor. I saw her limping, weeks later, and falling down a staircase because she couldn’t get the crutches right. I saw her eyes turn white, dead, and cold, as her neck snapped.
The image dissipated, leaving me with a burning sensation that turned my ear flaming red. My eyes teared up with a thick viscous jelly that stuck to my lashes. Miss Wells was standing in front of me like nothing happened, offering me a paper towel.
“That’s ...
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