TW: Terror, imprisonment, claustrophobia, cold, hyperventilating, begging, mental breakdown, blood, scratching, self harm(!!)
Whumper grabs Whumpee’s arms and pulls them up. Whumpee stares at them in terror, unsure of what’s happening. They hadn’t done anything wrong - at least, not that they’d been aware of.
Whumpee’s heart rate speeds up as soon as they see the menacing door glaring at them from down the hall. They dig their heels into the floor, trying not to give into their resistance but not being able to stand the idea of the tiny cell again.
“No, no, please! Please, I- I’ll be good!”
Whumper looks down at Whumpee, their eyes cold, merciless.
“P-please! N-no, not there, I- I can’t- please, Whumper! I can’t–”
“What was that?” Whumper’s grip on Whumpee strengthened as they lifted them up to eye level as though they weighed nothing.
“S-sir,” Whumpee whispered, tears filling their eyes and blurring the cruel image of Whumper. Whumper grabs the door to the cell with their free hand and it opens with a loud, angry creak.
“S-sir! Sir!” Whumpee squealed. “Please, I’m b-begging, d-don’t m-ma-m-make me- I’m begging-”
“I know,” Whumper growled, tossing Whumpee into the elevator-sized room, and they collapse on the floor. They let out a loud sob. Whumpee stumbles to their feet and slams themselves against the door just as it falls shut; all their wounds burst with pain.
The door clicks locked. Instantly the world goes purely silent. Dark. They can’t see their hand in front of their face, and terror sets in quickly. Whumpee takes a step back. Another. Anoth— Their back hits the wall. Whumpee slips to the concrete floor, gripping their arms tight and squeezing their eyes shut in horror. They know how small the room is. They can practically feel it, closing in, growing smaller and smaller until they’re suffocated. The walls are so close, why are they so close?
Whumpee can feel words on the tip of their tongue, they can remember how they sounded and felt, but they won’t come out. So instead they sob, their body shaking violently, every limb trembling against the cold stone floor.
The walls are growing closer. Squeezing their heart. The room is soundproof, which only amplifies their pounding heartbeat. It’s not even a room, really. It’s a closet. A dark, empty closet. A perfect claustrophobic nightmare.
Whumpee curls up in the corner of the room, hugging their knees to their chest and leaning their head against the wall as the tears slip down their face. They close their eyes. They wait. They wait a long time. It’s very quiet in the little cell. The only sound is their thoughts. They’re usually whispers, but now they’re screams. They only like to be heard when there’s nothing else for them to listen to, when Whumpee is unable to lock them away in the dark part of their mind. So they scream. Whumpee lets them do it, because there’s not much else to do when they’re alone.
Well, they’re not completely alone. The screams are here, too.
They wait some more. An hour, maybe. Maybe more. Maybe less.
Whumpee shivers. Their fingertips and nose are numb with cold. They haven’t moved, not once, since they retreated to the corner of the room. But eventually, gathering a little bit of strength, Whumpee shakily stands and shuffles blindly towards the door, holding their hands out.
They feel a surface. The door. Lightly, they knock. Nothing happens. Either way, they couldn’t hear anything on the other side, even if they wanted to. They knock again. Harder. Louder. They slam their fist on the door again and again. It’s painful, but they don’t care. Whumpee screams and pounds, kicking and banging. No response. They begin to cry as they continue on, dropping to their knees, forehead against the door, sobbing.
They sob and shake and scream, in anger and terror and misery. They start to hyperventilate. Air doesn’t come fast enough, plenty enough. Their breaths are quick and fast-paced, but it’s not enough. Whumpee can’t breathe. The walls are closing in. They can’t breathe.
“Please, sir! Please, please let me out, let me out, LET ME OUT!”
Suddenly, something shatters. Some restraint in their head is broken, and the world falls apart. They’re miserable. They hate it all—Whumper, but also themself. Whumpee hates themself for being so weak, for crying. They hate the unfairness of it all. They hate it. THEY HATE IT.
Whumpee begins to scratch at themself, like a crazed animal trying to get that instinct out. They sob harder, because it hurts. It hurts but they have control, they have control, they have control, they have control–
They scratch until their fingers are wet and sticky from their bleeding arms. But they can’t stop it. If they squint, Whumpee can see the blood on the floor, in smudges or in small droplets, and sticky red handprints on the floors and walls. They stand up again, uncoordinated and dizzy, weeping uncontrollably as blood slips down their arms. Everything closes in, and they scream, clutching their head as they go down again. They can’t breathe. The walls are crashing down on them, they’re going to die, they’re going to die, they’re going to die—
Whumpee sobs, hitting the door. They slam into it with their shoulder. Again. Again. Again.
It opens just as they shove into it, and they tumble forward into the sudden light, unable to protect themselves from the ground rushing up to meet their face. But someone catches them, gently bringing them to the ground.
“’m sorry, ‘m sorry, ‘m sorry,” Whumpee whimpers, squeezing their eyes shut, but no pain comes. The arms are comfortable, wrapping around Whumpee’s shoulder to let them lean in their lap. Whumpee wants to close their tired, bleary eyes, fall asleep, and not have to wake up.
Whumpee leans into them, sobbing quietly now, their bloody fingers grasping the fabrics of the person’s shirt for comfort as if their life depends on it. Their hands stay around Whumpee without moving, and Whumpee wants the moment of safety to last forever.
Reality sets in. Whumpee opens their eyes in terror, only to discover they’d fallen into the arms of Caretaker.
