Cain looked up at that, eyes dull and glazed over, tinted by a faint trace of hope.
"You mean that...?" You'll let me go? danced on the tip of his tongue, remaining just out of reach.
The man laughed, looking down at him on the floor. "No, not in that way. I think that, us, we're done here." He opened his arms, gesturing to the cracked cellar walls around them, "which means, you have no use left for me."
Cain’s stomach dropped. He croaked, "What?", voice cracked from disuse.
The man crouched down in front of him, breathing cigarette smoke into his face. "We, no, I, am done here."
A hand jerked out, grabbing his hair and pulling him forward. Cain gasped when the man’s cigarette bit into his neck, grinding, burning, through his skin. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding against each other, pain somehow enhanced by each bit back whimper or whine. His throat choked up from fear and from the bile rising in his throat at the smell of sizzling flesh.
Eventually, the man’s hands pulled away, leaving him trembling and staring up in learned fear. The man's face seemed disappointed, bored, almost.
"I think I was right," His voice echoed within the small room. "You really are pathetic." The man moved his arm behind his back, reaching. Cain shut his eyes.
Then, he felt something cold touch his forehead.
He looked up, dazed, to blurry metal resting between his eyes. A finger lied on what he recognized to be a trigger guard.
The man spoke, but the world, already so small, seemed to close around Cain, with only him and the gun to his face. He could recognize the sound of vague taunting, but all he could hear was his heart pounding through his chest and his breaths turning to gasps and all he could feel was the wet warmth of tears on his cheeks.
He shook, shutting his eyes, gripping himself tight, chest heaving, burdened by a fear that bubbled up in his chest like a wave, swarming and crushing him in its hold; fear that twisted into hatred, boiling his blood with a fire fueled by long held grudges; hatred that grabbed him by his throat with a vice-like grip, holding him up in the air, choking the breath and life out of him with each bit of added pressure, hatred that warped into rage like wood in a flame; rage that swung him around like a doll until he felt nothing but small and pathetic and guilty and just so angry.
Rage consumed him entirely, driving him from fearful to hurt to angry once more, filling him with an overwhelming anger that drove him to action; anger that led him flying forward, not hearing the gunshot ringing out or the clattering of metal; anger that led to blind punches, punches he did not register had landed, throwing his entire body weight into each swing, gasping with effort, not feeling the sharp aching in his side or hearing the surprised cries or the angry swears or the sickening crunch of fist against flesh.
He didn’t register any of it, couldn’t register any of it. For so long, he had been driven into the furthest recesses of his mind to the point that he could no longer be called human. There remained no self, no wants or needs or any of the abstract ideas of before. His mind was blank, drawn only to violence like a moth is to light.
So, when his heart finally calmed and his breathing slowed, when he registered that his desperate swings had hit home, when his mind cleared the haze that once consumed it, he watched the body on the floor with its head turned to the side and its breaths fast and shallow, detached. He watched the way its body twisted as it reached for something glossy and metal, only to roll back over, seemingly surrendering, to him or to its fate, he did not know.
Interest straying to the body that seemed to be his, his eyes traced their way upwards until he could not recognize the sanguine soaked cotton stains or the raw scratches engraved in forearms or the stitches that seemed to be the only thing holding flesh and bone together. He could not recognize this body as his, this body so torn by fury and worn with use. He flexed his fingers, watching the way his mind commanded and the foreign flesh obeyed, perplexed.
And when he looked down once more, this time with clearer mind and gaze, to the body that now lay still, to the body that seemed sallow with empty eyes, to the nails that lay chipped and broken, to the neck that showed darkening bruises in the shape of two hands, he found himself sobbing uncontrollably on the floor, begging incoherently for forgiveness. And there he cried, body twisted and malformed, face contorted in hate and regret, a monstrosity in all its meanings, sobbing with only a twinge of humanity in each desperate wail.
this isn’t very whumpy for my first piece but it’s more like... whumper as a caretaker? but also whumper is the one who made whumpee need the caretaking so hm..
Whumpee groaned as they hit the wall, too tired to fight and too tired to stand. When their legs soon buckled, they slid down with a darkening vision. Whumper walked towards them, speaking to them, but their ears were ringing and everything hurt and they were just so, so exhausted. Their eyelids grew heavy and soon enough, they were out.
When Whumpee woke, they didn't open their eyes. They simply laid there, reflecting on the hollow aching in their flesh, the dull gnawing of their bones, and the overwhelming exhaustion that clung to their very being. Their thoughts felt slow, sluggish, and Whumpee simply could not think. What the fuck? ran through their mind several times before they finally remembered.
They had tried to escape.
And, of course, they had failed.
God. They were so fucking stupid.
They knew they would never leave this place. They knew they would never leave Whumper. They knew they could never leave their past behind. They were stuck here. With Whumper. Forever. They would never see their family, they would never see their friends, they would never see their home. They were just…trapped. Here. Fuck. They wanted out. They wanted out, so, so bad.
But… why even try? Maybe if they just shut up, they’d be okay. Whumper would leave them alone then. Whumper only hurt them when they deserved it. They deserved this. Didn’t they?
Yeah. Yeah, they did. They disobeyed Whumper. They tried to run. They tried to run because they were tired of an existence only filled by pain. They tried to leave them because Whumpee was exhausted from the constant terror. They tried to leave because they were so sick of the beatings and the games and the starvation and the tears and the blood and the screaming and the mockery and the laughter and when Whumpee saw that unlocked door they just couldn’t control themselves.
And now? They were lying on the cold floor feeling worthless. Wasted. Ruined.
They let out a miserable whimper.
"Finally awake, huh?" Whumper said flatly.
Whumpee jolted at their voice, eyes opening and scrambling away from Whumper. They attempted to push themselves backwards with their arms, but they only moved a foot. They stared back at Whumper, shaking, mumbling a quiet mhm as a response. Whumper glared back, standing above them, arms crossed. They moved closer to Whumpee and sat back on their haunches. Whumpee shut their eyes as tears began to brew. They tried to quiet their breathing, but they couldn't stop the panic spreading when Whumper's thumb touched their forehead, brushing something away.
They sat in silence for several seconds as Whumper tilted Whumpee's head this way and that before Whumper finally spoke.
"You look like shit." Whumper murmured.
At that, Whumpee wanted to laugh. Their eyes shot open once more as they looked at their tormentor. This psycho, this sick fuck, who had spent so much time and effort hurting Whumpee, was now telling them they looked like shit? What a joke. What a fucking joke. Yet, when they tried to laugh, to jeer and mock their comment, they broke into a coughing fit that wracked their broken body. They choked on their air for several seconds, tears blurring their vision as they watched Whumper's face blur.
"Yeah. Ni-" they coughed, "nice observation."
Whumper glared.
"You need a bath."
Thin rays of moonlight crept through flowing curtains, lighting up a cold stream flowing from a metal faucet into a tub, raising the water that Whumpee crouched in. They shivered, and goose bumps rose on their arms, but they stayed silent and pulled their knees closer. Whumpee fumbled with their fingers, their breathing uneven as they picked at the grime between their nails. It was so dirty.
Whumpee listened to Whumper's quiet movements behind them. They walked around the small room, opening cabinets and apparently searching for something. They placed a towel on a counter beside the tub before leaving the room without a word.
The door, rotting old wood that had once seen better days, creaked as it closed. After several seconds of silence, Whumpee let out a sigh and lowered their head to hide their face between their knees. They closed their eyes, attempting to control their uneven breathing, contemplating their past life and where they were now. They’d fallen so far.
They let themselves cry in that tub, warm tears spilling down their face into cold water. Their eyelashes grew wet as they covered their face with pale arms. They sunk deeper into the water, trying so very hard to bury themselves beneath. If only it was higher. Then they could hide. Then their mind could drift away and they could leave Whumper, if only for a moment.
At that second, Whumper returned, entering the room in silence except for the whine of the door and their padded footsteps.
They crouched beside Whumpee, placing their palms on Whumpee's neck. Whumpee's breath hitched before Whumper began to massage them, kneading away their tension through slow, practiced motions. It made them want to jerk away, but for now, it felt warm and safe. They felt themselves ease into Whumper's touch, allowing themselves to become more pliable. Whumper moved downwards, sliding their fingers along their neck to their shoulders with a gentle pressure.
"Frankly, I'm disappointed in you."
Whumper tightened their grip for a moment before releasing Whumpee. Whumpee instantly stiffened at both the words and the physical tension.
Whumpee felt the gentle motion of Whumper brushing their hair. They began with their fingers to detangle the worst parts, but quickly moved on to using a comb. Whumpee stared down at the water in silence.
“I expected better, Whumpee.”
Whumpee winced as cold water rained down on them.
“I thought you had finally learned.”
Whumpee chewed the inside of their cheek.
“But no. Of course not. Of course you always have to prove me wrong, and always have to prove your stupidity, hm?”
Whumper tucked a stray hair behind Whumpee’s ear and turned the water off. They pumped shampoo into their hands and began to work it into Whumpee’s hair. Whumpee focused on the night time atmosphere during Whumper’s silence; they listened to a breeze run through the trees every now and then, heard the crickets chirp, and focused on the soft buzz of the fireflies’ dance.
“It’s strange how you always seem to best your last stunt. Strange how you always fuck up even worse than before. And you know? I give you anything you want. I give you food, a home, and everything you ask for, yet you never stop bitching.”
Whumper worked on the back of Whumpee’s head, their movements light and gentle.
“You’re always crying, always whining about how something isn’t exactly to your liking.”
“And I put up with it! I put up with all of your bullshit. But as soon as I turn my back, you try to leave.”
Whumper’s hands move from the back of Whumpee’s head to their shoulders, gripping them tightly. They move their face closer to Whumpee’s ear, their breath hot and wet.
“You’re such an idiot.”
“Such an ingrate.”
They drag their hands to Whumpee’s neck and lift Whumpee’s face upwards, leaving behind soapy trails. Whumpee looks eye to eye with Whumper, lips quivering and breath catching.
“But you know what?”
“That’s okay. I’ll give you another chance. I always will.”
“But why? Why should I forgive someone like you?”
Whumper’s pupils dilate, brimming with…adoration?
“Because I love you. I really do.”
Whumpee stares up, tears freely flowing now. No. They didn’t love them. Whumpee knew that. They were lying. Lying. Lying. They tortured them, for fuck’s sake.
“Oh, darling, don’t cry.”
Whumper moves their thumb to Whumpee’s terrified eyes, wiping away their tears.
Whumpee fumbles with their words as they try to think up a proper response. But they only have one thing to say.
“No. No, you don’t.” They mumble.
Whumper looks hurt, but they continue on.
“I know you don’t understand what I’m doing, you’re too stupid to know,” they knock on Whumpee’s skull, “but you’ll see. You’ll see, eventually, that I’m doing what’s best for you, Whumpee, because I care about you, I love you.”
Whumpee feels sick. Their chest tightens as Whumper smiles.
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