Arc 2b Part 3: Feral Dog
Torture, angst, dissociation, dissociative whumpee, memory issues, alcohol, vomit, self hate, death wish
White.
Everything is white
Bright, illuminated white walls, white grout, a white drain in the center of the white tile floor. Even the hard points positioned strategically around the room are painted a brilliant white. Too bright fluorescents burn into Adrian's eyes twisting his already aching head into two tight knots of pain behind his eyes.
The only break in theme is the far wall, where an easy-clean glass partition protects Gould's collection. Adrian doesn't look at it. He knows what hangs there. He's seen it enough times that his mind conjures the image anyway.
Gould’s tools polished and displayed in neat rows. Blades, canes, pliers, whips- anything and everything he can use to pull a person apart
Don't think about it-
He fixates on the white drain instead. Focusing his attention so intensely that everything else fades out of focus. Not smear of dirt or flake of grime mars in pristine surface. How does it stay so clean?
He remembers being a kid, scrubbing brown stains from the drains in the prison's concrete cells. Using a toothbrush to make sure the metal would shine. Brown stains turning the water a mucky yellow, pink bubbles if it was fresh. He wonders if later some kid will scrub away his own pink bubbles
Stop-
He blanks his mind, the alcohol making it easier than usual. He dissolves each thought as it forms leaving nothing but the feeling of falling and a slight ringing in his ears. Only the drain is real.
Footsteps behind him try to drag him back to himself but he keeps back, the sound filtering down to him through layers of quiet numbing. They echo from far off like he's in a dream
“Strip”
His fingers are clumsy, body far away but he still removes his shirt in a clean practiced motion. It knows how to obey even without his presence
“Pants too unless you want blood all over them”
He folds his clothing robotically. Making his pile neat and tidy, neat and tiny, pile by the door. Gould likes his pile to be neat by the door. Tidy. His fingertips notice every fiber magnifying the texture through to his floating mind. He lets the pile go reluctantly. Letting go of a lifeline to be sucked back to the drain. Like water down the drain, he thinks, almost giddily
He locks onto it again, body kneeling without instruction. It knows how to do this too
Boots tap tap tap on the tile behind him. around him. In circles around him they tap tap. Each brittle sound ripples through him like rocks dropped in water. His hair stands on end. The man passes behind him and he catches a small terrified whimper of breath in his throat. He strangles it, forcing his mind to focus on the drain. Focus. Calm. Relax
A hand on his shoulder makes him jump
Weak-
It traces over his skin
“I forgot about these.” Fingers too gentle- down his back. Slowly, deliberately, nails catch on each ridge in the dense mass of scar tissue. “Do they still hurt you?” fingers press down lightly, just enough to burn
"Always." The word doesn't want to be spoken. It sticks in his dry throat like a confession too shameful to admit
“Good.” Gould pats his back roughly, getting to his feet. “It's important to have reminders. If you were a smarter man you might have learned by now, but somehow you still don't know how to follow orders.”
“Yes Sir” no thought, the response is automatic. He's grateful his body can do so many things without him
“So?" Gould prompts. "What happened? What did you do this time?”
Again, he lets his lips repeat the words spoken to him. “I disobeyed you Sir." Meek deference, soothing to an old man's ego. "I thought I knew better than you, ignored your orders and went easy on a prisoner. I let my arrogance get the best of me and was too weak to do what was necessary. It lost you a valuable asset. I refused to do as I was told. I'm sorry Sir. I should have followed your orders.”
Fight back you pathetic shit
“Accountabilty, honesty, apology. You're getting better at this." But he doesn't really sound pleased. "What punishment do you deserve?”
An image of the weapons arrayed behind him flashes in his head and his mind goes blank.
“Morgan” a sharp slap to the back of his head
Gould asked him a question. He can't remember
Panic. He tries to reconstruct the conversation. Shame, apology then punishment. Gould asked him what punishment he deserves. He can't-
Blank
Gould hits him again. He's trembling now, Gould asked him a question didn't he? He tries to still his hands in his lap but he can't stop them shaking
“I don't know” he manages to force out between chattering teeth. Mistake. Not an acceptable answer. Knows better than that. Weak. “I'm sorry” he stammers, trying to back track “I'm sorry, I…” there's nothing he can say to fix it and he still can't remember the question “sorry” barely a whisper.
Pathetic!
For a split second, rage hits him so hard he thinks Gould has struck the first blow. Its heat shatters any remnant of his dreamy dissociation, locking him back into the room with his tormenter. He wants to tear his skin off
Pathetic cringing rat! Whining, stammering out apologies. Too weak. It fucking deserves this. Deserves every second of what's coming for it. Punishment. Disgusting, pathetic- fight back you fucking worthless dog!
A whip cracks next to his head and the rage is gone as fast as it appeared, replaced with simple terror. No, no nonono-escape, run, but he can't move. His limbs are liquid, his whole body; he can't hold together. It's falling apart. He is falling apart. Everything spins around him but the drain. He needs to stick to it, keep it together. Keep focused on something stable.
His ears ring too loudly for him to hear anything but his racing heart. Can't run. Running will make it worse. Doesn't matter, it's going to get worse anyway- get worse from here. This is still the easy part. It will only get worse from here, worse from here worse from here his mind cackles back at him.
Stop stop it stop it! It's too early to be breaking down like this. He tries to regain his calm. Let himself dissolve back into dreamy dissociation, but his control is shattered, lost somewhere in the spinning white tiles
“-know you have a history with whips, but this is just…” He chuckles. “look at your face.”
Shame. His guts clench, doubling him over like a kick, accompanied by the urge to beg the man to just get on with it. To do worse. He deserves it. Of course he deserves it. Deserves worse. Has to stop whining
“Fucking pathetic”
Disgusting weak sickening
He knows it
The whip traces across his bare skin and he can't take it anymore. His body rebels. He lurches forward, vomiting alcohol over the drain. It burns his throat, his nose, his eyes. Or maybe he's just crying. pathetic absolutely fucking pathetic
Gould laughs at him and the voice in his head joins in
Shame
It twists up his insides
just kill me
He wipes his mouth and tries to sit upright through it- dignity, his body trembles hard enough he has to fight for each movement. Why does Gould have to play with him like this? Just fucking get on with it already
The first strike is a relief. Pain crashing against his self loathing. Finally. He needs this.
Deserves worse-
Punishment-
Has to be better-
The next knocks the air from his lungs
Then another
He closes his eyes, sinking into the pain. Just a sensation, just another sensation. It's deserved. He needs it needs it
Needs
The strikes come faster, but it's not so bad. Not painful. Important. He can do this it's good, he can-
The next strike breaks skin.
Oh fuck
Another
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck
Please don't panic-
Not yet
Please not yet
But it's too much. Each strike tears into him, searing bolts of pain he can feel through his whole body. The shock of each strike somehow catches him off guard. They overlap each other giving him no time to recover, overwhelming his senses.
He can't do it, can't take it. (Deserves it) Isn't going to make it. It's too much. (Should be worse needs to be worse, so much worse) will get worse
He's on fire. He writhes away but that's wrong. Not allowed. He's not allowed to run, to resist. Without restraints he has to be the one to hold himself back. Keep still. Don't struggle. He wants this
More tears force their way between his eyelids pathetic blurring his surroundings further past the point of recognition.
It's too much, too much already too much, he can't do this, he needs to scream- can't do this, needs to cry, to beg weak! force it down, needs to do anything to make it stop- stop, (too weak too weak) too weak to make it stop. Just don't struggle
Stop
But he's a child again. Helpless and it won't stop. Weak. Of course it won't stop. Not even close to when it will stop and he deserves it, deserves worse. Has to remember that. Has to hold still. Has to remember but it hurts and he's too weak. He wants it to stop. Wants to cry. Crying won't stop it. Won't stop. Won't stop now, not even close. Stop stop. Please just stop!
He shoves a fist in his mouth, trying to muffle the screams. To give himself something real, solid to hold on to, hold on just hold on
But he can't
-
When it's over he doesn't notice. He just hurts.
Everything hurts.
It hurts and everything keeps spinning
He huddles on the floor trying to ride out the vertigo. Clutching his knees, biting his fist. His body won't stop shaking. Won't for the rest of the night. For the rest of his life maybe. Sour spit fills his mouth and drools down his chin with his whimpering. He tries to stop the noises but it feels like suffocating
Animals scream to let the others know they're in distress. To warn them something is wrong. If there's no one to warn, eventually it'll stop screaming.
Why is he still screaming?
It's ok. He tries to reassure himself. Put himself back together again. It's alright. Everything is ok now. It's over. He draws in a huge rasping breath just to remind himself he can. The pain fluxes and twists with it, but he can bear it. It's over and now it's just pain. He can deal with pain he reminds himself. It's over now and it wasn't even that bad.
Cruel laughter in his head
Be greatful!
A soft whisper above him, like smooth leather unfurling and his attention snaps back to his tormenter towering over him
The monster stands smirking down at him, a different whip, this one sleek and black dangling from its fingers. It wiggles the thing and Andrian’s stomach plummets with horrible recognition
No no no no no-
Fuck no
Please no please anything but this please, but he is too frozen to speak
Gould dangles the tip in front of his stricken face. Making sure he sees what makes this whip special. A fine silver chain hangs from the end, braided securely into the thonging. A simple change from the typical nylon cord but one that shatters every bit of composure he has fought so hard to regain. This whip isn't meant to welt or bruise it's meant to cut into the meat of him
Fresh tears pour from his eyes and he whimpers something unintelligible
He can't do this. He just can't
His body tries to run without his permission. Scrambling backwards on limbs too shaky to hold his weight. He trips over himself, hands slipping on the bloody white tiles.
“Isn't this the one that gave you all those scars? The same kind at least.” Gould stalks after him not even trying to stop his pitiful retreat
No no no, not the same kind, the exact same one. One and the same Gould knows. Of course Gould knows. He must've gone looking for the fucking thing, must've gone to the prison, spoken to-
“Please” he whispers (can't stop it) even though he knows it won't help. Won't stop it. Not allowed to beg- not allowed to struggle
“Please, Sir, I can't- anything else, please, I'll be good, please…” he trails off, words smothered by shame closing up his throat. He presses his face into the cold tile trying to show his complete submission. Pathetic
“Look at yourself.” His voice drips with contempt and a sick satisfaction. Using the toe of his boot he pushes Adrian onto his back before planting his boot on his chest.
“All my effort to try and make you strong and you're just as pathetic as the day I first saw you. Scuttling around on the floor, begging on your face like a fucking animal!” He cracks the whip against the floor, baring his teeth when Adrian cowers, screwing his eyes shut. “You can't even look at it!” He lashes him across the face “open your fucking eyes and kneel!”
Adrian obeys instantly, eyes snapping open despite the sting of the fresh whip cut. Gould releases him and he struggles to shaky knees. He tries to keep his head up, looking at Gould but every fiber of his being wants to cringe, beg, submit, escape
“I've given you a job that makes you feel powerful. One that lets you remember what it's like to be in control. And sometimes that game lets you forget what you are. But. Adrian,” he crouches down, strong fingers grasping Adrian's chin and forcing his head up. “Adrian, look at yourself. I need to know you remember what you are.” He squeezes harder, voice getting even softer “You are the feral dog I allow to bite your betters.”
Shame, terror and fury roil in Adrian's gut with the remainder of the alcohol. He knows it. Of course he knows it. How could he ever fucking forget? In that moment all he wants is to be allowed to be good enough to stop needing to be hurt
He hates himself, hates his weakness, his cowardice, his groveling need to submit and the game lets him pretend he's something else.
Something loud and angry, something that scares people and hurts them more when they hurt him. He loves it. Loves watching Jesse scream and run and hide from Him. Watching them all cower and squirm. Hiding from him. They should be afraid. Should be afraid of him
He isn't good. They always hurt him no matter how good he pretends to be, somehow they can see it. See how badly he wants to make Gould suffer. See the things he would do if he ever got the slightest chance. He wants to break him. Watch him crawl on the ground disfigured and begging for mercy he knows won't come. He wants to ruin him so completely he has to beg permission for every breath he takes. He feels a sneer forming on his lips.
He can't get more scared. The punishment can't get worse and there's nothing in the world he can do to stop it. Gould should know the danger of backing a feral dog into a corner. His back hits the wall
“I am a dog.” He snarls through clenched teeth, hoping Gould can feel his rage beating against him. “but I'm not your dog. You can suck yourself off all you want but we both know you don't have what it takes to make me into what I am. You can beat me, you can fucking torture me and I'll do what you say. I'll follow every one of your fucking moronic orders. I'll crawl around on the floor and lick your goddamned boots. I'll make you feel like a big man, but we both fucking know why you hate me. We both fucking know I'm better than you.” He laughs, letting it sound as broken and hysterical as he feels “Must suck to get beaten by a dog at your own game. I'm better at your fucking job, your superiors like me more, I keep this entire fucking place running and the most you do is get in my way. You hate that I could replace you and no one would even fucking notice. Without me you're just a sadist wearing your daddy's shoes tripping and falling, too stupid to realize they're too fucking big for you.”
He's breathing hard, a little surprised Gould let him get through the whole thing without smashing his teeth in.
He watches the man's face contort mirroring back his own fury. It's true. Every year Gould relies on him more. Giving him more responsibilities, making up excuses, but when the bosses actually need something done right Gould isn't the man for the job. And he knows it. The more work Adrian gets the worse Gould punishes him for it. Not for the mistakes, that's just an excuse, but for the pleasure of reminding him he can.
"You love hurting me because it lets you forget how fucking pathetic you are."
Gould's fist hits him like a truck.
Grabbing his hair, Gould slams his head back into the wall. Once, twice, three times. Stars explode across his vision and by the third hit he's sure his skull is about to break open.
Gould's forearm is against his windpipe, the man's weight crushing the air from him
“You fucking insolent-”
-Pathetic piece of shit. Adrian finishes for for him
You are nothing
Gould throws him hard to the ground and Adrian tries again to crawl away. The man stomps on his hand then kicks him in the stomach, in the chest. He loses track of the blows. Loses track of his body in the maelstrom. He tries to protect himself but the boots find his every weak spot stomping him into the ground.
Something in his torso cracks
Gould is still yelling but Adrian is far past the point of hearing. The man's hands are on him, dragging him to his knees, wrenching his head up forcing him to face the wall. He can't hold himself there so Gould props him up, half leaning against it
It's too much, he's losing consciousness, but not fast enough. He doesn't know where he is. In a cell he's always in a cell how is he still in a fucking cell?
The whip splits his back open and his roar of pain sounds closer to a sob. The sound fades out as he watches the body collapse. Gould kicks it onto its face and brings the whip down over and over again
It writhes on the floor twisting around in its pathetic, futile attempts to protect itself. The lash bites into anything exposed. Back, arms hands, chest, shins
Not even its howls sound human. The torn click and rasp of its overstrained voice breaking- stammering out wordless pleas for mercy
The thing is calling for help
No, no one is coming doesn't it realize that?
He winces in something like sympathy as one blow rips an especially nasty gash into its shoulderblade. That's gotta hurt.
It’s stopped struggling, body still save for bloody fingers flexing and clawing into the tiles. Trying to hold onto something? Dig itself free?
Its sobs break off as its voice finally gives out and then there's only the wet smack of the whip against its chewed up back
Even its fingers go still. They only twitch slightly with each blow
Gould stops.
He stands over the body breathing hard. He nudges it with his boot and it doesn't react
“Great” he mutters, crouching down to examine his work.
It lays still, eyes wide open but glassy and unseeing, mouth hanging stupidly open in a twisted grimace
It doesn't even look like its breathing
Gould holds a finger under its nose then feels around its neck for a pulse.
Apparently satisfied he pulls out his phone and taps in a number
“I need medical in my office immediately.”
A pause
“Went too hard with Morgan again.”
Another pause
Gould chuckles
“Yeah. Fucker has a special talent getting under my skin.” He kicks the body, sneering when it doesn't react.
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“Hurry. I don't want him bleeding out on my floor.” He ends the call
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