Cry for help
BBU masterlist
Taglist: @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump @augustofwhump
August of Whump day 2: IV | shock | cry for help
Melanie finds an abandoned pet on a street corner.
670 words
CWs: BBU, pet whump, abandonment, left to die, starvation, muzzle, collar, neglect, abuse, burn, blood, non-sexual nudity
Melanie scowls when she sees the large, battered crate at the end of the road. How are wheelchairs and buggies supposed to get past that?
She pauses to take a photo, and that's when she hears it.
A muffled thud is coming from the direction of the crate.
She frowns and tiptoes closer.
Thud.
A fist on wood.
Thud.
Melanie glances around. Nobody else in sight. She examines the crate more closely. It really is extremely battered. The sides are starting to cave in and she'll definitely get splinters if she touches it, but it's still structurally sound.
Just.
To a person as weak as those thumps imply.
Thud.
It's even quieter this time.
She touches the crate, flinching away automatically at the sharp scratch. Then she goes back in. The lid is fitted, and as she yanks it out the wood cracks.
Inside... inside, oh, god. She should've guessed from the size of the crate.
Their hair is matted and so thick with grime and dirt that she can't even begin to guess what colour it is. She'd think they were dead if it hadn't been for the weak knocking, if it wasn't for the head slowly raising to look at her, bony arm reaching out, hand outstretched. She fancies she can taste the desperation.
"Oh shit," Melanie breathes. Oh, shit. She reaches out and touches the pet's hand. They shudder but attempt to grip, thumb pressing lightly into the side of her hand.
Trying to be as quiet as possible, just in case just in case just in case, she reaches out with her free hand, hooks it under their shoulder, and pulls.
They whimper, a tiny sound that Melanie can only hear because she's pulled them right against her side. They both sink to the ground, Melanie's knees protesting at the all-too-familiar position, and the pet flops there, boneless, shivering, pressing their thumb in further in what's perhaps an attempt to hold on. The other arm is still curled protectively into their body.
"Sorry." She lifts their hair back from their face. "Can you show me your arm?"
Melanie's struck by the large, dark eyes that look up at her then, the pleading and desperation, the sheer agony in them. Permanent tear tracks are etched into the grime on their face, the same grime and blood and whatever else that doesn't bear thinking about that covers the rest of their body.
There's a muzzle, too. The worn leather and rusting metal are pressed into the pet's face, caked on with blood and dirt. Their collar is the same way.
She can't focus on that now though. There's nothing she can do, she can't remove them without at least a makeshift first aid kit on hand, and even if she could she can't risk the pet making such a noise that the police are called. And then she might be arrested for stealing a pet and then and then and then.
She can't let that happen.
She takes a deep breath. The pet uncurls their arm.
They would've had a barcode tattooed there once, but now... she shudders, hard. Their forearm is blistered and weeping, clearly untreated, uncovered, left to become infected in the dirt of that old, rotting crate.
Oh, shit.
She sets the pet (person, person, person) down, rising stiffly into a crouch. It's not really a conscious movement when she picks them up again, settling them in her arms. They turn into the warmth of her chest, still shivering.
One of the only good things to come out of those years, she supposes, is that she's now strong enough to carry people. Although... that wasn't those years, was it? It was all the ones that came after.
"It's okay. I'll try to help you, I promise."
She's not sure when she made the decision, but she's made up her mind. She's going to do for them what Tara did for her thirty years ago.
She's going to give this person a home.
