fun fact: the collarbone is designed to be broken. it absorbs impact when you fall so the force doesnt go straight from your shoulder into your spine and paralyze you when you catch yourself. It's thinnest in the middle and can heal and break many times over with minimum ill effect on the body.
content: dehumanisation, failed escape, captivity, no holds barred beatdown, sadistic whumper, broken bones, begging, conditioning, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, multiple whumpers
It had all started with an escape attempt. A failed one, of course. There was no way to really go around Whumper, around the multitude of cameras set up in the basement, around the traps in the front yard, around the thick forest surrounding the cabin. But they'd tried. Against all better judgment, they'd tried. And they'd failed.
Whumper had caught them, dragged them back, beat them black and blue. Then, surprisingly, shoved them out the door and said go, if you want it so badly.
Whumpee had wandered in the forest, probably in circles, probably for hours, their naked feet bleeding by the time they'd come upon another living being. A man, dressed in hunting gear. They'd immediately called out to him, begging to be taken to the next town, to a hospital, to a police station.
The man had grinned.
Of course, he'd said. I'll take you to the next town alright.
That had been the start of weeks of agony.
The man was considerably more brutal than Whumper. Whumpee's arm had been broken on the day of their arrival into the man's house, and every time they tried to pull something — talk back, escape — the man would twist it and pull on it and shatter it more than it had already been shattered. There was no way it would heal right after all of that.
Their rations were disgusting, leftovers mixed with some tap water and poured into a dog bowl, but after two days, they had become so hungry they would've eaten anything.
The beatings were relentless. The man just loved to hear them scream. There was no rhyme or reason to it, just pure, sadistic glee in his eyes as he watched them writhe on the floor like a worm.
Around the one-week mark, Whumpee began to plead. Please, take me back. There is someone waiting for me. Their name is Whumper. Please, take me back. They're surely looking for me. Please.
The man laughed. More beatings ensued.
Around the two-week mark, they were entirely resigned to their fate. They were going to die in the man's house, alone, cold, starved, beaten, in pain. Whumper seemed like a distant, pleasant memory. They began dreaming about them, about the nice days, when Whumper would let them out of the crate and caress their hair.
They stopped pleading.
They lost track of time, down there in the basement. They were unconscious more than they were conscious. They probably had a concussion. So when they woke up in a familiar place, between familiar metal bars, they almost couldn't believe it.
They were in their crate.
In Whumper's basement.
"Awake already?" a familiar, they couldn't believe it, voice asked. "Welcome back, Whumpee."
"Whumper!" they choked out, their voice shot from all the screaming. "Whumper, I'm so sorry, I'll never run again, please—"
"Shh. I know. I know. The forest can be dangerous, can't it? But it's okay." They walked over to the crate, crouching to be at eye-level with Whumpee. "You're back where you belong, now. Be very thankful."
