i love an unresponsive whumpee... and you should throw a fresher prisoner into their cell and strike new terror into their heart seeing what's in store for them and have them do all they can to coax original!whumpee back into awareness, talking to them gently, trickling water down their throat, holding their hand and stroking the back of it even as they lose hope, they don't know if they're doing it for their cellmate any more or if they just need to convince themself they're not alone. and then give me original!whumpee weakly squeezing their hand. and the rush of relief and hope and you're ok, you'll be ok and i'm not alone and if you survived this we both can
y'know that fun scene when whumpee is lying in a hospital bed and looks over to caretaker and tells caretaker that they look like shit for a laugh?
well in this version, caretaker actually does look like shit. genuinely really ill, possibly even worse than whumpee. the nurses that come and go by whumpee's bedside keep casting them concerned looks, but caretaker brushes them off every time.
"i'm fine, just a little tired."
then caretaker falls asleep again in the uncomfortable chair in whumpee's room. but this time they don't wake up.
whumpee has never pressed their emergency call button so quickly in their life.
carewhumpee stumbles into the closet. it's small and no one will come looking here. it's tucked away in the side of the furthest corridor, forgotten and of no real use. just like you, a voice whispers. they shake their head.
it's all too easy to fold themselves into the shape of the little nook as they lean heavily against the wall. they don't want to worry the whumpee, they've already went through a session with whumper today. they don't deserve to deal with carewhumpee's shit as well. that is something they can handle on their own, they don't need to tire out whumpee more than they already are.
it's just that they wanted a moment to themselves. just a second to clear their mind. everything hurts somewhere deep, deep within. why did whumpee say that? they think, and even as they want to flinch away from that line of thinking, all they can think of is whumpee's hurtful stream of accusations. it might— it might be carewhumpee's duty to take care of whumpee, but they do try their best. they really, really do.
it'll never be enough, a forlorn thought echoes through them. they curl inwards further, unable to cry and unable to go back.
after sitting long enough that the spots on the wood start to look unreal, they push themselves up. whumper wasn't done just yet, after all. the least they can do is be there to tuck whumpee behind their trembling knees, and beg whumper that they hurt them instead— as they've done countless number of times.
Carewhumpee not caring how Caretaker treated them, as long as Whumpee was okay.
Caretaker making Whumpee feel safe and taken care of, and that was all Carewhumpee needed. They absolutely pass out, finally able to rest now that they knew there was someone else willing and able to protect Whumpee.
whumpee who has to become a caretaker because of circumstances
whumpee who has to look after a fellow whumpee because the other has it so much worse
whumpee who has to look after an injured whumper because "you don't get to fucking die before I drag your sorry ass to a courtroom"
whumpee who has to look after themselves, shaking and quietly whispering to themselves that they're okay, they're so brave, they're not gonna let anything else happen...
whumpee who is tasked to care for other whumpees by whumper so whumper doesn't have to replace them, under threat of injury
whumpee who's been out of the dangerous situation for years and suddenly finds out another whumpee has just emerged from a similar situation, and they do everything in their power to make things hurt less for this new whumpee
whumpee who underwent highly specific circumstances (eg: poisoning with a rare poison) and is the only one who knows how to treat it, and so it's their obligation to help out others who are suffering in the same way
Caretaker who is completely unfazed by everything whumpee's been through, by their injuries or trauma. Caretaker who meets every situation with calm and equanimity. And of course it's ideal for whumpee, but after a while, they do start to wonder...
Whumpee who finds themselves having to care for whumper in some way.
They don’t have the means to live without whumper and end up having to mind them when they are recovering from something, since if whumper dies, they will too
Whumper’s smugness about the level of contol they have over whumpee as they realise whumpee needs them.
My first actual writing on here. Based on this post of mine - "a whumpee who refuses to admit to what happened to them".
It had been a month since Whumpee came home.
A month. The first week, Caretaker had let it slide. Sure, she was a bit perturbed by their positive attitude, but, well… she supposed it made sense that Whumpee would find it hard to talk about it. The wound was literally and metaphorically still fresh. So, she waited. Kept a careful eye on them in the rare times they left their room. Made their favourite meals every night. Tried to check in on them every so often, even if their response was always forced through a strained upturn of the lips, “What do you mean? I’m fine!”
Soon, Caretaker had thought, convincing herself not to push. Soon they’ll talk to me.
She was wrong.
It just… kept going. The pretence. The performance. For God’s sake, it wasn’t even a good performance. Every laugh rang hollow on the inside. Every moment of silence saw Whumpee staring at the wall with that look in their eyes because they'd forgotten people were watching. The other week, Friend had raised their hand to gesture while speaking, and Whumpee flinched so hard they nearly toppled out of their seat. Then, as if all was right with the world, they brushed off Friend’s concern with a dismissive “Hm? Oh, no, I’m great! Just a little tired today, I guess.”
And they were tired that day, but not from a simple poor night’s rest, but because they’d woken up screaming in the middle of the night. The sound had echoed through the house so loudly it had tugged Caretaker from her sleep and straight into a cold sweat. She had rushed to Whumpee’s bedside, only to be met with their insistence that she must be imagining things and that nothing was amiss.
They had nightmares most nights, and every time without fail they acted like everything was perfectly fine and dandy despite the glassy sheen in their eyes and the tremble in their hands.
It was the same story every time Caretaker tried to address the elephant in the room. No matter how gently she tried to say, “Whumpee, please, we should talk about what you went through…”, Whumpee’s brittle smile would stretch taunt and they would say, “Nothing happened. I’m fine, there’s nothing to talk about.”
She tried a million things. Sat with them in silence, hoping for a hint of genuine vulnerability. Approached the topic of therapy, thinking that maybe Whumpee would talk to someone else even if they wouldn’t talk to her. Tried to get them to take the day off work so they could spend time together. Every attempt was more futile than the last. Whumpee refused to even acknowledge that anything had happened to them. Caretaker knew it wasn't about her- God, she knew. She reminded herself daily. But she was tired, running herself ragged trying to figure out what to do. Desperation was kicking in.
By the end of the fourth week, Caretaker had had enough. This couldn’t go on forever — the other shoe had to drop. Something had to give.
“We need to talk.”
Whumpee was standing with their back to her as they looked through the pantry. They stilled almost imperceptibly at her words, shoulders tense, but after a moment they casually reached up to grab a box of cereal. “About what?”
A prickle of frustration rippled across Caretaker’s skin. That tone — the one that meant they’d already decided not to even entertain the idea of hearing her out. She took a deep breath, trying to settle herself as Whumpee crossed the kitchen to get a bowl. “You know what,” she told them firmly, “It’s not some- some mysterious secret. I’ve been trying to talk to you about it for weeks.”
Whumpee’s breathing got a little uneven, fingers unsteady as they poured cereal into the bowl. They were facing Caretaker now, but they hadn’t even glanced her way once. After a moment, they spoke. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You-” Caretaker bit back whatever was about to come out of her mouth. She knew her anger would only make this worse but she couldn't help it. Agitated, she continued. “You brush me off every time, Whumpee. I get that it must be hard, but what Whumper did to you isn’t just going to go away!”
Whumpee froze. Their gaze flicked from where it had been fixed on their meal up to Caretaker’s face. “Have you considered,” they gritted out, voice a fragile calm, “that I don’t want to talk to you about it?”
There it was. They had admitted it — finally, they had admitted that there was something to talk about. It should have felt like a win, but something about the way their eyes looked after she had said Whumper’s name made the tiny victory fall flat. “I know you don’t, okay? I get it. It’d be fine if you… didn’t want to discuss it with me. But you won’t with anyone. You just pretend it didn’t happen, and that’s not healthy! Saying you’re fine doesn’t make it true!”
“I am fine!” They snapped, flakes of cereal scattering across the counter as the box slammed down.
“You’re not!” Caretaker erupted. “I KNOW you’re not fine! And you know what? Everyone can see it! Do you not see the way people look at you?” She raked her hands through her hair as she paced across the tile floor, eyes prickling with unwelcome tears. “We’re not blind! We can see the way you flinch all the time, the- the constant exhaustion, the fake smiling! We can all tell!”
Silence fell, the air abruptly empty. Whumpee was looking at her, their dark circles more pronounced than ever, and something… changed. A derisive laugh clawed its way out of Whumpee’s throat, curling into something explosive. “You want to talk about it? FINE. Let’s fucking talk!”
Dread pooled in Caretaker’s belly. She got the distinct feeling that this was going very, very wrong. Her lips parted to speak, but Whumpee wasn’t done yet.
“Let’s talk about how Whumper used to chain me up so now I can’t wear anything around my ankles or wrists without feeling like I’m back there!” The words sliced through the room, Whumpee’s fingers encircling their own wrist before their hands snapped apart. They pushed away from the counter, fingers trembling. “Let’s talk about how Whumper would show me his shiny new blades before using them on me, as if they were some f-fucking new toy he was so keen to try out!”
“Whumpee,” Caretaker whispered, going unheard over Whumpee's rising intensity.
“Let’s talk about-” they inhaled sharply. Their mouth twisted as they stepped closer to her. “Let’s talk about how I can’t sleep because every time I try, it’s like his hands are on me again!” To Caretaker’s horror, Whumpee was crying now. Their breaths were quick and shallow, hitching with every exhale. Every word was steeped in bitter mocking. “Oh, oh, this is a good one — let’s talk about about the time he tied me down and fucking waterboarded me!”
She couldn’t breathe.
Whumpee lips turned up, and this time, it was less of a grin and more of a sarcastic baring of the teeth — stretched too wide and ugly, it made no attempt to disguise itself as a genuine smile. Tears dripped down their chin as they spread their hands in a this is it gesture. “Is this what you wanted? Do you feel better about yourself now?”
“I-” Caretaker’s voice came out strangled. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
They just stared at her for a moment, the fire in their eyes sputtering out into glowing embers. Then they brushed past her, their shoulders knocking together. “Yeah. I figured,” they muttered.
The crushing feeling in her chest got heavier with every step they took. Still, she did nothing. Just… watched them go, until they disappeared down the hallway to their room.
Caretaker stood there, brief and aimless. Salt bled into her mouth, mingling with the copper of her bitten tongue. The grief trapped behind the bars of her ribcage yawned and stretched, making itself at home. Slowly, she sank into a barstool at the counter, eyes landing on the box of cereal and the bowl on the counter. Uneaten. A wet sob caught in her throat, and her head fell into her hands. “Shit.”
Taglist: @lelkokkay (i thought i'd tag you because you seemed interested in this!! let me know if you want me to remove the tag though) @whumpawaydarling
A/N: um!! if y'all read this whole thing thank you endlessly <3 let me know what you think & i will love you forever probably. i hope this was comprehensible! it has certainly started to sound like gibberish to me but that might be because i just woke up.
