#pain overload

[inherownblurs]

When you finally force yourself out of bed because your spine won't let you lay there any longer... But then the moment you get up & start moving around you wish you were back in bed.. 🙃🙃

[comfy-whumpee]

Jack 11: Finale

[1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10] CN: mention of minor whump, mouth gore.

The routine was easy, which he was grateful for, because it kept things simple for him. He was expected to recite the names, the apologies, what he’d done, how he would never do it again, and the litany of insults they’d taught him to believe. In return, they fed him when he was right. If he was wrong, he was punished. He hadn’t made any mistakes in a long time. Lindsey was totally, utterly bored of him, and Cat knew the job was finished.

 So it was time to bring in the client and demonstrate how they’d earned their pay.

Mrs Grover was Ronald’s mother. She’d been trying to curb her son’s behavioural issues for years, and had grown extremely suspicious when they’d abruptly cleared up. When the whole situation about Kiera had been revealed, she’d reached out. Not for revenge, she said, though Cat had her doubts. She just wanted to make sure the man never hurt anyone again.

 She was a dumpy blonde, pretty and mild, but Cat recognised the kind of deep, fierce protectiveness she saw in Lindsey and understood how such a normal woman could pay for something like this. She accepted a cup of tea in Cat’s office and they chatted a little about Ronald and the other kids’ recoveries.

 “It’s just such a relief, you know? They thought she might not be able to, but with some physio... God, listen to me. At least it’s only physio. I can’t believe I’m saying that about a child.”

 Cat nodded, all sympathy.

 “I just - I still worry, about them, you know. About trauma.” She said the word like it was sacrilegious. “That’s why...if that man was able to do anything...” She glanced hopefully at Cat. An invitation.

 “Let me put your mind at ease,” Cat said. She flipped her laptop around on her desk, keeping the mouse in her hand. The picture on the screen was of Jack on the first day, the defiant leer and stubbornly jutted chin, shortly after Lindsey had cut him the first time and they’d put him in the chains. “This is how we found him,” Cat said. “That attitude was the first thing to go. We don’t tolerate that kind of behaviour. He lashed out and was appropriately punished.”

 She scrolled to the next image. The stitched cuts on his chest.

 “Let me know if you’d rather not see these,” she said, but Mrs Grover shook her head, eyes tearful but fierce. She needed this.

 “This is how we left him,” Cat said. “He was immobile, barely able to stand. His mouth was too full of congealed blood for him to speak. We didn’t give him food or much water until his attitude was better. Once he was compliant, we rebuilt him.”

 She scrolled again, to the video. In the centre of the shot was Jack, under the bulb, hands strung over his head. He stared dead into the camera, too exhausted to feel shame, and he said. “Kiera. Ronald. Nelson. Jennifer. Safia. Ramon.”

 “We made him say their names,” Cat explained. “He learned by heart who they were and what he did to them. We reminded him when he needed correction that he deserved pain because he had inflicted it. He internalised this rule fairly quickly. We don’t believe he’ll hurt someone again until he’s fully recovered from this. Certainly, he’ll be too physically weak to do so for a couple of months.”

 Mrs Grover didn’t look away from the screen, eyes glued to his bloodied face. She was leaning forwards in her chair, hands tight on its arms. She didn’t blink as she said, “After that?”

 Cat shrugged. “Depends on the person, circumstances, causes for relapse...it’s impossible to say. People change.”

 Mrs Grover sighed. “You’re right. I’m sorry, you’re absolutely right. I just...I wish there was a way to make sure, you know? So that he could never do to others what he did to...”

 Cat remained patient as the mother rambled. There was always an outpouring of evidence before a confession.

 She cut off her own rambling with a wince. “Never mind me. You can...I think there’s something I’d like you to do.”

 -

 After the negotiation of medical treatment, extra pay, the in-house doctor’s requirements, Cat had agreed. Mrs Grover had followed her down to the cellar. Lindsey was already there, checking on the cuts for the last time now that Sasha had taken out the stitches. She smiled at Mrs Grover and took off her gloves to shake the woman’s hand.

 “My partner,” Cat explained. “Lindsey, our client has an extra request for you to take care of.”

 Lindsey nodded, her expression all business, but Cat could clearly see she was excited, her eyes focused and a smile dancing around the edges of her mouth. Lindsey knew that if Cat was going to ask her to do something, it would be because she’d enjoy it. Ever since they’d started this business Cat had only ever given Lindsey jobs that appealed to her. It was like getting presents every day.

 “Cut out his tongue,” Mrs Grover said. The words burst out of her with a desperate kind of need. “Cut out his tongue so he can’t talk, so - so he can’t use - manipulate - other people like he did.”

 Lindsey’s mouth pressed together to hide her grin. Her eyes went to Cat briefly, and Cat smiled back. Lindsey didn’t say it in front of the client, but Cat knew she would have been thanking Cat with all her loving glee right now. This was as good as Christmas.

 She drew her stiletto knife. Jack was only half-conscious, and clearly hadn’t been able to process the conversation, because he wasn’t resisting yet. Lindsey touched her fingers to his jaw and said, “Jack, open your mouth for me.”

 He did, even though it reopened the cuts at the corners of his lips, and his eyes glazed over with tears. “A little wider,” Lindsey coaxed him. “That’s it. Now, I need you to put your tongue out for me. That’s it. That’s it.”

 That was humiliating in itself, of course, seeing a grown man put his tongue out like a dog on command. But Lindsey was too fixated on the upcoming mutilation to pause and savour it how Cat would have done. She took the tweezers from the table and squeezed them around the tip of Jack’s tongue. He made a soft noise of pain but didn’t resist as they dug in hard enough to pierce the skin.

 Then, the knife.

 Jack howled. The noise erupted from him so hard and so loudly that there was no other way to describe it; it ripped from his chest like a wounded animal, a ragged, keening noise that only gave a glimpse of the pain he was in. He didn’t thrash, would never thrash again, but he did stretch himself out as if to tear the scream from deeper inside him, head lifting towards the ceiling, back arched, fists clenched and pulling on the chains.

 Then he gagged and jerked, and Lindsey grabbed his head and pulled it down, so that the blood didn’t choke him. He coughed hard, spluttering scarlet across her overalls, and tried to pull his head from her grip, but she fisted her fingers into his hair. He continued coughing until he’d hacked up all the blood, convulsing as the metallic taste burned his throat; once the liquid was clear he was heaving breath, falling, gradually, to be still, mouth hanging open, blood pouring down his face, head resting against Lindsey’s chest as she stroked his hair.

“Good boy,” she murmured, running her fingers through the matted locks at the nape of his neck.

He tried to speak, to beg by the tone of it, but all that emerged was an indistinct whine of pain.

The realisation seemed only to hit him then. His eyes widened and he tried again to speak, and no words came. He probed his mouth with the stump, figuring out what felt wrong, what Lindsey had done. "Uhhnnn,” he moaned out, blood pouring from his lips with the gutteral noise. “Whhhnnnnnnnnnn!”

“Yeah,” Lindsey said, as if she knew what the wailing meant. She kept stroking, soothing. “You deserved it, though, didn’t you?”

Now in tears of frustration, he gave up with a defeated whimper. His head drooped, an exhausted nod of agreement. He knew this.

Lindsey released her hands. He didn’t move. He hung again, limp as a carcass, eyelids sagging. His breath rattled still in his throat but he didn’t otherwise respond to the sound of the camera.

 He was finished.

 Cat turned to Mrs Grover, who nodded shakily. She opened her handbag and passed Cat the thick envelope of cash. Then she turned and almost ran up the cellar stairs, as if terrified that she would regret it if she thought about what she’d done any longer.

 As for Jack, Sasha would cauterise the stump of his tongue, rinse him down, and then they’d drive him out to the country and dump him somewhere he’d probably be found. They’d keep tabs on him for a little while, make sure he didn’t tell, that he was going to behave. If he made any move to come back for them, Lindsey would bring him back to the cellar, and Cat would make sure he never left again.

-

Thank you for everyone who stuck with this arc, it sure was a long one. The next arc will be half this long because why did I do this to myself and you.

[comfy-whumpee]

Jack 10

[1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9]

His voice didn’t stammer, there were no pauses, no fumbling for the words - nothing they had to punish him for, anymore. The names glided from Jack’s bloodied lips as if he’d known them all his life. He didn’t even need the album anymore, though they made sure he had to see their faces, look in their eyes, and apologise.

 “I’m sorry, Kiera. I’m sorry, Nelson. I’m sorry, Safia.”

 His eyes were dull, sad in a way that made it seem like he really meant it. Even if it was only because he’d been tortured, starved, left fevered and delirious, it was enough. He’d learned. He’d crumbled and broken.

“I’m sorry, Ronald. I’m sorry, Ramon.”

“What are you, Jack?” Cat said, as Lindsey turned to Kiera’s smiling, pre-Jack photo.

“A monster,” Jack recited mechanically, the old words they’d had him repeat now familiar enough that he didn’t question them. His eyes were fixed on the photo. “Scum.”

“Good boy,” Cat said. “It’s time for your reward.”

Jack raised his head, instinctively looking to Lindsey, who had been playing mostly-good cop for a while now. She smiled at him, and Cat saw how his shoulder relaxed, and he smiled back shyly. Hope in his expression, willingness to take his reward even knowing that they always, always made sure the reward brought pain with it.

 Lindsey moved forwards and caressed his hip affectionately. “You’re finally behaving,” she said. “I’m so glad. Let’s sort out those horrible cuts, yeah? They’ve been infected for so long, you’ve been so filthy.”

 “I deserved it,” Jack said promptly, almost reverently.

 Lindsey smiled. “You did. Good boy. But you’re going to be good from now on, aren’t you? You’ll never hurt anyone again.”

 “Never, Lindsey,” he promised. Eyes wide, sincere. Desperate to please her.

 “That’s right,” she agreed. She uncapped the bottle, tipped it against the cloth in her hand. “You’re all better now.”

 She pressed the antiseptic against his chest.

 Jack screamed. He had never, ever screamed before, but this - this was Cat’s spray bottle a thousand times, as if every cell in his body was ignited, his limbs jerking out of his control. His head threw back and his chest bucked, but Lindsey held him still with her spare hand as she poured the stark alcohol smell all over him, drowning the stink of blood. She rubbed it into each stripe with loving care, pressing in so that no inch was left untouched. She might as well have immolated him.

“Are you grateful?” Cat said, voice cutting loud over his.

“Ahhhhhhnn, hhhn, hnnnngy-yes,” he forced out in a thin, breaking voice, “yes-s, tha-thank-k you Lin-n-ndsey.”

There were so many cuts. So many. Up his chest and down his back, his arms, his legs, his fingers, his feet, his mouth...

“Thank y-you, thh-hank you, th-hhh...”

Lindsey soaked the cloth once more and pressed it to his mouth, and the burn drove him over the edge.

The figure in the chains was no longer a man. His eyes were rolled back in his head, hanging like a dead thing, still mumbling but with no air to make a sound.

When she finished, she threw the wipes into the trash and capped the bottle. Then, she fed him the water. He swallowed on reflex, eyes glazed over. Not quite unconscious, but unable to recover his thoughts from the cacophony of pain. When she took the bottle away, his mouth kept moving in the vague, soft shapes of the repeated thank you Lindsey thank you Lindsey thank you Lindsey.

They left him to rest. He’d be dead to the world for hours to come.

“You were right,” Lindsey said, once they were back upstairs. “That was fun.”

[starlitwishes]

“ i'm not going anywhere. “ (Dottore and Wrenn)

"Don't leave me--It hurts..."

Scaramouche felt pathetic for letting loose those words, yet he couldn't help it. This experiment wasn't the worst of the bunch, but an overload of elemental energy reacting with his body was still unbearably painful.

So he turned to Dottore, eyes begging for release, for respite--and the words Dottore said had him like a fish on a hook.

"Please make it--make it stop... it hurts too much..."

[babaengsikolohista]

Please don't ask me if I'm ok, I might burst into tears. 

[uhrwerk-und-eisen]

A Bad Hip Day

Both yesterday and today were bad hip days.  Double helpings of aching, stabbing, and joint instability at every turn.  Many days I don't terribly mind my hip dysplasia, but this has not been one two of those days.

My dysplasia has complicated every physical activity in my life and I have always limited my physicality to accommodate my pain.  But it's a vicious cycle, because the less active I am to avoid day-ruining pain (when I have to be on my feet quite frequently at work) the more my hip muscles stiffen and weaken.  And they are already atrophied.

It's to the point where small amounts of physical activity fatigue me incredibly.  This weekend I was crouched down on all fours on the floor, helping my roommate's child put away her mountain of toys and when I moved to grab something I actually dislocated my (worse) hip.  It THUNKED.  And I screeched.  And it UNTHUNKED.  (I know that's not a word.  I don't care.)  The pain of having the muscles (tight and spindly as they are) wrenched violently off-course stuck with me for hours afterwards and I spent the rest of the day huddled in a pile of blankets with my laptop, not moving.

On Monday it was giving me warning jolts every time I moved or turned in particular ways (which is troublesome because I pace and move around the front of a classroom every day).  And then on Tuesday the arthritic pain came back with a vengeance, throbbing, stabbing, making me WRITHE for pain relief as I sat at my desk in the back of the classroom.

I spent a large chunk of the evening looking up exercises to loosen up my hip muscles (i.e. some of the old stuff I used to do in physical therapy) and I tried to do some of it.

God, there is nothing more discouraging than being almost unable to do gentle range-of-motion stretches.  First, I attempted slow stretching to a "warrior lunge" position (minus the actual lunge) to find that I could not support my weight on either hip flexed.  I had to kneel on my back leg AND hold onto my bed, which isn't how it's supposed to work.  But I think I *might have* stretched my hip extensors *a little bit*.  After that, I managed some hip flexes well enough, but even holding the weight of my leg up to hip height for 2 SECONDS with my wimpy hip flexors was a monumental task.  Couldn't keep my spine or pelvis straight either.

The worst for me, though, has always been trying to do any kind of hip abduction (i.e. moving your hip away from the mid-line of your body).  This uses the muscles that cross over the outside of your hip/the side of your butt.  To put this in perspective for you, I have DENTS on the sides of my hips and butt WHERE MY HIP ABDUCTORS should be.  Complicating matters is the contracture of my hip joints (they just don't rotate past a certain point because they aren't shaped right).  So basically, even standing, I can only swing my feet about a foot or so out to the side.  It's like not having hip abductor muscles AT ALL.  I can remember days in PT when my trainer would make me lay on my side and try to do this exercise WITH GRAVITY WORKING AGAINST ME.  The feelings of worthlessness and crippled-ness as my legs flopped uselessly, unable to lift AT ALL, are something I can never forget.

Because I felt them again tonight.

And these feelings make me avoid trying to remedy my hip stiffness/weakness at all, because it feels like a hopelessly steep slope to climb and it causes me SO.  MUCH.  PAIN.

[the-stairwell]

Big Narstie - "Pain Overload" | Out Now