Waking Up In a Nightmare
Whumptober Day 10: Slurred words/Passing out from the pain
Masterlist
Content: Noncon body modification/surgery (aftermath), body horror, drugging, lab whump, nausea, excessive vomit, forced stripping, nonsexual nudity, delirium
Saul comes to, unseeing, the world dark and fuzzy, laying flat on his back. Everything is heavy and muddled, confusing. Something clinks in the background, coupled with a click-clack that he can’t parse the direction or source of.
He groans, and it sounds like it’s coming from someone else’s mouth, distant.
Where?– … Huh?
He clutches something made of fabric beneath him, attempting to lift himself up, forcing his arms back and extending them slightly, shaking. His back barely lifts off of the surface of… whatever he’s on. His chest aches with the movement, fiery and stabbing.
He can hear someone say “Stable.” The voice sounds… vaguely feminine.
The world begins to come into focus, blurry and blindingly white, making his eyes water. Saul takes in a shuddering breath. His lungs scream with the very movement. The feeling of taking in air is like that of glass shards lodging themselves within his innards.
“Implanted… successfully.” The voice continues. It sounds drifty and faraway.
Saul’s thoughts turn in circles, still half-sludge. It’s like he’s asleep and awake all at once, yet unable to see.
He blinks slowly. Again, he tries to lift himself up.
“Fffuck,” he slurs, coughing, dropping onto his back once more. He tries again, and manages to sit up, unsteady, his head heavy on his shoulders. Someone pushes him back and weakly, he tries to resist. “No… no, jus’ let me fuckin’ … ssta- and. … Ssit.” His voice is small, but filled with conviction. It shakes ever so slightly.
“No. Lay back.” The voice tells him, no-nonsense.
“I hhave to… ssitup. Lemme.” Saul coughs again. It sounds wet and gross. He heaves, the wetness catching in his throat. He clutches at it sluggishly. Finally, he clears it out, able to breathe, gasping. His eyes open wide as he does. He can see her now. Dr. Greyson. Her figure is still a little blurry, but he can still identify her, the smudge of blue in his vision unmistakable.
His chest still aches.
“Whhhat— what did yyou…” Saul starts to say, blindly touching his chest. He’s clothed in something other than the experiment uniform, he can feel it. The fabric is different. Beneath it, his skin gives, sticking to it. It has the hardness of some kind of slime. “Th’fuck?!” He suddenly sits up, leaning forward as if his head is too heavy for his body. As he sits, he realizes he’s wearing a hospital gown. The barest shred of decency he can be allowed here.
Then his stomach turns.
Coughing again, he hacks up something. It drips down his chin, thick and sticky. Saul covers his mouth with one hand, using the other to keep his unsteady balance in check.
He groans and mutters something unintelligible. It’s clear through the tone of his voice that it’s something vile. “… hhurts.” Saul doubles over without warning, grasping at his chest. “Ahg- shitshitshit—” He gasps, squeezing his eyes shut, gritting his teeth as he breathes, the air seething through his teeth. It’s like something has him within its jaws, biting him clean in two. It’s viselike, crushing.
Painkillers. He needs more painkillers.
He opens his mouth to speak and gags. Nothing comes out, but nausea crawls up his throat, pressing on the back of it. He forces himself to breathe deeply. He just needs to keep it together.
He opens his mouth to speak, soundless, and the world blurs in front of him again. The need to vomit is overwhelming. Saul’s breath is ragged.
During all of this, Dr. Greyson does nothing. She types on her screens and tends to her work and with unwanted tears in his eyes Saul almost wants to cuss her out — but he forgets the words, forgets how to ask her to give him some morphine or whatever the hell it is, all he can do is sit there with his mouth clamped shut, holding back his vomit.
Eventually, he throws up, black vomit staining the front of the hospital gown and pouring down the side of the surface he lays on, spilling onto the ground with a splatter. He throws up again and again, until there’s nothing left and he’s spewing up his own bile, a bright, noxious green. The smell is pungent.
Saul’s eyes sting and he blinks over and over.
Oh god. He’s crying. He’s crying and he’s covered in his own vomit. It’s dripping down his chin and it’s all over the hospital gown, greasy and jet-black, and his front is coated with it. It’s an absolutely obscene amount of waste.
Saul heaves. His ribcage feels like it’s snapping in two and his throat burns and his heartbeats are thudding in his ears, throbbing to the point his own skull feels like a claustrophobic nightmare.
This is a nightmare.
Saul’s head swims, vision turning dark.
…
Suddenly he’s back, seeing everything in double vision, held up by cold, slick metal. Dr. Greyson touches him, her hands gloved, untying the gown. The feeling is overwhelming.
His breath comes out quick and uneven.
She drags the soiled gown away from his body in one swift movement, and then he’s exposed. Blood rushes to his ears.
He stares at his own body, first mortified, then disbelieving.
He must be delirious.
Saul doesn’t even have the will to scream. The ugly stitches across his chest bleed blue and inky black, and in the center lies a thick, sticky membrane stretched across the skin. It looks like a patchwork of his own flesh and blood, like he’s been torn apart and sewn back up like a ragdoll. And like this, he really is a doll.
The pain makes sense now. It all makes sense, in a detached, confusing kind of way.
He’s been ruined. That’s what’s happened. Nothing will ever be the same anymore.
Dr. Greyson returns with a clean gown. It flutters like a ghost as she carries it.
Saul looks away from her, curling on his side. The room appears to crumble around him, flaking away. He breathes harder. What the fuck. What the fuck.
Dr. Greyson’s face is missing. She comes closer, gloved hands reaching for his arms.
“Get th’fuck away—”
She doesn’t.
Her touch is icy cold, clashing with the roiling heat in his chest. Saul’s entire body is on fire. He tries to push her away but he can’t.
The world continues to crack apart, and he begins to crack too. Right in his chest, where the ache is the worst. She clothes him, and the fabric is so light and thin yet claustrophobic and exposing.
He’s crying again. Or his vision is blurry. He can’t tell. He can’t tell anymore. He doesn’t know. It’s too much, it’s all too much —
Saul curls in on himself, dizzy and breathing shallowly. He’s going to die, isn’t he? He’s going to die, he can feel his chest collapsing on itself—!
… Everything goes black.
