I love a dazed, out-of-it, purely broken whumpee. One who is so gone and dead to the real world, they don’t notice a single thing going on. Perhaps it’s a learned coping mechanism to get through the torture. Whumpee, who is pliant to whumper’s will and clocked out to the pain not because they want to, but because it’s the only way they get through it all. Perhaps it’s what whumper was waiting for—finally breaking them into an impossible, unrecognizable shred of a being doing barely more than living despite it all.
Whumpee, so mentally broken and having physically given up so completely that they are numb to anything happening to or around them. They see and hear and feel nothing.
Not whumper.
Not whumper’s continued torture.
Not even caretaker who’d only just rushed in, ready to fight for whumpee, hoping and praying that whumpee hadn’t yet perished, only to see them doing little more than staring up at nothing, eyes dull and unseeing, with their head rolled back, barely reacting more than the involuntary flinches of their body’s nervous system and not because the feel anything happening to them. Looking more dead than caretaker ever thought a still living being could be.
Dazed. Unresponsive. Gone.
And make sure a friend or loved one sees how broken they’ve become.
Yeah. Do that to your whumpees.
