Synopsis: You were supposed to get tortured tonight. Instead, you hid. Companion piece to Pasteurized.
Word count: 1171
notes: kidnapped reader, descriptions of past torture, reader is afab; combination of movie and book canon
At 9 PM, an hour when the sun had set and the sky was deep blue-black and all dotted with stars, you were supposed to head down to the clearing and sit nice and pretty and wait for Rose the Hat to strike the first blow.
Literally, the first blow. This was not some metaphorical musing or purple prose. She usually started your torture sessions (they were, of course, the True Knot’s feeding sessions) with a solid kick to the ribs or the side, to knock you down, and get you in a nice prone position for whatever was coming next.
The sharp pain, she said, was a bit like dropping a steak onto a sizzling hot pain. It gave your flavor a nice crust.
You had done this dutifully for some years now. When you were a child, they dragged you there or Crow Daddy took your hand and led you there without giving you room to struggle; you had no choice. As you got older, it became something of a chore marked on a calendar.
Friday: Make bed, wash dishes, head down to the bonfire to get tortured for hours.
It was something you did because you were supposed to, because the alternative was worse. Because some sick part of you wanted them to like you, and not making them work hard for their food seemed to do just that.
Tonight, though, you didn’t brace yourself and walk down to the clearing. You snuck out of the little camper where you lived with Silent Sarey and crawled, silent as you please, to the creaky old playground set up away from camp. A public playground where anyone staying at the campground could go.
It was a stupid move, in all respects. They would find you. They would hurt you more for giving them trouble. Especially when they treated you so well; that was always the line when you were younger. You should be grateful that they didn’t chain you up like a dog in the dark.
And you were grateful, most of the time. Really. Truly. You were grateful every time you got a birthday cake or Rose the Hat had a civil conversation instead of sneering at you like a smart-mouthed roast dinner. You were grateful for your bed and your notebooks and your magazines.
You were grateful for Crow Daddy--your daddy--who made sure you got schooling and took you to the movies and always treated you with care, so long as you acted right.
But there was only so much pain you could take. And tonight, you could take no more.
Not that it mattered what you could take.
It’s Crow Daddy who finds you. And you know that it was probably on purpose, because he’s the only one whose presence wouldn’t immediately make you want to bolt. To convince you to come willingly, so there wouldn’t be a scene. If they were fine with you screaming and kicking, they might have sent Barry to drag you by your armpits or heaven forbid, Rose, all simmering anger to draw you out with threats.
But instead it’s Crow Daddy who kneels in front of the jungle gym. It was the only piece of equipment big enough for you to fit under. Woodchips dig into your thighs, and you shift uncomfortably on the ground.
“Hey, there,” he says. Casual as you please. Like you weren’t tucked under a piece of playground equipment at night, hiding from your tormentors.
You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek and keep your eyes staring down at your lap. If you don’t talk, you can stay here longer. Delay the inevitable.
He sighs, a slow, soft sound in the night. Crickets sing behind his breath.
“Well. Didn’t think you hated me so much, honey.”
Something lurches in your chest, and you look up. The moonlight plays on Crow Daddy’s face. He looks serious and sad and Christ, worst of all, disappointed in you.
“What? No, I don’t hate you, I-”
Crow Daddy shakes his head, cutting you off. “You want me to starve, is that it? Me and Miss Rose? And Grandpa Flick, too? You saw he’s been using a cane lately. But I guess you want him to go on hurtin’.”
Tears prick at your eyes. Grandpa Flick had been walking stiffly the past few weeks. Rose had been helping him up and down. He didn’t have the skip in his step that he got right after, well--right after he fed on your tortured, nourishing steam.
Was it wrong, to feel bad for him? He was one of the people who kidnapped you, but he wasn’t so bad when he was in a good mood. He got you presents and patted your head and told you old, old, old stories.
And Crow Daddy, of course, of course you didn’t want him to hurt.
“I don’t want you to starve, daddy. Or Miss Rose or anyone. I would never…” You would never what, you think? Never run away? It wasn’t a possibility. Never deny them food? You didn’t have a choice.
He gestures for you to come closer, and you obey. The wood chips dig into your knees as you crawl out from underneath the jungle gym and sit in front of Crow Daddy, who gives you a once over.
“Then why are you hiding when you know it’s supper, hm?”
There are a million things you could say.
All you do is whimper stupidly. The ghosts of pains past ripple through your memory. The knives, the beatings. The crowbars. The hornets.
“It’ll hurt.”
Crow Daddy puts one firm hand on your shoulder.
“I know, sweetheart. It’s gotta hurt, though. Don’t you want us to stay nice and strong?”
You nod. There’s only one answer he wants. He’s kind enough to take your hand and lead you right to it.
“Yes, daddy.”
His serious frown breaks into a smile, and you smile, too. Not because you’re happy but because when he smiles it means he’s not disappointed in you and in this big fucked up world, that’s all you have.
He chucks your chin with his fingers.
“That’s my girl.”
He stands, and extends his hand, and you take it. He grips it tight as he leads you away from the playground and towards the flickering light of the bonfire in the distance. You try not to fight against what’s coming, which will surely be worse than whatever they had planned originally. Instead you just accept it. Accept that you’re going to walk straight into a den of creatures that are going to hurt you until your throat is bleeding raw from the screams.
You wonder: will your bittersweet acceptance tonight add a new flavor to the taste of your steam?
And did it matter? What truly mattered was the pain. It was the pain that purified your steam and made it filling and nourishing, like ultra-concentrated vitamins that they inhaled in the darkness of the night.
