Hands ✨
ok so this took me a minute because i. may have gotten a little carried away with it. buuut introducing irene and jasper finally! ^_^
(CW: needles, hand trauma/fingore obviously, toxic behavior, possessive whumper, some blood of course, this is kind of just abusive buildup till it gets to hand gore)
(wc: 920 oh my god)
“You have such nice hands,” Irene hums thoughtfully, running a thumb over the metacarpal bones, feeling the individual bumps breaking up the soft flesh. “It’s a shame you’ve done so much damage to them with all that work.”
Jasper is trying desperately to hold still. Just.. Hold still. Maybe she’ll get bored if he holds still. Maybe she won’t do anything at all.
She tilts her head inquisitively, deep in thought. Jasper hates it when she does that. When she looks like she’s coming up with an idea. There’s always a more than likely chance it will be something that hurts.
“You know, with a little work, we could make this into art.” She’s inspecting his hands closer, and he feels his heart in his throat. Art. She says it like nothing could be more normal. Like she means finger painting, or nail art. But he knows better.
He avoids looking at her, though he can feel her eyes boring into him. Like a sculptor trying to find the shape in their clay.
“Don’t you think? Maybe some embroidery, or some carving..” Irene idly fiddles with Jasper’s fingers. Her eyes light up with an idea. “I could stitch them all together and you’d never have to ruin your pretty hands again.”
He swallows, hard, eyes focused on the floor. What can he say? What can he do? His fingers twitch in Irene’s hand, and she laughs a bit.
“Don’t be nervous. It wouldn’t take long, if you held still.” She uses her free hand to lift Jasper’s chin, forcing eye contact. His green eyes reflect her white teeth as she smiles softly. “It might even be convenient, you know. It would make it so much easier for me to leave you at home all alone.”
Jasper finds it in himself to speak.
“What if — What if you need my help with things, though?” His mouth feels dry. He’s grasping at straws, really. “Holding, uh, needles, or something?”
“Silly, I can do that without your help.” She boops his nose affectionately. And Jasper wishes he were still able to fight back, as Irene stands up to go find her good thread. He wishes he could still run out that door. But wishing doesn’t do much for him now.
“Irene,” he rasps desperately as she returns, needle in hand, “Please, don’t — don’t do this.”
Her face falls. He regrets opening his mouth.
“Jasper..” She sits back down next to him, hands shaking a little. “You understand that this is for you, right? I’m doing this for you.”
He can’t tell if her shaking is from anxiety, or anger. Maybe both.
“And — All I want to do is show you how.. Important, you are to me. You know that, right? Right?”
Her voice is getting slightly more shrill as she continues, her hand tightly gripping the needle. She curls her fist around it, and slams it into the table, making Jasper flinch.
She takes a deep breath, and smiles again.
“I’m.. Sorry, Jasper, what were you saying, again?”
“..N.. Nothing, Irene.” He ducks his head, and puts his hands on the table in front of him.
Irene’s smile becomes more natural as she lifts one of Jasper’s hands, sighing softly.
“That’s what I thought. Now, this won’t take too long.”
It’s a lie.
The pain is excruciating — the needle sends a shock through his nerves, and the thread trails through for what feels like forever.
He can’t bring himself to watch the white thread being pulled through and turning red.
He bites down on his lip to keep from screaming. Irene hates it when he screams, but every stitch makes him want to cry. His hand twitches in pain, pulling one of the stitches tight, and he loses out against instinct as a sob pries itself free from his throat.
Irene pulls the next stitch tighter, and he presses his forehead into the table to suppress his cries. He wants to curl his fingers into his palms and hide, but he can’t.
“You’re being so good for me, Jasper,” Irene says gently, and Jasper whines in response. He doesn’t want to be good. He just wants to go home.
His hands won’t stop shaking, which makes everything hurt worse.
“This would be going so much faster if I were using my sewing machine,” the artist muses. Jasper stops breathing for a moment. “But your hands are too big, so this will have to do.”
Thank god, thank god, he can start breathing again.
He feels lightheaded. He can’t tell how long has passed since they started — Every so often his vision goes white with pain.
The needle moves in and out of the sides of his fingers, doubling back and stitching again for strength. The thread is blood red. The needle is so sharp it slides right through him like he’s nothing. He thinks he might throw up.
They must be done by now, surely. He can’t take any more.
“There we are,” Irene sings, “Oh, it looks so pretty!”
Jasper can’t look. He won’t.
He brings his teary eyes to his hand, and chokes out a sob. His fingers are completely stitched together. He can’t even bend them properly. He screws his eyes shut, not wanting to look anymore.
At least it’s over, he thinks.
“Do you like it?” Irene’s voice cuts through him. Despite everything, Jasper swallows every terrible thing he wants to say and nods.
“Good!” She puts down his hand. “Now I can move on to your other one.”