whumpee does not talk about what happened. no matter how much everyone encourages them to, no matter how many times they vomit from anxiety in the bathroom, they don't talk about it. it's like they can't talk about it – like there's something physically stopping the words from escaping their throat. "talk to me," someone would say. and even if whumpee wanted to, they couldn't form a sentence before their whole body was trembling apart.
still, sometimes, it gets out in pieces. against whumpee's will, ultimately. now, they're curled up in the corner of the kitchen. hands over their ears, breathing heavily, crushing in on themselves. they're trying to block the memories out but it's not working. and the memories are more like visions, like scenes from a movie playing on repeat in their head. they're surrounded, they're back there again and they can't escape it. they forget where they are, who they're with, and practically everything else. they're whimpering and whispering to themselves, shaking while squatting, about to fall over, when caretaker walks into the room. "whumpee?" caretaker says gently.
whumpee's fingers are shoved deep into their ears, trying to block out the voice that's coming from in their own head. "go away, please go away," they whimper again as they squirm, pushing themselves further into the corner. they don't see caretaker kneeling in front of them. they don't know who they're talking to anymore. "don't touch me, god, I can't do it anymore." whumpee doesn't normally cry easy at all, but right now there are tears all over their cheeks.
chills run through caretaker's body as they watch on, feeling helpless. they rarely see whumpee like this, and every time it feels worse and more intense than the last. caretaker's hand is shaking, but they reach it out towards whumpee slowly. they brace themselves, and as their palm grazes against whumpee's shoulder, whumpee flinches and falls into the wall. but their eyes open, they take their fingers out of their ears and look at caretaker. whumpee's breathing is deep and heavy, and there's drops of sweat forming at the top of their forehead. but when they lock eyes with caretaker, they look relieved. the deep breaths morph into deep sighs. they feel ashamed, embarrassed, horrified at the idea of what they could have said. they expect caretaker to ask about it, or to tell them to go to a therapist. and maybe they will later, but now caretaker just grabs their arm firmly. "it's okay," they state. "you're back. you're here – safe."
whumpee tries to stop crying but they can't. it's always so hard to stop once they start, even if it's in front of another person. normally they'd be mortified by the fact that someone was seeing them crying, but something about caretaker made it not so terrifying. "I'm okay," they repeat. "I'm..." they want to say they're sorry, but a look at caretaker's kind face says they don't need to. "I'm okay," they say again.
caretaker helps the two of them to their feet, then holds onto whumpee's shoulders. it's a type of intimacy whumpee will never be familiar with, so they blink too much as their eyes dart around to look at anything other than caretaker's eyes. "I know you don't want to talk about it, and I respect that," caretaker begins, keeping eye contact even though whumpee is avoiding it, "but if you ever do, I'm here. I'll listen."
whumpee's face crumples up again, and in a desperate attempt to hide, they do the first thing they can think of and bury their face in caretaker's chest. they keep crying, and caretaker doesn't say anything. they just provide tender strokes of their hands over whumpee's back, holding them for as long as necessary.
