”Write will you not”? I have been living ever since in a constant state of intention to write - E. A. Poe
Stories
Long-form & finished
Force of Nature (novella)
Unfair (complete, but I still plan to write more)
Sold to 1D 2WayStreet (hiatus)
Slice of life & standalone pieces
Capture the moment (rare updates)
"I'm sorry" (drabble)
Careless Whisper (prompt fill)
Slowly (drabble)
Burial Rite (short story)
Patricia (gothic horror)
All things end (oneshot)
The Butcher (horror, on AO3)
Field Medicine (oneshot)
Burning (drabble)
Cliff edge (oneshot)
Tears (drabble)
Breathless (drabble)
Frozen (drabble)
Hunting (drabble)
The Driver (oneshot)
The Driver - part 2 (oneshot)
Tropes you'll find here:
captivity, vampires, pet whump & unhappy endings, death, nsfw
Tropes you won't find:
caretaking, recovery arcs
I'm not great with tagging stuff, but my writing is usually under #whump writing, stuff about my characters is under #my ocs, personal posts are under #elias things, asks are tagged #elias answers
Other people's things are under #others' writing, #others' ocs and #others' art
I have another blog for personal stuff (my art, fandoms and bugs, mainly) : @creepy-crawly-critters
And I have a Ko-Fi, where I have some art shared :)
Note: This is an execution story that ends in fairly graphic death. There is a little bit of dead-naming in here to watch out for.
David paced his tiny cell in Hanson Women’s Penitentiary, counting down the minutes to his execution as best he could. It had to be nearly 6am, and no one had yet come to his cell to prepare him. He was beginning to hope that he’d miscounted, that his execution was tomorrow and he had another day to live.
He heard boots in the hallway and rushed to the door to look out the small, barred window. A woman glanced at him and then down at the paper in her hands.
“Prisoner 367?” she asked, and David nodded. “It says here you used the name ‘David’ when you were booked. Is that correct?”
David sighed inwardly and braced for the woman to call him “Kat”.
“Is that correct?” she asked again, lifting her eyebrows.
“Y-yes,” David answered, puzzled as to why she was stuck on that fact.
“Then that’s what I’ll be calling you. It seems you were, ah, mistakenly placed in the women’s prison. Since that cannot be corrected at this point, I will continue using that name for you.”
“Oh… thank you,” David said.
“I am your executioner,” the woman said bluntly.
“Oh.”
“I’m going to be coming into your cell now. Please cooperate with me, and we’ll get this over with quickly.”
“Yes, yes of course,” David said.
“Step back from the door, and face the opposite wall.”
David stepped away and turned, heart pounding, toward the wall. His executioner was beautiful, a brunette, bangs cut in a severe line over her eyebrows. Her bright blue eyes were lightly hooded, and her skin was ghostly pale. She had a purposeful walk and gesture that told David she knew exactly what she was doing and had, in fact, been the one to walk dozens to their deaths. He would be just one more.
As the cell door shut behind her, the executioner said, “You may turn around.”
David turned to her. Her face looked hooded in the dim, overhead light.
“Now I’m afraid I must ask you to remove your prison dress. The order was for a nude execution.”
“I know,” David said with a shiver. “The judge told me.”
David pulled the dress up over his head, revealing the scars that crossed his chest.
“You know, the warden is quite disappointed that you have had surgery,” the executioner said. “But I think your scars are rather lovely. They add a certain… ruggedness. Besides, there’s plenty for you to be ashamed of. You’ll need to remove the underwear as well,” she added, noticing David hadn’t taken them off.
David pulled down the women’s underwear he wore, almost glad to be rid of them. The executioner nodded approvingly as the underwear landed on the floor of the cell.
“Turn back to the wall for me, please,” she said.
David turned away, glad for the chance to hide the tears now stinging his eyes. He heard the cuffs open and felt their cold bite on his wrists.
“Tsk. Tsk,” the executioner said as she snapped them shut. “You’ve been quite bad, haven’t you? You know men that are… like you… are not supposed to pursue women, and yet, you did.”
“Like I said at my trial, I don’t feel I should be treated differently from any other man,” David said. He could feel the same spite he had for the judge rising in him. What had made him think the executioner, the ultimate tool of the State, would truly be sympathetic to him?
“Why do it, though?” the executioner asked as she turned David to face him. “You knew it could land you at the end of a rope.”
“I wanted love like anyone else,” David said.
“You wanted love enough that you were willing to die for it. Isn’t that sweet?” Her words weren’t cruel, but they weren’t kind either. She delivered them as one would deliver criticism to a child. “You could have gotten someone else killed along with you. You’re lucky that the judge bought the excuse that they thought you were a… how do I say this kindly? A natural man.”
Her words stung, and she knew it.
“Look,” she said by way of apology. “I understand it’s hard for you, but it’s hard for all of us. Do you think I enjoy taking people to the gallows every week?”
“I…,”David said, but he saw a hint of a smile on the executioner’s lips and realized that, no matter what she might say, she found at least some satisfaction in her job.
The executioner looked down at her watch. “We need to get going, David. You’re going to need to walk steadily, or I’ll have to call in the prison guards to walk you.”
David nodded. At this moment, despite standing naked in his cell, arms cuffed behind him, he felt a strange sort of acceptance.
The feeling of acceptance ended when he saw the sign by the door down the hall reading “Execution Room”. He stepped back, a small sound of fright bubbling up in his throat.
“David, David,” the executioner repeated. “David! Stay with me. Don’t let panic take over. Breathe. One… two…”
David breathed along with the executioner’s counting.
“Now I’m going to open this door,” the executioner said, “and you’re going to see the noose. Listen to me! It’s going to scare you, I know, but I need you to walk toward it. Ignore the witnesses. Can you do that?”
“I don’t know,” David said truthfully.
“There will be guards to help you if you can’t, but it’ll be easier if you can.”
“Easier for you.”
“David, the time for arguing is over. You’ve been sentenced to death, and you’re going to die whether you go calmly or not. I’m opening the door now.”
The executioner opened the door with a quick jerk, which David understood was to minimize the time he had to panic. He stepped inside in a rare moment of calm but immediately felt his legs starting to buckle under him as he saw the noose. It was dangling over a trapdoor in the floor, and beyond it sat a few witnesses. He looked down at the floor, ignoring them as the executioner had instructed. He could feel their eyes on his naked body, judging the incongruity of his flat, scarred chest and his hairy vulva.
“Forward, David,” the executioner said.
David walked forward, staring at his bare feet on the tiled floor. Before he knew it, he was at the edge of the trapdoor. He saw the simple X in the middle of it and the seam running across it which would be opening under him in a few minutes. The noose brushed against David’s downturned face, and he looked up. There it was, the simple rope dangling in front of him. It was made of rough hemp and had four turns in the knot. The noose itself hung at about chest height for David. As the executioner was a little shorter than him, she drew a stool over from a few feet away and stepped up onto it.
As she began to draw the loop over David’s head, he instinctively pulled his head away.
“Hold. Still,” she hissed, grabbing the side of his face and holding him still while she slipped the noose around his neck.
David clenched his eyes shut a moment and then opened them. He realized he was now looking straight at the witnesses. As the executioner tightened the noose around his neck, he counted them - 15 people here to watch him die. He recognized the two women he had “seduced” among them.
“Prisoner 367, Kat Novask,” read the warden.
“David,” said the executioner in his ear.
“Is scheduled for execution at precisely 6:00 am today,” the warden continued, “for two counts of criminal seduction. The naked prisoner shall be hanged by the neck until she is dead.”
“Until he is dead,” the executioner whispered as she positioned the knot at the back of David’s head.
“Executioner, are you prepared?” the warden asked.
“Yes,” the executioner answered.
The warden raised his hand, looking at the clock that ticked down David’s final two minutes.
“No…,” David muttered. “No, this isn’t fair.”
“David,” the executioner said quietly. “This is the end, okay? You don’t have anything else to worry about.”
“It’s going to hurt.”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to suffer.”
“Yes, but it’s because you committed a crime. You deserve this.”
“I don’t.”
“David. You wouldn’t be standing here with a noose around your neck if you didn’t deserve it. Now just let it happen. It’ll be over sooner if you don’t fight.”
The executioner reached for the lever.
“But… bu-“
“Executioner, do your duty,” the warden said, and immediately the executioner yanked the lever.
David felt the trap open beneath him and his feet slipping down toward the center.
He fell about 18 inches before the noose slammed into his throat and closed it tight. He hung still for a moment, wondering if his neck might have broken after all. His eyes were level with those of the seated witnesses, and he could see the way they looked at him, almost hungrily. Then he began to kick. At first, it was in the desperation he felt to lessen the pain that suddenly exploded through his head and neck. He knew, logically, that there was nothing beneath him to find with his feet, but he couldn’t fully accept that all these people were just going to let him die like this. It seemed too cruel. Surely they must see him hanging here and take pity!
But no one moved to save him. He saw the executioner step over to him and take in the scene, a soft smile on her face, but she made no effort to help him.
His lungs burned, the air trapped in them feeling like a balloon in this chest. His tongue felt like it was being forced out of his mouth, and drool dropped from it onto the floor of the room below. He could no longer form cohesive thoughts. All he could think about was pain and a hint of shame.
The executioner watched David’s movements become stranger, puppet-like and knew he was reaching the end. The witnesses probably thought he was still fighting, but the executioner knew better from her years of putting people to death.
She looked down into David’s glassy, half-closed eyes and grinned. He looked sweet like this, really, and she understood in that moment how a woman could fall for him. His tongue poked through his lips, and his cheeks blushed as if he were bashful about being naked in front of her. As his movements ended entirely, the executioner reached out to trace the scars across his chest.
“You did well, David,” she said. “You can relax now.”
She waited for the nurses to come and take David’s body away. As they lowered his body onto the gurney, she thought, almost fondly, that it was lucky he would be cremated and scattered so he didn’t have to be buried under the wrong name.
“This is me involving myself. I thought to myself, if Knox is going to be in a relationship and insist on shoving it in my face, then the least I can do is provide some sage counsel!”
“You’re going to help me put on such a show. I think you’re both going to love it.”
"What do I stand to gain from this? You don’t understand. He’s changed me. Knox made me into this. He made me. I can’t stop thinking about it. About him. About how good it feels to see him hurt. How it makes my eyes roll when he cries out, when he says ‘Stop’."
“You don’t want me to mark you? You don’t want people to know you’re mine? Do you think there’s some part of yourself that you can hide from me?"
“Knox. Good grief, you really know how to set me off don’t you? You just love to push my buttons.”
“I brought something to help you with your back posture. Want to know what it is? It’s a spike strip.”
“I ought to slit your fucking throat and watch you bleed into madness. Then beat you into torpor and wake you when I need a body to whore out. How. Dare. You.”
"You don’t have to think, Knox. I’ll take care of everything. I’ll tell you what you have to do, how you need to bend, and how you need to break.”
TW: withdrawal from antidepressants, zombified whumpee, symptoms of withdrawal, dissociation, derealisation, bad mental health whumpee, numbness
I hope you're happy @neon-kazoo
Whumpee blinked as she heard the door to her cell open. The world was twisting before she opened her eyes, and nausea lingered at the base of her stomach. Not a threat. Not yet, just a hint of what was to come.
When she opened her eyes the world seemed to shutter closer to her, like a sick horror game when the monster comes closer between lights flickering on and off, getting closer and closer until it’s upon you. Her body wasn’t hers, floating in suspended space, her nerves turned off, her limbs and muscles heavy. Moving seemed too much a thing to do at a time like this.
Her consciousness was buried beneath a concrete blanket in her mind that smothered her so sweetly, and she couldn’t remember what was wrong with her. Something wasn’t right. Something that she knows, intrinsically, but it was buried beneath the blanket of cotton covered concrete that kept her head heavy on the cot.
Whumper came whistling into her room, twirling the keys around his finger. She turned her head with an effort, and stared at him as he came in. Her expression blank, and if she could look in the mirror, she knew her eyes would be dead, unseeing.
When Whumper took her in with his eagle eyes he stopped short, tilting his head like a child that doesn’t understand something. Or a dog, listening for a command.
“What the fuck happened to you?”
“You kidnapped me, asshole.”
Whumper pursed his lips as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He turned back to face Whumpee, crossing the room in three strides. Whumpee wanted to back up on the bed. She really did, but her body was heavy, her limbs as useless as trying to command somebody else’s body to move for you.
Instead she blinked up at him, gaze blank, expression unnervingly neutral. Though her heart, her heart leapt in fear as he crouched down to peer at Whumpee. His features showing his emotion properly. It felt like the universe was laughing at her.
“You didn’t sleep?”
“Not well.”
“I gave you a bed.”
“I told you I need meds. I will be more trouble than I’m worth.” Oh. Yes. That was it, wasn’t it? That’s what was wrong. She didn’t take her meds last night, after Whumper took her. The memory was a pressure against the middle of her forehead and she suppressed a groan. She already told him this last night, didn’t she?
“Meds… like.. to sleep?”
Whumpee’s dead eyes met his. “To function. I won’t have fun reactions to whatever the fuck you want to do to me. I need pills to be a normal human being.”
Whumper frowned. There was a split second glimmer that crossed his eyes before he lunged and grabbed Whumpee’s throat and slammed her back on the bed.
“Y’know, I almost believed you, you’re very convincing.” Whumpee’s hands didn’t respond when she wanted them to reach up and grab Whumper’s. Her eyes remained dead as she stared at him, though her heart pounded and her lungs screamed, and in the back of her mind she thought she was going to die. “The dead eyed—”
Whumper cut himself off as Whumpee didn’t move beneath him. Her mouth opened to get air but everything else about her remained fixed in place. Her eyes didn’t widen in panic. Her limbs didn’t fight back instinctively for breath.
Her mind was lethargic and heavy in her skull, her body surrendered to death with his hands around her throat. Whumpee blinked and it felt like enough of a stimulus for the rest of her life.
She was exhausted.
Maybe dying would be—
“What the fuck?” Whumper asked, sitting up and back on Whumpee’s hips. Whumpee coughed, her body clawed in new breath, but she didn’t struggle. Didn’t try to shove Whumper off. He looked disgusted. “Where’s the fight? The struggle? The fire I saw before? Where is she?”
“She,” Whumpee croaked, “is fully medicated and not in withdrawal.”
Whumper scoffed. “You can’t be in withdrawal after a day.”
“Tell that to my body, you fuck.” There wasn’t enough bite in her voice for it to be as venomous a retort that she intended. She just sounded flat. Emotions didn’t come easy without her pills. Emotions barely came easy with them.
Whumper glared down at her, his eyes calculating before he climbed off her with a sigh. “Stay there. I’ll be back.”
Whumpee turned onto her side and stared at the wall of her cell. A few blinks later the door opened again. It felt like a couple minutes, but time moved faster when she was like this, time moved faster and never notified her that it was continuing.
Whumper marched in, his footsteps heavy on the concrete floor. He grabbed Whumpee by the cheek and turned her flat on her back. Whumpee blinked up at him as he turned her head more to face him. He was on the phone to somebody. Whumpee didn’t ask. She didn’t particularly care.
“What medication do you take?”
Whumpee blinked at him. Then frowned, a slow, laborious thing. Whumper’s fingers tightened on her face, his eyes darkening. It pricked the same fear she remembered feeling yesterday, the panic in her heart that picked up the drumbeat, and felt so, so far away.
She told him, then.
“And the dosage?” He said after a beat. Whumpee told him. He patted her cheek harshly after she answered and said, “good girl,” before he turned and left.
Horror swirled in her gut, but the blankness of withdrawal drowned out every response that would keep her alive. Fight, flight, freeze, fawn. It didn’t apply when her brain had to fight to keep her heart beating. Her lungs breathing. All other threats were secondary.
Right?
***
In the muddle of everything she didn’t hear the door open a second time. Didn’t hear the footsteps approaching. She felt hands on her again, turning her. She caught a flash of Whumper’s face and his grin as he said, “open wide!” and then her jaw was pinched open.
Wait, she tried to say, I can take them myself, but the words didn’t form with her tongue so thick and heavy in her mouth.
Whumper forced the pills into her mouth, and, despite the method, Whumpee swallowed gladly. Seemingly satisfied, Whumper sat on the edge of Whumpee’s cot with a bottle of water and held it out to her. Whumpee blinked at him.
“How long does it take to get you back to normal?” Whumper’s asked, his voice tight, speaking through clenched teeth.
“I’m more trouble—”
Whumper silenced her with a look. “How. Long?”
Whumpee tried to think. She really did. Without her antidepressants it was like her skin was stripped back and she could feel every nerve firing signals to her brain, leaving her naked and trapped beneath her senses, drowning in them, overwhelmed until her body went numb. A ghost of her hand reached inside her head and rooted around for the answer that Whumper wanted, her skull tight with the pressure of the search. An arc of blunt pain blinded her as she tried to think, landing just above her eyebrows and pulsing annoyingly.
“I’ll probably pass out soon,” she told him, pressing the pads of her fingers into her temple. “Uh, and uh, and then… sorry. I, can’t.”
The pain doubled and she closed her eyes against it, but it only seemed to draw the pain over her eyes, so she opened them again.
“To-tomorrow I’ll be, uh, I’ll probably n-not be very responsive either. It usually gets worse before it gets, um, y’know… it gets, uh—” she stopped, trying to think of the word. Oh my god, she knows it. This is ridiculous.
“Gets better?” Whumper offered with a cocked brow, looking at her like she was an alien.
She couldn’t reply after that look. She just nodded, lowering her eyes. Whumper groaned.
“So you’re broken for three days if you miss your meds?”
She was glad she didn’t take her meds now, because the word broken sliced through her and cleaved her in half, wrenching apart the side of her that was human and the other sick side. She lowered her gaze and nodded, swallowing, trying to get some moisture back in her throat.
As if he sensed her discomfort, Whumper uncapped the bottle of water and pressed it into her hand.
“It’s one of those sports ones,” he said. “My friend who got the pills told me you’ll be basically stupid until you’re normal again, so I don’t want you drowning yourself.”
The consideration was kind of sweet for a kidnapper. It made her want to get sick. No way was she going to commend him for one small thing. Especially because he was the reason she was this way in the first place!
Whumper sighed as he looked down at her.
“I wanted to have fun with you today…” He reached down and grabbed her wrist, turning it over on the bed. “You’re no fun when you don’t fight back.”
“Don’t touch me.”
He pulls out a knife and grins wickedly down at her. He brings it to the inside of her forearm and slices through the skin, watching her reaction.
The nausea is the first thing to come, not at the pain, she doesn’t feel it, her body is not hers anymore. The nausea comes like sudden inertia as she looks at her arm, the wound, the blood, feels it bubble up and cool, tracing down her arm like red tears. She knows it’s her arm, her body, and she can feel none of it.
“Fascinating,” Whumper purred, taking her chin in his hand. Her eyes met his and the nausea turns tenfold. “You really don’t feel things like this, huh?”
“I’m gonna throw up if you keep doing that,” Whumpee warned him, but it wasn't the thing that was actually curling that whirlpool of nausea in her stomach. No, it was the feeling after looking at the wound, as if Whumper just sliced through the fog of her numbness, like the first breath of air once she surfaced after drowning. The tears pricking the back of her eyes were less to do with Whumper, and more to do with that sudden, heart stopping relief.
It's wrong. She's wrong. Everything's all wrong.
Whumper laughed. “So I can still draw out some reactions. Interesting.”
He stands from the cot, touching his hand to her wound before drawing a line of blood on her cheek. She wanted to scream. She wanted to curse him and kick him, and bite. She wanted to push him away, take his knife and slam it into his gut.
Instead, she stared.
Blank. Unfeeling. Undead.
“Get some rest, Whumpee, you'll need it. You're going to have to make up for all the fun we’re missing out on.”
The tears only fell when the door closed, warm on her stone cheek. The meds dragged her eyelids over her eyes, and oblivion swallowed her whole.
_
For those who wanted to read: @whumpsick @paperprinxe
I really don't know how to describe the innate tenderness involved in a vampire bite.
Sure, some vampires are ravenous and only want the blood. For the vampires who have bonded with the thrall or with the poor soul trapped in their embrace, control is not what the vampire wants.
They want acceptance. Their movements are slow, fluid, embracing the thrall to their bosom. They whisper sweet nothings, promising the pain will be kind, the venom will make them happy.
Then their fangs find purchase in the taut neck, gently but greedily taking that lifesource that they themselves can no longer make. And when they feel the shuddering body slip, they keep them safe, lay them down so sleep will heal them sooner.
Have Whumper cut Whumpee's hair. It's terrifying, especially if Whumper has cut Whumpee before. They can hold the scissors agaisnt Whumpee's throat in the same spot where they usually hold the knife. They can joke around about nipping an ear. Whumpee can flinch at the sound of the scissors. They can tremble, having a hard time holding still. Whumper can roughly pull their head in different positions for the cut. And for Whumpee there is yet another thing they lost control over: their appearance.
We're a few days late, but thank you to everyone who participated this year! Whether you did one day or all 31, it was wonderful seeing everyone's creations, answers, and community interactions! We the mods had a lot of fun running this event, and we hope you'll all participate again next year! Until then, happy whumping :)
writing a fic little by little, adding a few sentences every day and then fixing something from the previous day(s) feels like a rhythm that a) works for me b) does wonders for my writing
I noticed yesterday how much of a clearer grasp on the characters I have, how easily I can make their voices consistent (and if I write something inconsistent, I notice it and fix it the next day)
(possible spoilers under the cut for the diorama-maker)
I especially like showing anxiety and insecurity that have different sources and are a result of different mechanisms in the characters; the way Conrad (the diorama-maker) starts out apathetic to neutral-positive and ends an awkward, frazzled mess by the end and he fights to control and compensate for Vs the client, Walter, who compensates hard for the lack of experience and the anxiety of doing something properly illegal/evil, purely because he wants to and he can, turning arrogant and powerdrunk but no less experienced or knowledgeable.
Their interactions are unbalanced to their respective benefit and that is fascinating to witness while Zach is barely a subject of conversation. It adds to the horror of how self-absorbed the two men are.
When Zach gets the chance to talk to Conrad again, awkward and guilt-ridden he is shut down so fast. His presence is the destabilizing force for both of the others. And he catches onto that, pushing Conrad to just do something. He could save Zach, he could help at least.
And how I love Zach. He is tortured and traumatized and so so so scared. He is observant, but gets lost in his head too often. And he's thrown for the biggest loss, his memories of safety and family are torn away so violently with only one option for something to cling to which is his owner and the new life. He's done nothing to deserve it. Poor boy.
Whumpee thought it would just be a normal trip to the bank. Their card was about to expire and it was usually faster to get a new one in person instead of having it sent through the mail.
It was busy, as always, so they just idly scrolled on their phone while they waited for their number to be called. They completely ignored the hustle and bustle around them until the first gunshot.
Things had changed since they last looked up. People in dark clothes and masks blocked the doors and a group of them was moving through the bank, grabbing people and herding them into a group.
Whumpee didn't have time to come to terms with what was happening before one of the criminals reached them, snatching their phone out of their hand and yanking them out of the chair with a bruising grip on their arm.
Once everyone was gathered one of the criminals hopped up onto a table.
"Here's how this is gonna go. You're going to sit down and stay quiet. If everyone obeys, nobody has to get hurt."
There were a few murmurs across the room, but it seemed like nobody was feeling particularly heroic today.
Aside from the terror of being watched by armed criminals, the robbery was actually oddly peaceful. Most of them had left the main room to go clear out the vault. Quiet conversations popped up in the group of hostages that faltered whenever one of the guards looked in their direction.
Whumpee could faintly see red and blue lights flashing outside, but didn't have much hope in a rescue. It felt like they were going to be stuck until the criminals made their escape. It would probably be fine. It didn't look like the criminals wanted to hurt anyone.
It seemed like the situation was coming to a close as more of the criminals came back, loaded down with bags and talking about making their way to the vans. The one who spoke before snapped their fingers and the rest instantly turned to pay attention.
"The boys in blue said they'd play nice but we all know how that goes. I want insurance. Grab a few 'guests' on your way out."
Whumpees blood ran cold and based on the gasps and frightened murmurs they weren't the only one. To make matters worse Whumpee was on the edge of the crowd, easy pickings.
A few of the criminals circled the group like wolves, occasionally leaning in to snag someone and drag them off kicking and screaming. Soon there was only one left, the leader.
Whumpee kept their head down hoping their gaze would slide right over them. Perhaps that was a mistake. Meek and easy control was exactly the kind of person they'd look for.
A hand wrapped around their upper arm and hauled them upwards. Whumpee screamed and tried to struggle, but their efforts were short lived as a gun dug into their side.
"Shut up. Or do you want things to get messy?"
Tears welled in Whumpees eyes as they shook their head. The criminal dragged them away, into the back of the bank. The others that had been pulled away were sitting on the ground, arms and legs duct taped and with a bag over their head.
The leader shoved Whumpee towards them. Whumpee was swarmed and quickly restrained like the others.
"Ah, no." The leader spoke up when one of the criminals grabbed another bag. "Not for that one."
Whumpee was apparently special. Whumpee did not like being special in this context.
The others were loaded into a few vans alongside bags of stolen loot. Whumpee ended up sitting next to the leader in the back of one of the vans.
"You're so quiet." They gently tilted Whumpees head up, a smirk on their face. "I knew you'd be perfect for this."
Whumpee wanted to ask what they were perfect for, but didn't dare speak up. As the vans pulled out of the hidden parking area the leader pulled Whumpee into their lap, wrapping their arms around Whumpees waist in lieu of a seatbelt.
"Relax, doll. If the cops play nice you'll probably get to go home tonight."
Their chin rested on Whumpees shoulder as their voice lowered to an almost playful murmur.
"Then again, maybe not. You can see where we're going after all and it'd be a shame to lose such an obedient little bargaining chip."
Ziya didn’t think he ever stopped crying. Not in any way that mattered.
It came in waves. Ugly, heaving sobs faded into stinging eyes and a head full of cotton, back into howling wails and then quiet sniffles.
He was making chicken biryani, a recipe that Parker taught him. Maybe that was what triggered it. Maybe it was just the onions.
Either way, silent tears rolled down his cheeks, dripping off the point of his chin, splattering against the counter and the floor. He was pretty sure a few drops had fallen into the rice, he’d have to compensate with less salt.
It was easier to work through the tears than wait for them to stop. He was starting to believe they never would.
=
Mimette was trying to teach him how to walk.
“Just watch how Courtney does it,” she said, “do what she does.”
Ziya watched Courtney and the rest of the models stood off to the side watching him. Their eyes were sharp, pointed blades that stuck into his back and pinched his muscles every time he moved. He wondered how much coverage the trial had gotten, he wondered how many of them had clicked on an article about it. He wondered if any of them had been in the gallery.
He walked. His eyes burned but he walked anyway.
=
“You’re okay,” Mr. Prichard soothed, “you’re okay.”
The car was parked on the side of the road, hazard lights blinking. Ziya’s chest trembled with every breath. He choked on air and the wet feeling on his cheeks, he could barely remember what it was like for his face to be dry.
Fingers carded through his hair, a hand squeezed his own. Slowly, he was made to lean his head on Mr. Prichard’s shoulder, the center console jutting uncomfortably into his hip. He didn’t mind, though. He’d forgotten how nice it was to be held.
Niney was in the backseat. Niney was always there in some capacity. Silently watching, probably judging. It made Ziya’s cheeks burn, although it was probably hard to tell mixed in with the ever-present redness ringing his eyes.
Niney never cried, Ziya was sure of it. He admired it as much as it terrified him. That quiet, emotionless demeanor was suddenly aspirational instead of unsettling.
Ziya couldn’t believe he was finding fucking Niney aspirational.
=
He stepped on the scale and immediately let out a sigh of relief. He’d gained nearly three pounds that week.
His stomach had a bit of flab to it. Not much, but noticeably more than a month ago, when he’d examined himself in the same mirror. He pinched it between his fingers, finding it hard to believe it was actually there.
He was nowhere near where he used to be but he was making progress. He’d even started exercising when he had the time, trying to gain some of the weight back as muscle.
“One-thirty-two?” Mr. Prichard asked, Ziya wasn’t sure when he’d poked his head into the bathroom door.
“Yeah,” Ziya replied. He couldn’t keep the smile out of his voice.
“Okay.”
=
Cajun chicken with caesar salad and garlic bread. It wasn’t Ziya’s most complicated dinner, but it smelled great and he was hungry after a full day of deep cleaning the office. He set the table, plated the food, and waited, ready to wow Mr. Prichard and Niney with the presentation.
When Mr. Prichard entered the room he walked straight to the table, picked up Ziya’s plate, and scraped half of it into the trash.
=
“It’s not that hard.”
“I know!” Ziya snapped. He was irritable. Irritable and so fucking hungry. Every time the scale tipped past 130, Mr. Prichard would cut his portions in half until it went back down and he was starting to lose his fucking mind over it.
It had become a ritual, every morning he’d stand on the scale and find out how much he’d be allowed to eat for the rest of the day. That morning he’d been 131, so he was allowed a single egg while Niney and Mr. Prichard enjoyed twice as much on slices of buttered toast.
“You don’t have to be perfect,” Mr. Prichard ranted, motioning to the section of floor they’d taped off as a pseudo-runway, “just do better. Stop flopping around like you don’t have any fucking bones.”
He almost preferred the basement. Back then he didn’t have to look at the face of the person starving him. He didn’t have to cook three meals a day that he wasn’t allowed to eat.
“I hate you,” he said and he meant it.
“Hate me all you want, we’re not leaving until you can do it right.”
=
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Prichard said, “I’m being way too hard on you. I know you’re trying.”
Ziya didn’t last long before the tears started to prick his eyes.
=
The two of them were on the couch, a blanket and a bucket of popcorn shared between them. Mr. Prichard swirled a glass of wine in one hand while he paged through Netflix on the other. Niney was on the floor, his head resting against the arm.
Mr. Prichard nudged Niney in the side with his foot. “Why do you never sit on the furniture?”
“I’m–” Niney turned to face him, eyes wide and brow furrowed. His mouth was hanging open, like he couldn’t believe the question had left Mr. Prichard’s mouth in the first place. “I’m not allowed, sir.”
“Who told you that?”
“You, sir.”
Mr. Prichard took a sip from his glass. “No, I didn’t.”
“Yes you did, sir.” The level of vitriol in Niney’s voice wasn’t something that Ziya ever expected to hear directed at Mr. Prichard of all people. “A few weeks after you brought me home I upset you when I reminded you that I needed to be present every time you left the house unless you contacted a judge to get special permission and then you said that I wasn’t allowed to use the furniture at all without your permission. You said that if I was going to whine at you like a dog, I should act like one, sir.”
“Huh…” Mr. Prichard paused, a small smile spreading across his lips like he was recalling a funny memory, “I guess I did say that. I totally forgot.”
An awkward, weighted silence blanketed the room.
“May I sit on the couch, sir?” Niney asked.
“Not after giving me that attitude,” Mr. Prichard replied.
=
Ziya was sitting on the closed seat of the toilet in the studio’s bathroom, bawling his eyes out. He’d been in there for way too long, he knew that someone would come in to check on him soon and he was dreading it. He wasn’t even sure what he was crying over.
They’d spent all day doing his makeup, trying out different looks. All he had to do was sit in the chair and look pretty, but after a few hours he felt the familiar choked up feeling and decided to hide away before the tears spilled over.
He inhaled his own spit and hunched forward, collapsing into a fit of coughs. The smell of wet mascara made him cry harder. He was ruining it. It had taken so long and he was ruining it. He was sure it was mixing with his tears, carving dark lines through his foundation and his contour, smudging his eyeshadow.
He dabbed at his face with toilet paper, trying to carefully lift away the moisture without bringing any of the product with it. Once he was finally confident that his face would stay dry he left, keeping his eyes glued to the ground so he wouldn’t have to look at the damage in the mirror.
When he stepped out the door, Mr. Prichard grabbed him by the chin and rotated his face left, right, up, and down.
“I like it,” Mr. Prichard said, “it’s very avante garde.”
Ziya decided to stay quiet. He was more than willing to let Mr. Prichard believe that it had all been the makeup artists’ doing.
=
His own fingers were choking him, brushing against the back of his throat and pressing down on his tongue, making him gag. Mr. Prichard had one hand in his hair and the other around his wrist, holding him over the toilet while his stomach convulsed and his eyes watered.
Two months ago, Ziya could have thrown Mr. Prichard right off of him, could have stormed right out of that bathroom. He never appreciated the moments that reminded him just how weak he had become.
“The next time you steal something out of the fridge,” Mr. Prichard said, “I’ll buy you a fucking muzzle.”
Ziya nodded, his teeth knocking against his knuckles.
=
He was laying on the floor, picking at the shag carpet because he had finished his chores for the day and he didn’t have the energy for anything else. His collar itched. He wanted to scratch it. It was made out of some kind of cheap wicker material, the sort of thing that looked light and breathable up until it had been fastened against his skin.
He reached up and stopped, his fingers just a few centimeters short of his neck. Memories of switches and cattle prods and I can’t remember, sir flashed in front of his eyes. He set his hands back down on the carpet.
Light footsteps approached from the kitchen. Niney sat down next to Ziya’s head.
“You need something?” Ziya asked. Niney rarely made conversation for conversation’s sake, there was always a purpose behind his seeking out Ziya’s company.
“Do you know what day is coming up?” Niney asked. What an ominous fucking question.
“Paris?” Ziya guessed.
“No.”
Ziya paused, trying to conjure any other important dates from the depths of his memories before it hit him. “You’ve been here for almost a year, haven’t you?”
“Uh,” Niney blinked, “not that.”
That made sense. Ziya couldn’t imagine Niney or Mr. Prichard wanting to make a big deal out of that anniversary.
“Then what?”
“Mr. Prichard’s birthday is coming up,” Niney said, like it was supposed to be common knowledge.
“How was I supposed to guess that?” Ziya scoffed.
Niney shrugged. “Mimette told me. I thought she might’ve told you, too.”
“Okay.” Ziya sat up a little too quickly, having to stop and blink away the vertigo. “So what do you want me to do about it? Bake a cake?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
A quiet indignance gnawed at the back of his mind the same way the hunger was gnawing at his stomach. Why the fuck would he bake a cake for someone who probably wouldn’t even let him eat it? It was a mean thing to ask of him. He wondered if Niney had meant for it to be that way. They’d been getting along better but Ziya still wasn’t convinced that Niney actually liked him. There were times, mostly when Mr. Prichard was being his usual touch-hungry self, that Ziya could feel Niney’s glare stabbing into the back of his skull. He could never quite catch the look, could never prove to himself that he wasn’t just imagining things, but deep down he knew he was right.
Regardless, it wasn’t like he had anything better to do and maybe he could sneak a few dabs of icing when no one was looking.
Whumper forcefully grabbed Whumpee’s jaw, tipping the clear liquid into Whumpee’s mouth. Whumpee struggled, trying their best to get out of Whumper’s hold, but Whumpee was kneeling and weak and so so tired, and Whumper was standing over them and stronger, always stronger and always more powerful.
Whumper looked down into Whumpee’s eyes, revelling in the tears streaming down their cheeks. “You always make it harder than it needs to be, Whumpee."
Whumper let go of Whumpee, who dropped to the floor. Whumpee's whole body was wrapped in imprints of their last beating; they were in so much pain, it made it hard to breathe. Whumper put the empty glass on a table.
The effects of whatever Whumper forced down Whumpee's throat were immediate, just a slight feeling of fog crawling over Whumpee’s skin, everything slowing just a little bit.
“If you were good, I wouldn’t have to do this."
Whumpee scoffed. They knew it would probably result in a harder punishment after the exhibit, but they had to laugh. They were not submitting without a fight; they never have, especially not if it meant going onto that god-forsaken pedestal in front of all those people. People who would look at them and only see what Whumper has turned them into.
They would call it art, and criticise the colour of their bruises, the shape of the lashing marks covering their back. They would praise Whumper, ask them questions afterwards, about their technique, about their style.
Whumper turned towards Whumpee; they were even angrier now. Whumpee started to shuffle backwards on the floor; they hated themselves for the visceral reaction their body had whenever Whumper looked at them like that. It made them sick, and it allowed Whumpee to scrape together whatever rage the drugs weren't already flushing from their system, just enough to whisper a soft fuck you to the approaching Whumper.
Whumpee knew that their defiance gave them no real power. Whumper was smart, and so so cruel; the sedative would work, maybe in a few minutes, but the result would be the same. Whumpee would be completely at Whumper's mercy. Whumper smugly moved towards Whumpee; they enjoyed it when Whumpee talked back, it made the lessons they had to learn so much more profound. Whumpee tried to get away, but Whumper was faster, and the drug was really starting to do its job. Whumper knelt in front of Whumpee; they had something in their hands...
A leash.
Before Whumpee could even think to pull away, it was already clipped onto the permanent collar they were forced to wear around their neck. Whumper was speaking, but the words held no meaning; it was only noise. Whumper pulled on the leash, and Whumpee had no choice but to move with them. Their legs weren't working fast enough to keep up; they stumbled, but Whumper didn't care; they probably even enjoyed it a little. The collar pushed into Whumpee’s throat, forcing their breathing to become ragged.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you for your pleasure, exhibit 128, by one of our best artists: Whumper.”
Whumper pushed Whumpee into the exhibition room, onto the pedestal. Whumpee fell on the marble block with a loud thud. A hazy mix of laughter and chatter crashed into Whumpee. Whumpee tried to push themselves up, but their arms felt like heavy weights they weren’t strong enough to pick up. They weren't completely sure what was happening around them anymore. Everything was so loud and so far away at the same time.
Shame and embarrassment were folding themselves into Whumpee's chest; they were drugged, but they were still on display, still watched and appraised like an object. Whumpee felt their clothes being stripped from their body; they tried to push away Whumper's hands, but it was only met with more laughter, and the next grip on their skin was going to leave even more bruises. Whumpee couldn't stop feeling the audience's eyes burning into their skin. They tried to look away, but Whumper was there to stop them. Whumper bent down to whisper in Whumpee's ear, "This is what you were made for, Whumpee, nothing more, nothing less. And we will keep doing this until you believe it too."
manager whumper joking about what they do to whumpee during interviews. charismatic enough that even if they don't sound particularly kidding, people intereprete it as such. uncomfortable journalists trying to laugh it off.
whumpee watching their fans make such jokes into a meme.
Whumpee who is on antidepressants and is forced to quit cold turkey when they get captured. Having to endure both the torture and the withdrawal symptoms and their depression coming back full force.
The change brought a wave of dizziness with it as Sita looked toward the bag. Their heart hammered in their ears, their fingers, everywhere the could feel a pulse.
“How much are you giving me?”
The clinician didn't respond.
“How long does it last?”
They were, once again, ignored.
“What are the adverse effects?”
Finally, the clinician’s eyes flicked toward them.
Sita understood the phrase adverse effects.
They knew how medications were tested. They knew what a placebo was. They knew that dosage could be measured by weight. They knew the difference between retrograde amnesia and anterograde amnesia.
They didn’t remember learning any of it.
The realization opened beneath them like a missing stair.
“Where did I learn that?”
No one answered.
That seemed like something they would learn in school. They were old enough to be in university, possibly. They searched for a lecture hall.
Rows of seats.
A screen at the front.
A professor talking.
They saw the room for less than a second before the people vanished from it. The walls quickly vanished after it and after that, the screen, until only the concept - knowledge without an origin - remained.
They knew what journalism was. They knew it was the gathering, verification, interpretation, and presentation of information. They knew how to record an interview.
Someone had taught them to recognize evasion and how to preserve a source’s anonymity. They’d also taught them how to structure a question so it couldn’t be escaped without revealing the attempt.
But why had they chosen journalism?
Dad.
The word floated by them like a leaf in a stream. They desperately tried to grasp it, fingers curling and uncurling as they searched for him.
He’d been a man sitting across from them at a restaurant table. His hand lay flat against the table.
There was a glass beside it, wet with condensation.
“You don’t understand what they’ll do.”
The sentence appeared clearly and Sita caught it.
This had something to do with Dad. Dad had said that.
They were sure.
What had they answered in response?
The restaurant had been loud. Silverware had clinked against plates. A child cried near the entrance. Music blasted from speakers hidden somewhere above them.
Dad had leaned forward.
Sita had been angry.
“You don’t get to decide—”
Decide what?
Their coursework?
An article?
A trip?
Who they spoke to?
The scene flickered. The restaurant lights dimmed. The walls went gray.
Their father’s face became impossible to hold.
“Dad,” Sita said.
The word remained.
The man didn’t.
“What did we argue about?”
The woman beside the bed watched them.
Sita’s chest strained against the leather.
“What did we argue about?”
“You don’t need to retain upsetting material,” the woman said.
“It wasn’t upsetting material.”
“You’re distressed by it now.”
“Because you’re taking it.”
“No one is taking anything that’ll be useful to you.”
Sita turned their eyes toward her.
“He’s useful to me.”
“Your attachments are interfering with stabilization.”
“He’s my father.”
“That relationship is no longer relevant.”
The sentence struck harder than panic.
Sita fought the straps again. The leather bit into their wrists. The chest band held them flat. Their ankle restraints rattled against the frame.
The handler pressed both hands against Sita’s forearm to protect the intravenous line.
“Stop moving.”
“No.”
“You’ll bruise yourself.”
“No.”
“You’ll damage the vein.”
“Then take it out.”
“You’re prolonging your distress.”
Sita’s head swam, heavy and difficult. The room brightened until the white ceiling hurt to look at.
They closed their eyes.
Facts.
They needed facts. They started with their name.
Sita-Blessing Kande.
Their father: Benjamin Kande.
Their mother: Aminata Blessing.
Their dormitory and its green door.
No. Wait. It had been brown.The door had been brown. There was a metal number attached near the top with three digits. Maybe two.
The first was—
Sita searched. Nothing came.
Their dormitory room had two beds or one bed. It had two beds because they had a roommate.
Hadn't they?
There were clothes draped over the back of a chair. A cracked red notebook rested beside the bed.
Sita reached for the writing inside it.
Pages. Dates. Fragments of interviews.
A list of questions for—
The notebook disappeared.
“I had a red notebook.”
The clinician checked the monitor. She didn’t respond.
“I had three notebooks beside my bed.”
Were there three?
Sita could no longer see them.
“I was studying journalism.”
That fact remained. It floated alone, detached from classrooms, teachers, deadlines, and purpose.
“What university?” the woman asked.
Sita opened their eyes.
The question was simple. They should’ve known. They pictured the campus with its stone steps and trees. They imagined students gathering beneath a covered walkway. There had been a library with --
Nothing.
The image didn’t even fragment. It failed to arrive.
“What university?” the woman repeated.
Sita’s lips parted.
They couldn’t answer.
The woman typed something.
“No.”
Sita pulled once against the restraints. The movement had less strength behind it.
Their limbs felt delayed.
“My dormitory was—”
They had lived in a city.
They knew a city meant a dense population, roads, apartments, public transportation. Government offices.
They couldn’t name the one where they’d lived. They couldn’t remember the view from their window. They knew there had been a window because dormitories had windows.
Had theirs?
Sita squeezed their eyes shut.
Their name. The name was most important.
Everything connected to it. Names identified people. Some cultures placed family names last.
“My name is Sita-Blessing Kande.”
The sentence sounded practiced now.
They said it again.
“My name is Sita-Blessing Kande.”
Sita.
Blessing.
Kande.
Kande was probably a family name.
Why probably?
It was theirs. Wasn’t it?
They reached for the feeling of recognition.
Nothing.
The name didn’t settle against their body. It hovered nearby like information they’d been instructed to memorize.
“My name is…”
The words stopped.
The woman leaned closer.
“Your name is what?”
Sita stared at the ceiling. Their pulse beat hard in their throat.
They knew the answer. They’d just said it.
“My name is…”
The first sound waited somewhere.
Si—
They caught it.
“Sita.”
The woman didn’t correct them.
Sita searched for the rest.
Blessing.
Kande.
They knew the words. They couldn’t remember why they belonged together.
“Who is Sita?” the woman asked.
Sita frowned.
The forehead restraint pressed against their skin.
Who was Sita?
A person.
A name.
The person lying on this bed.
Was that true because they remembered it, or because they’d repeated it?
“My name,” they said.
“What does that name mean to you?”
The question was wrong. Names didn’t need to mean anything beyond identification.
But this one should’ve.
They could feel the shape of an absence forming around it.
Someone had chosen it. Someone had used it with affection. Someone had written it down.
Sita tried to find any of them.
No faces appeared. Their mother’s hands were gone. Their father’s raised eyebrow was gone. The restaurant had become a table suspended in darkness. The dormitory had become a door without a room behind it.
“Benjamin Kande,” Sita whispered.
The name didn’t produce a person.
“Who is that?” the woman asked.
Sita’s eyes burned.
“My…”
They knew the word father. A male parent. A social and biological relationship. A man responsible for—
The definition remained perfectly accessible.
The person didn't.
“My father.”
“What does he look like?”
Sita searched.
He had dark skin. That was too broad. He had dark eyes. It was still too broad. There was a shirt. And a table. Ink.
None of it joined into a face.
“I don’t…”
The monitor chimed.
Sita swallowed hard.
“I know him.”
“What does he look like?”
“I know him.”
“Describe him.”
Sita couldn’t.
The woman typed.
“Who is Aminata Blessing?”
Sita turned their eyes toward her.
The sounds were familiar without content. It was like hearing the title of a book they might’ve read.
“My mother.”
“Describe her voice.”
Sita tried.
Warm. What did warmth sound like?
She sang. What song? What language?
Sita understood several languages. Words remained available in separate systems, each with its own grammar and rhythm. They could translate a sentence mentally. They could distinguish French from Spanish. They could recognize Malay. They understood English.
They couldn’t remember who had first spoken any of them to them. They couldn’t remember which language their mother used when she was tired. They couldn’t remember what their father called them when he was proud.
“I can’t hear her,” Sita said.
The admission barely had sound.
The woman watched their face.
“Then let her go.”
Sita pulled against the restraints again. The effort was weak now.
“No.”
“You’re holding on to distress.”
“She’s my mother.”
“You can’t remember her.”
“That doesn’t mean she didn’t exist.”
The woman’s expression stayed calm.
“It means she can’t help you here.”
Sita’s eyes filled.
They blinked.
The tears ran sideways toward their temples.
The clinician wiped one away before it reached the electrode.
The touch was efficient.
Impersonal.
Sita tried to turn from it, but the forehead restraint held them still.
“I hate you,” they said.
The woman nodded as though this had been anticipated on a chart.
“That feeling will pass.”
Sita wanted to promise it wouldn’t. They wanted to memorize the woman’s face, the angle of her mouth, the shape of her nose, the fine scar near her hairline. They wanted to hold enough of her to recognize her later.
The thought scattered before they could finish studying her. Their attention slipped.
They returned to the list.
Name.
Father.
Mother.
Dormitory.
Studies.
Restaurant.
Name.
Father.
Mother.
Dormitory.
Studies.
Restaurant.
They repeated it silently.
Name.
Father.
Mother.
Room.
School.
Table.
The words shortened without permission.
Name.
Father.
Mother.
Room.
School.
Table.
Name.
Man.
Woman.
Room.
School.
Table.
They didn’t notice when the categories replaced the people.
They noticed only when they tried to begin again.
Their name was—
Sita-Blessing Kande.
They knew the sequence because it had been repeated.
Was it true?
The doubt terrified them.
“My name is Sita-Blessing Kande.”
The woman glanced at the clinician.
“Continue reinforcement.”
The clinician adjusted the pump.
A second wave entered Sita’s bloodstream. The world softened at the edges.
“You don’t need that name,” the woman said.
Sita looked at her.
“It’s mine.”
“It’s associated with fear, confusion, and resistance.”
“It’s mine.”
“You were unhappy before.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You were in danger.”
“From you.”
“You were unprotected.”
“My parents—”
The sentence broke.
Sita knew the plural word parents. They knew they’d used it to refer to two people. They couldn’t see either of them.
“My parents were…”
Sita didn’t know.
They couldn’t remember whether their parents knew where they’d gone. They couldn’t remember why anyone had taken them.
“Why am I here?”
The woman smiled faintly.
“You required placement.”
“No. Before that.”
“There’s nothing before that you need to worry about.”
“I was taken because…”
Because Dad had written something.
Hadn’t he?
An article.
An investigation.
A warning.
Sita saw papers spread across a table. A photograph with a face circled in ink. Dad’s voice telling them to stay out of it.
Sita telling him—
The memory tore.
The papers became blank. The photograph became a white square. The warning lost its words.
“I was taken because of my father.”
“Who is your father?”
Sita opened their mouth.
No answer emerged.
The knowledge had been there moments ago. They could remember that they’d remembered. They couldn’t retrieve what the memory had contained.
Panic surged through the fog.
Their heart hammered. Their fingers curled uselessly against the mattress.
“What did you do?”
The woman didn’t answer.
“What did you do?”
“You’re being stabilized.”
“What did you do to me?”
The clinician watched the monitor.
“Response threshold approaching.”
“Proceed,” the woman said.
Sita tried the name again.
They found it in pieces.
Sita.
Blessing.
Kande.
They understood each sound. They couldn’t locate the person.
“Who is Sita-Blessing Kande?” the woman asked.
Sita stared at her.
The question entered their mind and met nothing. They knew it should’ve been easy. They knew they should’ve felt something immediate and undeniable.
Instead, there was only the sterile room. The straps. The intravenous line. The cold moving through their arm. The name sounded like someone else’s.
A stranger mentioned in an article they couldn’t quite remember reading.
“Sita-Blessing Kande,” the woman repeated. “Who is that?”
Sita searched for a face. They tried to place it against themself.
The connection wouldn’t hold.
“I don’t know.”
I write sins AND tragedies @yet-how-they-creep - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
