Whump Collection Bucket

It was silly, to make the comparison. But Caretaker had inherited more from their grandfather than just a vague resemblance in appearance — their voice sounded eerily similar as they grumbled to themself.

Whumpee was sure to let out a sigh as quietly as it could, afraid of angering Caretaker more if it made a noise too loud. Despite their kind demeanour, Whumpee could already picture them with an angry scowl on their face, brandishing a whip, or a knife, or something cruel, and it had no strength to defend itself, and maybe it wouldn't even want to, because an exchange of soup for pain was still a good exchange, and it could behave and stay still for Caretaker to beat into oblivion—

"Whumpee?"

Whumpee slowly raised its head to look at Caretaker. It had been so lost in its thoughts, it didn't hear them come back to the kitchen. They didn't wear an angry scowl. "I'm sorry for throwing up."

"Ah," Caretaker said, rubbing the back of their neck. "No, it's really me who should apologise. I was a little harsh there, wasn't I? When it was my fault. I should've expected your stomach not to be able to handle much food after years of starvation."

Harsh? "You didn't do anything harsh."

Caretaker gave it a sheepish smile. "I'm glad you think so, but slapping your hand away, and then dragging you off to the bathroom… I could've handled it better."

"You're the nicest any captor of mine has ever been to me," Whumpee said sincerely, with gratitude in its voice. "I'm nothing but thankful. I'm sorry I made you have to clean up after me. It's not right. I wish I could help, but I can't even move on my own. I'm a huge burden right now. But I swear to you, if you help me get back to an even semi-normal state, I'll do everything I can to repay you."

Something crossed Caretaker's face. An emotion Whumpee couldn't put its finger on. Sadness, maybe? It wasn't anger, Whumpee was well-acquainted with that. It was something negative. Something was wrong with what it had just said. But what?

"Whumpee, I'm not your captor," they said, and Whumpee furrowed its brows.

"You inherited me from your grandfather, no?"

"Well, kind of…" At that moment, Whumpee remembered what Caretaker had said. 'I would set you free, but you're not in a state to be released.' At the time, though it probably should've been of more interest, Whumpee hadn't paid attention to it. It had been too focused on getting water. But now, with its belly full, it revisited the memory. "Look, I have no… I don't want an inheritance like this. You should be free. I'm not your captor. Consider me, like…" They trailed off. "Like a f…" They cut themself off, blushing in embarrassment.

"Like a friend?" Whumpee guessed, though the words rang hollow. It didn't have friends. Certainly not its original captor's grandchild. It could imagine his anger at the prospect. He would've beaten it black and blue for even considering this. Entertaining it.

"Y-Yeah," they stammered. "I know that's a little far-fetched, considering… everything. But wouldn't it be nice to have a friend? I don't have many friends either, and you've been robbed of… Man, what am I saying? I'm sorry, this is stupid. You probably hate me."

Hate? Caretaker was its saviour. What sort of thoughts were swirling around Caretaker's head that made them come to such conclusions? "I would like to be a friend instead of… a punching bag," it said quietly. Timidly. "If that's okay."

Caretaker stopped clearly mentally beating themself up and just looked at Whumpee. "You'd accept me as a friend regardless of what grandpa did?"

"I… You didn't… It has nothing to do with you. You've been nothing but kind."

That small, tentative smile returned to their face, and Whumpee quickly decided it was the best sight in the world. It liked making Caretaker smile. If only because it meant it would be safe for another minute. "Well, then… Then we're friends, I suppose." The smile disappeared again. "You look really tired. I should get the guest bedroom ready for you. Will you be okay on your own while I do that?"

A bedroom? For it? "Won't you bring me back down to the basement?" it asked before it could've just been sane and accepted the clearly superior offer. It didn't want to seem greedy. Or like it was taking advantage of Caretaker.

"You don't… like the basement, do you? I mean, it's fine if you do, but I just imagined…"

"I don't."

"So why would I bring you back there? It's an awful place."

Whumpee stayed quiet. It should've argued — it should've convinced Caretaker that it deserved nothing more than the cement floor and the plaster on the wall. But its greedy, complacent, no-good mind made it stay quiet.

"I'll prepare the guest bedroom," Caretaker concluded, and with that, they were gone.

Whumpee stayed sitting on the chair, looking at the empty bowl in front of it. Caretaker didn't put it in the dishwasher. It should do that. It should get up from the chair and put the bowl in the dishwasher. That was the least it could do.

It strained. It couldn't even lift an arm to touch the bowl with, let alone find the strength in its legs to get up from the chair. It strained, and strained, and strained, but nothing was moving as it was supposed to. It was sweating now. Good, waste the precious water Caretaker had graced you with.

It eventually gave up. It wasn't going to be able to help out for a long time.

"All done!" Caretaker reappeared in the doorway. "Are you ready?"

"Yes," it said meekly.

"I'll carry you there. Sorry, I know it's a little awkward. But soon, you'll be able to walk on your own. Or I can get a wheelchair for the time being. We'll figure it out as we go." Caretaker easily picked it up and carried it to a nice-looking room, if only a little bare. Ha! Nothing, nothing would be bare after the cell in the basement. There was actual wallpaper. And a carpet. Flooring. A bed.

In fact, Caretaker laid it gently on said bed. And it was so soft. So warm.

Caretaker fussed over it, tucking it in nice and snug, making sure all parts of its body were covered by the blanket. "Is this good?" they asked afterwards, and Whumpee, despite itself, started to tear up. "Whumpee? Are you okay?"

"Yes," it sniffled. "Yes, sorry, I just… I'm…"

"I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No! No, the opposite. I'm sorry. I just… No one has been so kind to me in so long. I forgot… I forgot what it's like."

Caretaker's mouth formed a small 'o'. They seemed more guilt-stricken than ever before. "I'm so sorry, Whumpee. I'll… I'll try to make your days here good. Until you can leave."

"I don't want to leave," it wept, fully wept now. "I want to be here forever, and I want your kindness forever, and that's selfish of me, and greedy, and—"

"Hey," they cut in gently. "Hey… It's not selfish. If you decide to stay here, that's okay too. But I just want to emphasise, you're not captive anymore. If you ever do decide to leave, it's your choice."

Whumpee couldn't even reach up to wipe its stupid eyes. It was bawling, and it must've looked so ugly. Caretaker didn't seem to think so. They sat on the edge of the bed and gently wiped its eyes.

"Um, I'm looking for, uh, Whumpee?" came a hesitant voice from the top of the stairs. Like the voice's owner was scared to venture down into the basement. "Is anyone there?"

It had been so long since it had used its voice, Whumpee wasn't sure it knew how to anymore. But this was its one chance at companionship. At food. At freedom — hah, what a distant fantasy. "I—" Their voice cracked, and it had been so long since it'd received water or anything to wet its lips and throat with. "I'm here."

"Whumpee? Oh, uh… Okay. I'm coming down."

Steps descending the stairs. When Whumpee attempted to push its body up to see who the new arrival was, it found it had lost the strength to. Its emaciated body had been stripped of all muscle, and it simply couldn't support its own weight.

"Oh," came a softer voice, from closer. Whumpee turned its head to look at them.

The stranger was at most 20, a laughable number compared to the centuries Whumpee had spent on this earth. They looked equal parts scared and intrigued. But Whumpee wasn't looking for emotions. It was looking for food. It found none on the stranger's person.

"You've been alone down here for quite some time, haven't you?"

"Water," it choked out.

"There's water upstairs. I'll open this door now, okay? And you can come out. Whenever you're ready."

Another laughable concept. Nobody ever waited for it to be ready. Nobody ever asked its consent. Nobody ever considered its feelings. And now that this stranger might do all of those things, it had lost the ability to cooperate. A cruel joke.

"I can't," Whumpee said, but the jingling of keys drowned out its weak voice.

"Hm?"

"I can't. Too weak."

"Oh." The stranger stepped into the cell and crouched down by its side. "I see. I should've expected this. Well, you look light enough to… to carry. If that's okay. Is that okay?"

"Can I really— Can I have water?"

"Yes. It's been a long time, hasn't it?"

Whumpee nodded. The stranger picked it up in a bridal carry, and Whumpee could do little more than hang there limply as it was carried upstairs. Everything was bright up there. It closed its eyes and let the stranger carry it where they willed.

It was soon set down on something foreign, something so unlike the cold, cement floor. Something soft. Whumpee opened its eyes — it was on a sofa.

It soon heard the sound of a tap being turned on, then a glass being filled. If there was anything left in its body to produce liquid, its mouth would've probably watered at the mere prospect. The stranger came back and helped it sit up, then held the glass to its lips and helped it drink.

Oh.

Oh.

Whumpee closed its eyes. It gulped down the water all too quickly, and like the horrible little monster it was, it immediately asked for more. The stranger fetched it even more. This repeated at least five times by the time Whumpee was satisfied.

"Would you like something to eat as well?"

It was just common courtesy; the stranger must've seen the state it was in. Paper-thin skin sticking to bones that were jutting out, the result of several years of starvation. With fresh, cold water in its system, Whumpee felt a little more daring. A little more alive. "Yes, please."

"A sandwich?"

A sandwich. So casual. So mundane. Nothing sounded better than a sandwich. "Yes, please."

The stranger left to prepare it, after laying Whumpee back down on the sofa. Whumpee listened to the vague sounds of it being prepared, and it imagined the soft, fresh bread, the fillings — what fillings would the stranger use? Ham? Cheese? Tomato? Lettuce? Eggs? Would they use condiments? Mayo? Ketchup? The possibilities were endless — and the way the bites would slide down its throat one by one. And with how generous the stranger was with water, maybe it would be possible to ask for even more than just one sandwich. Whumpee, for the first time in years, felt giddy with excitement.

The stranger returned, once again helping Whumpee sit. "It's just a simple peanut butter and jelly, I hope that's okay."

Peanut butter. It remembered eating whole jars of it before it was captured and imprisoned. And jelly, sweet and sour, wonderful, grape jelly. It got so excited to be able to bite into it, it even forgot its manners, not thanking the stranger for the food before it dug in.

Oh, this was so much better than eating plaster off the wall. This had taste, actual, real, good taste. Whumpee bit and bit and bit and it definitely bit off more than it could chew but it didn't care, it was being fed, it was genuinely, actually being fed.

Then its stomach did a flip, and suddenly it was retching, onto the remainder of the sandwich and onto the stranger's kind hands. It was mortified. And most of all, it mourned the food.

"I still want to eat it," it said before anything else, staring intently at the vomit-covered sandwich. "Please? I'm sorry."

The stranger made a face. Even a kind stranger could only be kind for so long — Whumpee wondered what its punishment would be. A lashing? More years down in the basement? The thought, detached as it was from its emotional landscape, sent little more than a small shiver down its spine. What was a few more years of solitude and starvation?

"No, I think…" They withdrew, letting Whumpee fall back onto the sofa. It didn't have the strength to push itself back up again. "I think… Huh, well. We need to clean this up, and then I'll make some soup instead. Maybe that'll stay in your stomach."

"I don't need cleaning, I need the sandwich," Whumpee said, like a petulant child. "Please," it added, hoping to soften the stranger's heart. That sandwich had been so good. The best thing it'd ever eaten. And now—

No. Don't be ungrateful. Soup was good. Soup was fine. It was still food, even if it wasn't… chewable.

"You definitely do need cleaning," the stranger said, and when Whumpee tried to lift its hand to lick off some of the vomit, they even smacked its hand away. Whumpee whimpered. "Don't do that. Look… Ugh, I can't believe my grandpa did all this."

Grandpa? Its captors were a group of middle-aged men. Just how many years have passed?

"I'll help wash you off. I'll clean the sofa as well. And in the meantime, I'll put some water on the stove with a soup cube. How's that sound?"

"I really want the rest of the sandwich," it said before it could've controlled its stupid, greedy mouth.

"Look, I know. You're starving. But you really shouldn't eat what you've puked up. Please. Just let me help."

And so Whumpee did, because what else was there for it to do? It couldn't have protested if it wanted to. And so the stranger helped it wash off years of accumulated grime, turning the water almost black as it washed down the drain. They helped it into new, soft clothes, then carried it back not to the living room, but to the kitchen. They set it down on a chair as the water in the pot boiled, giving off the scent of freshly seasoned chicken broth. Then, the stranger took a ladle and put two big ladlefuls into a bowl, setting it down before it on the table.

"We're gonna take it slower, okay?" they asked.

"I never asked your name," Whumpee said, though its eyes were fixed on the soup.

"Oh, right. I never introduced myself. My name is Caretaker. My grandpa… Look, I know this looks bad, that my grandpa did all this to you and now I'm here, and I'm— But I'm different, okay? I would like to set you free, but with how you are right now, I don't think that's feasible. So, uh… You're stuck with me for a little longer."

"Okay," it said easily. Caretaker had given it water, and was trying to feed it. It couldn't have asked for a better captor. "Can I eat?"

"Yes. Slowly. Spoon by spoon, okay?" Caretaker lifted a spoonful to Whumpee's mouth, and Whumpee tried to savour it, it really did, but it ended up gulping it down and opening its mouth for more. "Spoon by spoon. So it can stay in your stomach."

"Spoon by spoon," it repeated, though it wanted to scream give it all to me now, and give me that sandwich, and give me all the contents of your fridge, and give me more even still. "Thank you," it said, remembering its manners.

"Of course." Another spoonful. "We'll get through this, okay? You and I." Another spoonful. "You'll feel much better once this settles in your stomach."

"Okay," it said quietly. "Thank you."

Caretaker smiled. If it had any brain capacity to focus on anything but the soup, it might've noticed the eerie resemblance they had to their grandfather. But where his smile was always a sneer, a cruel twitch of his mouth, theirs was gentle and kind.

So they sat, and Whumpee ate.