Never Enough Whump

they're so used to their own company that they forget it's normal to have contacts in their phone, to meet up with friends, to be invited to things.

they can't get close to people because they're scared of someone seeing the real them and deciding it's not worth the effort. and they don't want to tell the people they might actually be close to the truth because then they'll be forever treated differently, even if their friends say they won't.

"that's the fourth time you've said that today. haven't you had enough breaks?"

"we're all hot and tired, whumpee."

whumpee decides they're right. maybe they're overreacting. they're about to say as much and get back to work, but suddenly, the nausea and faint feeling washes over them again, and they waver.

"whumpee?"

they stagger to the side, catching themself on the nearest support, and choke up the water they've been trying to drink. they haven't had anything to eat--haven't been hungry. someone rushes to ease them to the ground, where they may or may not be a little hazy in consciousness for a moment.

"easy, whumpee. you're alright."

society teaches people to lie and stay silent about these things. small talk sucks. whumpee gets asked "how are you?" dozens of times a day, and it feels like a sick game because they can never answer honestly. "how was your weekend?" "did you have a good holiday?" "how did you get that scar?"

(and, in theory, whumpee should be allowed to answer that one truthfully, but nooo, it's still too much to hear even though the nosy fucker asked)

so whumpee just bottles it up. and technically it's fine because it wasn't that bad, and they weren't even forced to go to therapy by their doctors so clearly no one else thinks they need to talk about it either. some days the idea of people knowing feels like the worst thing in the world.

"Please -- p-please don't hit me again."

Whumper lowers the whip, sighs like they're indulging Whumpee, and says, "Okay. I won't hit you again."

And they don't. But the feeling of the knife cutting into Whumpee's skin is somehow even worse, and when their agonized scream fills the room, Whumper is delighted.

Caretaker sees them wearing themselves out and reproaches them for being unreasonable. Instead of brushing it off and saying that they’re fine, whumpee sighs and looks up with a bitter smile.

They remind caretaker that nobody else can manage what they’re doing. They are the only one who is competent enough, and caretaker knows it. There’s nothing I wouldn’t give for a day of rest, whumpee says, but I can’t do it.

His hand on the nape of Whumpee's neck tightened not enough to hurt, but enough to command absolute attention. He leaned down, his face inches from Whumpee's, his eyes boring into theirs with a terrifying intensity.

outside, the bells had already rung for dawn, and the clatter of footsteps up and down the stairs and clamor of voices in the courtyard below strengthened from a trickle to a river. the sunlight snaked its way through the narrow window; Seskia buried the heels of her hands in her eye sockets, seeking the stillness and the darkness instead.

the bone-deep ache in her legs, the leaden density of her body as she rolled over in the tangled blankets, the tremor in her arms as she tried to push herself up to her elbows - she got one look at the festival garb slung over her chair and the open clothes-chest before she fell back light-headed on the pillow again, and it was no more than she expected.

she'd given them two days. two days up on the festival dais with the others, two days mixing with the crowds with a smile on her face, proving to the people that the Lord's eldest daughter did still exist somewhere after all. two days she'd paid for each night, with blank and dreamless oblivion as soon as she'd been allowed to disappear to her chambers, but now -

"my lady?"

it was Corinn. she didn't need to knock by now, her voice was enough, and her soft touch on the knob just so that the hinges didn't even creak.

Seskia felt more than heard her approach, like a shadow on her awareness, and forced an eye open to see her maid standing over her bed with quietly narrowed lips.

"will you be dressing for the hall today?"

she breathed in, choking back what felt like a sob. "I - I don't think - "

with a rustle of skirts Corinn knelt down by the bedside, hands folded on her knees.

"I'll tell your father you're tired. I'll tell him - you don't have to."

"yes. yes. it's a tired day again, Corinn. I'm sorry."

"it's not a sorry thing, my lady."

it was such a sorry thing, she thought sometimes. such a sorry thing. but Corinn helping her sit up against the pillows, bringing water in a basin, lifting her achy exhaustion-weighted arms with gentle hands to help her wash away the sweat and stickiness of the night, was as ordinary as so many mornings in the last months, and Corinn had never made her ashamed of any of it.