Whumper starts to protest. "But I'm in the middle of---"
"No buts!" Their boss takes them by the shoulders and steers them away from their desk. "You're obviously too stressed to work with the team right now. Take 5, and come back when you've taken out all that unhealthy agression, m'kay?"
Whumper's eye twitches. Their boss's condescension isn't helping their "unhealthy aggression." They relent, however, and travel down the hall to an out-of-the-way portion of the building.
They stand in front of the repurposed supply closet. For a moment, they consider not going in, and simply letting the silence in the quieter part of the building calm them down instead. Soon, though, the distant sound of their coworkers' incessant chattering echoes down the hall, and their anger is stirred up again. They grip the doorknob tightly and whip the closet door open.
The stress toy is curled up in the corner of the dark room. It sits up straight as the light streams in, blinking sleep from its eyes.
"Napping at two in the afternoon?" Whumper strolls into the room, one hand in their pocket, the other slowly closing the door behind them. "I wish that could be me."
The stress toy squirms away from them, pressing its back into the cold concrete wall, already stained with its own dried blood from previous sessions.
"Let's get some light in here." Whumper pulls the cord attached to the lightbulb, illuminating the closet in sickly yellow hues. They lean down to inspect the stress toy. It's looking a little worse for wear, with some bruises and cuts still fresh on its skin. Its mouth is duct taped shut, and its hands and feet are tied.
Whumper wrinkles their nose. "My boss did most of this, didn't he? He's such a sadist. At least you're still wearing clothes."
The stress toy's eyes dart between Whumper and the shelf of tools beside them.
"He's actually the one who sent me here. He can't wrap his dense head around the fact that not everybody relieves stress like he does." Whumper taps their fingers on the shelf, perusing its contents, letting their gaze linger on each item, as if they can't decide what to pick. There's a crowbar, a knife, a pack of needles...
The stress toy lets out a small whimper.
"Oh, sorry, did you have something to say?" Whumper leans down and rips the duct tape off of its mouth in one swift and calculated motion. It yelps, sucking in a breath through its clenched teeth. "There you go. What's up?"
The stress toy pants for a second, before simply saying: "You don't have to."
Its voice is ragged and weary. No doubt it's been strained many times from screaming.
Whumper's gaze softens. They finally settle on their tool of choice: a sharpie. They take it off the shelf and sit down on the floor. "I know. Come here."
The stress toy awkwardly shuffles forward, keeping their head down. Whumper takes their wrist, uncaps the sharpie, and starts to draw on their forearm.
"I can be quite forgetful when I'm angry. Sometimes I forget really important things. Like locking the door behind me."
It glances up at Whumper, a tiny glimmer of hope crossing its face.
"And I also forget how to get around this place. That's why I always doodle maps on everything. It's almost subconscious, now."
Whumper capped the sharpie, stood up, and checked their watch. "It's almost been five minutes. I'll have to go back, soon."
"Thank you," the stress toy whispered, looking at the map drawn on their arm in awe.
Whumper looked at them with pity. "Don't be thanking me." They grabbed the crowbar from the shelf. "I still have to dispel suspicion."
"Sorry," Whumper said, raising the crowbar above their head. "Boss's orders."
Whumper scrubbed the blood off their hands in the bathroom. It had been a little longer than five minutes. Hopefully their boss wouldn't be too mad.
They turned off the water and looked at themselves in the mirror.
Maybe their boss was right.
