#captivity cw

Sometimes it was enough to just dull the feeling out. Focus on anything else. How light trailed through the bars in front of him, shadows shifting as people passed in front of the door. Going about their days with no regard for him.

At first, Cathal had been loud. Resisting the mentality of being a willing victim. It only made things worse, and self-preservation was worth more to him than an unbreakable façade. Death would merely mean the suffering was over, not that he had won. Shredding his own dignity and conceding was a comparatively small price to pay.

 It hardly made this existence easier. An existence comprising of only violence and mind-numbing boredom would drain anyone.

In the distance, he heard low cries, only getting further away from his own cell. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to feel guilt. It might not have even been his opponent. Uncertainty was a blessing in disguise.

“This one,” Cathal didn’t look up at the words uttered on the other side of the cell bars.

“Can I go in?” a more hesitant voice. An air of unfamiliarity about it.

Keys rattled against the door, followed by a creak as it opened. Cathal watched in silence as the shadows cast across the floor moved closer.

“His name?”

“Cathal, Your Highness.”

It was almost enough to prompt Cathal to look upwards, but he kept his gaze stubbornly on the floor. It wouldn’t be above the guards to be using this as some kind of mockery. Some kind of scheme to – Cathal had no inkling of what their endgame may be.

“Cathal?” The second voice again, still strung with an air of lacked confidence. Not a guard, he could tell that much. Yet, he continued to ignore him.

“I’ll leave you alone with him,” the first voice spoke again. “Let me know if you need anything.”

The closing of the cell door – not locked – and the retreating shadow told Cathal that they were now alone in the room.

“Look at me,” an instruction, one which Cathal ignored. After a few moments, the man spoke again. “I want to propose a deal. Are you listening?”

Cathal nodded sharply. Still not looking up. Only to indicate that he was, in fact, listening.

“Good. I want to offer you the chance to finish out the rest of your sentence working for me.”

Cathal’s eyes remained on the floor as the shadow approached him.

Rather than repeating the instruction to look up, he crouched on one knee in front of Cathal. Getting down on his level. Without moving his attention upwards, Cathal could see the other man’s white trousers pressed into the dust, and a light pink jacket just barely brushing against the floor as he crouched. Clearly a man who didn’t mind getting his clothes dirty. When it became evident that Cathal was unfaltering, the man spoke again.

“My name is Laurent. You are Cathal, is that correct?”

Cathal gave another sharp nod. Only briefly spotting the ornate golden decoration on Laurent’s jacket. Expensive.

“You’ll be paid fairly for your work. Room and board – clothes, food. Anything you need to work effectively will be provided.”

Laurent sighed and sat back on his heels. Nothing he said seemed to be getting through to the man in front of him. Then again, he wouldn’t mind admitting that a situation like this pushed him far beyond his comfort zone.

He stood and approached the door, picking up a set of keys from the hook on the wall. Laurent turned them over in his hands, finding the one which he thought might fit Cathal’s restraints. The unlocked cell door didn’t intimidate him. He could hardly see the man kneeling behind him posing a serious threat. Not now.

In the ring? It had been a far different story. Laurent had watched him beat a man half to death just an hour prior. But, now? He was hardly the same person.

Laurent turned back to Cathal, slowly breaking the distance between them. With Cathal’s gaze still firmly on the ground, Laurent knelt beside him and rested a gentle hand on his cuffs.

“May I?” Laurent waited for Cathal to nod, before he unlocked the chain and allowed it to clatter back against the wall.

He did his best to ignore Cathal’s pained expression as he slumped to the side. No longer kneeling. Instead, awkwardly sitting with his legs under him, only slightly bent. Arms to his sides – palms pressed into the dirt to prevent himself falling any further. The cuffs still tight around his wrists.

With a sinking realization, Laurent realised they were welded on. Permanent.

“You took quite a beating out there today. Do you need anything?”

Cathal tried to keep his gaze downwards, but the kindness – even if it wasn’t, even if it was just neutrality – was new. A phenomenon rarely encountered. He glanced up at Laurent, following the other man as he sat back down on the floor. Back on Cathal’s level. Another anomaly.

“I’m not going to force you to agree to anything. You can have as much time as you need to think about it,” he paused, “But I would like you to come back with me tonight. Get some real food into you, a good night’s sleep. I don’t want you deciding on anything less than a clear head.”

Cathal nodded. The offer sounded too good to be true, as if Laurent’s words veiled a far more sinister agenda. But he had been given an order, and he was hardly in a position to refute it. If anything, a decent meal sounded good. Like something he should take advantage of, given half a chance.

“Do you want to stand?”

Laurent almost didn’t have the time to finish the offer before the guard from before was at the door.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

A rhetorical question, laced with a malice sharp enough for Laurent to flinch. Yet, Cathal remained unbothered.

The guard was between Laurent and Cathal in moments. Twisting one of Cathal’s arms awkwardly behind him. A strained gasp from Cathal – a cry with all of the energy beaten out of it, before he was face down on the floor.

“Stand down,” Laurent was also on his feet. “Immediately.”

“With all due respect –” almost a snarl.

“No. Stand down.”

The guard huffed out a breath, shoving himself backwards and off of Cathal.

“As of now, Cathal is my charge. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And you’re to be reassigned. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Get me a shirt and boots. I am more than capable of handling the rest.”

“Of course, Sir. Anything else?”

“No. Leave them by the door. You are not to re-enter without my explicit permission.”

Cathal hadn’t moved, forehead pressed into the dirt. He knew what would happen if he did. More force. A much harsher beating. Floggings were far from uncommon, shown by deep scars that Laurent could see – etched permanently into Cathal’s back.

Scars that trailed back to Laurent’s own family’s regime.

“You can sit back up, if you’d like, Cathal,” a redundant offer, really. “Or we can wait a little longer.”

Cathal shook his head, still on the floor, before he sat back up. And he almost spoke, but held his tongue. Until ordered otherwise, he had no intention of speaking. He had learnt the hard way that anything he said, no matter how well intentioned, would lead back to severe punishment. Safety dictated that he said no more than what was necessary.

“I’m having them get you some clothes, it’s not a long walk, but still,” Laurent shifted his weight between his feet, glancing back at the door. He was far from comfortable here, and he couldn’t imagine how Cathal felt about this arrangement.

“You can stand,” Laurent put forth another offer. “If it’s too painful –”

Cathal shook his head once more, suppressing a grimace and pushed himself to his feet, holding one hand firmly over his ribs. No gut-wrenching crunch. Not broken. Just a bruise – he could live with that. It would look worse than it felt.

The guard reappeared at the door, not crossing the threshold, when he dumped a set of clothes and a pair of ankle cuffs in the doorway.

“Have at him,” he muttered, thinly veiled contempt. “You’d better know what you’re doing.”

“I do. And I don’t recall asking you for any more cuffs,” Laurent matched the tone taken with him. “That will be all.”

Cathal watched as the guard muttered something and left them alone again. He made no movement towards the clothes, instead, waiting for Laurent to instruct him or hand them to him. To his surprise, it was the latter.

“We’ll get you something more comfortable later, but this will do for now,” he handed the shirt and boots to Cathal.

When Cathal put them on, they were ill-fitting at best. Something that Cathal could easily ignore. Compared to everything else, he could class them as a luxury.

“You don’t need permission to speak,” Laurent said suddenly, as though he had only just considered that permission might explain the other man’s silence. Yet, Cathal still didn’t utter a word.

Even on the walk back to Laurent’s home, Cathal didn’t break his silence. Whether it was that he didn’t dare speak, or had nothing to say, Laurent couldn’t know for sure. But forcing Cathal to speak would be counterproductive. He would simply wait for the man to open up, no matter how long it took.

---

They should feel good, knowing that the Visitor with blue hair got his Ideyas back with their help, and had at least one more night to dream. Should feel good that the boy's next Nightopia, a wondrous snowland with a lively train passing by, could peacefully manifest. Feel good with the hope that perhaps, with the aid of this boy and the girl, true freedom could be in sight.

And yet, there was no way.

It was always while no Visitor or Nightopian was in sight, and/or her fellow Nightmarens were not paying attention. It was always then that staving boredom away by sharpening her acrobatic skills wasn't enough.

She knew the boy from the duo of Visitors who were proving themselves to be uniquely fabled was coming. Obviously, he was just taking the free fall to enter his dreams. She just wished he could come much sooner. If only so this... dread, of never being able to escape this prison of a gazebo could leave her alone. The fear of something terrible happening to the duo, with her being helpless to do anything.

Then again... would the duo ever help them again, if both of them knew that they were from the same kind that haunted their dreams?

The girl, on a surface level, took it well. But there was a sense of mistrust in her eyes that made the jester curse their own continued existence. The boy still remained oblivious - he finally arrived, rushing to meet the jester with a wide smile in spite of only his red Ideya remaining unscathed once again.

“But-“ Chase turns to look at Pseudo, bewilderment and hurt spreading from his brows to his breaking heart. How can he really be in this situation? How is this his life??

Inside his head, he feels a shift. Pink takes a step back, and in turn, Chase takes a step forward. The man cannot balance between the two for long, so he must shift to the weight of whoever is stronger in that moment. For the time being, Chase is allowed to take control.

“NO!” he yells. His entire body faces his monster now, and Pseudo gives him the courtesy of eye contact. “You had me hypnotized! I wasn’t in my right mind to make a decision- you never let me make a decision, and the first time I’m allowed to in months is when I was in a state so mentally fucked that I couldn’t even put two and two together that I was helping you lead an innocent man to the cellar! And instead of telling me to go inside and wait for you, you let me walk down those stairs and sit through three! Fucking! Hours! Of torture! You made me stay because I can’t fucking think on my own when I’m in that state, you- why can’t you just answer me!! Why did you make me do that!!?”

At his last two words, Chase slams the plate and soapy rag against the ground. Glass flies across the kitchen floor, and water splatters and puddles at their feet. Pseudo stares at the mess, and slowly rakes his eyes up the body of his captive puppet. When their eyes meet, Chase knows he’s gone too far. There’s no going back now.

“Pick it up.” says Pseudo.

Chase is motionless. Every inch of his body screams to obey, but he must stand his ground. He’s waited too long to be heard like this.

“Pick. It. Up.”

While he cannot muster the courage to say it, an unspoken “no” lays between the two bodies. Chase’s breath is at a stand- still, and his disobedience comes with his frozen body.

Pseudo turns his attention to the sink again, filling the glass about half way up while the remaining space is taken up by soap bubbles from the rag. Once full, he sets the glass on the counter.

“Statue, Pink.”

And against his will, Chase is left without the ability to move.

“I’m not sure where this little outburst came from,” the monster crouches to roll up the legs of Chase's pants, just above his knees. “But I wont tolerate it.”

He stands back up, placing both hands on Chase’s shoulders. With a hearty shove, the puppet’s bare knees come colliding with shards of glass. He hollers as the pain of it shoots up to his hips, and his blood doesn’t hesitate to taste the sweet freedom of air outside the skin. He wants nothing more than to fall to his side and rip the glass out, but he must stay still.

Pseudo presents the glass of soap water Chase’s mouth. “Drink.”

Chase clamps his jaw down, eyes wandering up to meet his monster’s. He shakes his head. How stupid.

“Aww,” Pseudo coos. “You’re really testing me today, aren’t you?”

The monster shifts his hand so his pointer finger is above the liquid. Then, he reaches to the set of knives placed nearby and cuts a small knick in his finger. Thick black poison drips into the glass, eating the soap bubbles like candy as it passes through. The water turns to look like a cloudy sky, ready to tear apart whatever it comes into contact with.

Chase’s jaw tightens up further. Pseudo's blood is a thick and awful poison, not meant for human consumption. Even a few drops can make him sick for days on end. The monster lets five globs hit the drink before bringing the wound to his mouth, licking the blood clean. What remains drips down the side of the cup.

“If I have to say it again-“ Pseudo starts to chuckle, amused and annoyed at the puppet’s resilience. “I’ll make you drink your vomit, too.”

“I—,” Chase whines, shame heating up his face. “I’m sorry, I-“

“Stop it.”

Pseudo pushes the glass to Chase’s lips, tilting up his chin with his other hand. In turn, he tilts his own head downward, reinforcing a stronger path of eye contact. He waits, giving the toy a chance to redeem his disobedience.

Chase turns his attention to the cloudy mess inside the glass. There's no point in fighting. There never was.

The water is warm when it enters his mouth.

A sour sting takes up every space it can. His face scrunches up in disgust, and a pathetic little noise escapes his throat before being drowned by the dirty water. Once the soap has passed and the blood reaches his tongue, he recoils, but Pseudo is quick to catch him. The hand on the puppet’s chin darts to grip his hair instead, forcing him to keep contact with the glass. It stings his tongue and makes his teeth rattle and chatter, while everything inside him screams to spit it out.

Gulp after shivering gulp, the contents of the glass are emptied. Pseudo sets it in the sink and covers the toy’s mouth with his hand. Trembling, Chase forces himself to swallow the ick, and his monster sets him free.

With no water to wash it down, it’s a heavy thing burrowing down his throat, like a slug squirming its way through his esophagus. Chase gags, slamming his head into Pseudo’s thigh and curling his fingers into his pant leg.

“I’m sorry,” he pleads, tears burning his eyes. He can feel the blood almost eating him inside. Fire ants. “I’m stupid and clueless and you know what’s best, you didn’t m- mm- make me do anything, anything, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry..!”

Pseudo reaches a hand to pet his toys hair, hearing glass crunch under its knees as its weight shifts back and forth. “You’re only sorry because I punished you,” he says cooly. “I know you, Pink.”

The man gags again, feeling his stomach bubble and churn with the poisonous blood. He buries his face inside his monster’s leg, regretting every decision he made in the past ten minutes. He is a weak, pathetic puppet, and he needs to start acting like one.

“I’m sorry,” he tries again, “I’m sorry, I’m-“

Chase gags once more, feeling bile rise up into his chest. Instinctively he covers his mouth, shaking as he feels his insides writhe.

“Sorry?” Pseudo finishes for him.

Pink opens his mouth to respond, but pukes into his hand instead.

The monster watches the mess grow and grow, vomit now covering his socks and pant leg. He does nothing to comfort the doll, instead leaving him to heave and choke on his own. Glass has wormed its way deep inside his knees, and now, on all fours, it has made a home inside Chase’s palms as well.

Once his breakfast and punishments are painted across the ground, Pseudo perches on the balls of his feet as he crouches to get a better look at his puppet. He takes the doll’s chin in his hand once more, forcing him to look into his eyes.

“Pick it up.”

The monster lingers in his gaze for a moment, making sure the command is understood, before letting go to change his own clothes. He takes off his soiled socks before stepping into the other room, leaving his puppet to obey in solitude. Perhaps some time alone will help him think about what he did.

. . .

Staring at the mess in front of himself, Chase can’t help but vomit even more. He is a shaking, disgusting mess by the time he’s just dry heaving, and he cries like a child while he tears glass from his bloody knees and hands. His composure is yet to come, but there is no room to wallow and feel sorry for himself. He must do as he’s told, and prove to Pseudo that he deserves no more than what he’s already been given.

Chase takes a deep breath. His body shakes and his teeth chatter again, and he wants nothing more than to lay down on the cold and dirty floor. Sick, sick, sick, he feels. Stupid, puppet, stupid, he knows. He pushes himself up, leaving a dotting trail of blood as he drags the trash can to the mess.

He mops the sick up first, with the rag he tossed carelessly on the floor. Glass is next, threatening his already bloodied hands with sharp edges. He tries to use the rag to keep the smaller shapes from entering his skin, but he can feel the larger ones poking through.

Finally, he uses the clean rag on the counter to get rid of any germs left over. The hot water and soap burn the cuts in his hands, but he has to ignore it.

Another trail of blood follows him as he sweeps the floor. He is clumsy, miserable, sick. His vision blurs and his insides churn, but he hasn’t the strength to let anything come up again. Chase sweeps up as much as he can, before mopping up his blood to finish everything off.

He feels feverish. Sick, sick, sick, sick sick sick sick sick.

Blood clots begin to dry on his skin, stinging in the cool air of the cottage. He lies down on the floor, and although he freezes in the cold, he sweats as though overcome with heatstroke. Chase whimpers like a kicked puppy, waiting for his master to return to the kitchen. He holds his stomach with one arm and his shoulder with the other.

Minutes tick by. The puppet’s eyes close.

Sick, sick, stupid, sick.

. . .

Chase wakes up on the couch, wrapped warm in a heavy blanket. His hair is damp and his entire body feels soft and clean, smelling of vanilla and shea butter. There are bandages on his knees and hands, and Pseudo sits in the chair across from him, reading silently. Chase blinks and squints his eyes, trying desperately to clear the blurs and occasional black splotches in his vision. He sits up-

And falls right back down.

His head swims and he feels a nausea from hell bubble up inside him. Flies and slugs and fire ants swarm inside his stomach, and his whole body cries out in aching bones and wailing muscles. He feels like a popsicle left on the porch in August heat. Cold and melting at the same time.

He groaaaaannnnnss, covering his face with clammy hands. “Pseudooo,” he tries. “Pseudo..”

“Yes, dolly,” replies his monster.

Oh, God. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

The toy takes his hands away from his face. His shoulders creak and whine, or maybe those noises came from his throat. He can’t quite tell.

“Mhm… you still have to help me in the garden.”

Chase rocks his head to one side, feeling his brain turn a mushy, uncooked pancake. Perhaps shaking his head no is not an option.

“I caaaaaaan’t,” he whines, like a child at the doctor’s. “I can’t, I can’t, I feel sick-“

Pseudo clicks his tongue three times before closing his book. He sets it to the side, stands, and grabs at Chase’s blanket.

“Come now,” he croons. “Up we go.”

Somewhere, he feels it, Chase is lifted up to stand. His body is ten miles behind his head, or maybe his head is ten miles behind his body? He can’t see straight. Sick sick sick, Chase’s stomach threatens violence in the form of a dry heave.

“Please, Pseudo, c- can I lay back down?” He practically hangs off the monster as they walk through the house to the back door.

“Not yet, Pink. Pick up your feet..”

. . .

When they reach the outside, Chase is quick to sit down. He slouches like an old stuffed toy, with his body hanging pathetically over the dirt. Gardening gloves and a sun hat wear him with pride, happy to be placed on such a sick little thing like him.

“Awfully stupid this one,” the sun hat whispers. Her voice is higher pitched and soft, like a bird. “Haven’t you learned by now? Stupid, stupid puppet.”

The gardening gloves giggle.

“Stupid stupid puppet!!” their voice hollers, wiggling sounds sprouting from his fingertips. Their voice is smooth and slimy like worms. “He deserves this, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Chase answers, before the sun hat can.

“Yes, what?” says Pseudo, confused. He has a small bag in his hand. It looks like crushed up candy.

“Yes, Pseudo,” Chase replies, though it’s something automatic. He isn’t sure Pseudo has said a word yet, as it would be rude to interrupt the hat and the gloves. Pseudo isn’t rude.

“Idiot, puppet,” the gloves hiss.

The sun hat spits at his shoulder. “Are you even paying attention?”

“Im trying..” Chase rubs at his eyes. Pseudo takes his hands and places the bag of candy inside.

“Spread it across the dirt,” he says, and picks up a bundle of lollipops.

For a moment, the toy thinks its rather odd to spread candies and lollipops across the garden. But he’s learned his lesson on questioning his monster’s authority. The sun hat and gloves approve, whispering sweet praises as he tosses the candy about.

“Ask him what kind of candy it is,” the sun hat requests, and Chase obliges.

“Pseudo? What kind of candy is this?”

“That’s blood meal, Pink.”

“Oh…. Then what kind of candy is that?” He points at the lollipops in his monster’s hands.

“These are Richie’s fingers.”

“Oh.”

Pseudo worms the fingers deep inside the dirt, and plants seeds right above where they lay. Several vegetables and fruits display a proud selection of food across the entire garden, whispering old screams of those lost inside the soil. Richie should be pleased to sprout zucchini.

“Pseudo?”

“Yes, dolly?”

But Chase does not respond. He mutters the name over and over under his breath, Pseudo, Pseudo, Pseudo, and nothing more. The sun hat and gardening gloves enjoy singing along.

Chase sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. He rests his chin in his hand, yawning.

“Sleepy?”

When the puppet opens his eyes, he finds himself in the kitchen. He is set in his place at the table, with no hat and no gloves to whisper in his ears.

“Hhh-“ Chase sits up, fumbling for his senses. When did they come inside? What time is it?

“How did I get in here??” the puppet asks. His stomach growls, but not with hunger.

“You walked inside,” says Pseudo. He cuts the crusts off a turkey sandwich and pours a glass of homemade strawberry lemonade.

“I don’t remember…”

The monster carries the dishes to the doll, setting them in front of him. The sandwich has tomatoes and lettuce from the garden. The drink has strawberries and lemons from the garden. The garden has victims from the cellar. Chase begins to wonder how many people he has indirectly eaten.

He stares at the glass, watching ice cubes bathe themselves in pink.

“Here, drink,” says Pseudo, presenting the glass to his lips. “I know you’re thirsty.”

The puppet hesitates, but obeys.

Sugary sweet and delicious and cool. The lemonade is easy to drink, sour in the good way. Not the soap way.

He keeps drinking until he feels something warmer and softer than ice hit his top lip. Did Pseudo put fresh strawberries in it?

The puppet opens his eyes to look, and sees one staring right back at him.

“AHG!”

Chase spits the lemonade across the table, shoving the glass as far away from himself as he can. The drink comes pouring onto the sandwich, and the lettuce screams and cries as it is forced into a cold shower.

“Thats cold!!”

“Eye, eye, eye!!!” Chase cries, standing from his chair. Tears stream down his cheeks, stinging his eyes and blurring his sight. He falls dizzy back into his seat.

“You what, Pink?” Pseudo asks, setting the glass on the table in a puddle. He reaches one hand to gently push at the puppet’s arm, watching it struggle to regain its balance.

“Noo, eye!!” Chase points at his own, hyperventilating. His mind is spinning. He vaguely remembers helping Pseudo plant eyeballs in the dirt last year, beneath strawberry seeds. He wasn’t Pink when it happened, he was Chase.

“Oho,” Pseudo chuckles. “Yes, eye. Nowww I’ve got it.”

“I can’t drink that!! I won’t!! I c-“ Chase covers his mouth, screaming into his hands. He rocks softly forward, side, backward, side again, unable to collect a stable posture.

“Shhh,” Pseudo hushes. He tries to pry Chase’s hands away from his face, but they are glued to where they sit.

“Hey, heyyyyy, it’s okay, look at me, Pink..”

Chase shakes his head. He can feel other memories tugging at his mind, but he’s terrified to open those doors. Part of him pleads to keep them shut, to listen to Pseudo’s words and sink back down into the comfort of Pink. Part of him claws at the handles- he’ll wretch those memories from underneath the doors if he has to.

Whumpee pulls silently at the restraints, just to feel something other than revulsion. They know the camera is zoomed into their face and nothing else anyway.

Help me help me help me, is what they want to scream.

“If you care about me, you have to stop fighting Whumper,” is what they say instead. “Let this foolish uprising finally end. All we ask of you is to come here and turn yourself in, like I did.”

Like I had to do to keep you alive, Whumpee whispers inside their head. But that’s not what the script said, and they’ve already had to stop and start recording once, now with a new bruise hidden under their shirt.

Something wets their cheeks, but Whumpee doesn’t dare stop speaking.

“I am begging you, Caretaker,” Whumpee says flatly, staring blankly at the camera, Whumper’s gaze weighing on their skin like lead, pulling them down and down as they speak. “Turn yourself in. Whumper will not hurt you and–”

“Stop,” an irritated voice cuts in.

Whumpee freezes, wide eyes shooting up to watch Whumper get up and make their way to Whumpee’s chair in two annoyed steps.

“You’re crying,” their captor sighs.

Whumpee frowns, hands moving without thought toward their face, to feel the tears they hadn't even realized were falling. They are pulled back by the leather straps tying them to the chair before they can do more than twitch in the restraints, but the slight movement is enough for Whumper to huff out a laugh before crossing their arms over their chest.

Whumpee grits their teeth to keep a frustrated groan from leaving their lips.

“If you can’t do this, Whumpee, then–”

“No, please,” they breathe. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Whumper, I didn’t notice, I didn’t…”

“I know,” Whumper says, deceivingly soft fingers brushing away the tears for them. Whumpee holds still, watching Whumper’s eyes as their thumbs run gently over their skin before pulling away. “We can try again.”

Whumpee lets out a relieved sigh, nodding desperately.

For one moment, they think that’ll be it. They’ll just try again, and this time Whumpee will keep the guilt and the pain carefully hidden away as they let Whumper record the lies they were forced to memorize.

Whumper nods as well before walking around their chair and stopping right behind Whumpee's back. Their body goes rigid, eyes staring straight ahead, too scared to so much as try to turn their head.

Their captor’s hands are light when they touch Whumpee’s shoulders. They might not even have felt the touch, weren't it for the open wounds covering their back, still aching after being whipped raw again and again.

Whumpee takes a deep breath and opens their mouth, ready to beg or plead or reason.

But before they can, Whumper's fingers slide down, hovering over torn skin for a moment. Whumpee holds their breath.

And then Whumper squeezes, and whatever Whumpee was about to say is lost in a wail, long and broken and filled with pain as Whumpee thrashes mindlessly against the restraints, head thrown back and fresh tears running down their face. Whumper’s fingers dig deeper into the wounds.

Distantly, they can feel something warm and wet dripping down their back, soaking into the clean shirt they were given for the recording.

“Please!” Whumpee sobs.

When Whumper finally pulls away, Whumpee falls forward as far as they’ll go, gasping for breath through the searing pain on their back, echoed by their chafed wrists and ankles as Whumpee’s weight is held by the restraints.

“Shh, it’s alright,” Whumper coos, helping Whumpee straighten back up, smirking when their back touches the backrest and a breathless whimper slips out of their lips. They’re too dazed by pain to do more than stay frozen in place when Whumper wipes away the new tears. “There we go, you’re okay. Just say what we rehearsed, and I won’t have to hurt you again, yeah?”

Whumpee pants and shakes their head, trying to pull themself together as they hear Whumper walk away.

If it was Caretaker in their place, they wouldn’t do as Whumper says. They’d take the pain instead of allowing themself to be Whumper’s pawn, instead of saying words they know aren’t true.

But Caretaker isn’t here, and there's blood on their back and more bruises than they can count covering their body, and the mere idea of more pain is enough for Whumpee's breath to hitch.

“Ready?” Whumper calls from the corner of the room.

No.

Whumpee forces themself to breathe, in and out, in and out, just like Caretaker once taught them. It helps, a little, just like it always did.

“Ready,” they whisper weakly.

Whumpee closes their eyes, swallowing down the shame and the contempt at themself, locking away the horror and the agony deep within their heart.

Someone counts down from three behind the camera.

When Whumpee’s eyes open again, they make sure their face shows nothing of the desperate things racing through their mind.

Whumpee takes a deep breath, and tries to ignore the guilt pooling in their stomach. It’s not hard to when they can feel blood oozing out of their back and sticking their shirt to their wounds.

They hope Caretaker can forgive them if they ever see each other again.