cw: pet whump, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, Institutionalized slavery, conditioned whumpee, past abuse, amnesia, memory
With knobby, weak knees buckled, Joey took on the much needed task of holding Florence upright, keeping him from falling to the concrete like a rag doll.
Florence could recall himself just a bit, the white uniform, white walls, and white lights blooming against his dark curls. The glimpse was that of a reflection, mirrored in a circle of metal - a dog bowl. He hissed at the sight, tripping over his stumbling legs.
The pet took on his training well, straight faced and stone cold, although visually fearful.
If he could just set his head straight he could do something-
“Dear, are you annoying passersby?”
The voice rigged itself calm and collected, so much so that the rage full temper beneath cracked through, enough to halt each former or current pet in place. A shiver crawled its way from head to toe, each pet but Florence dutifully finding its source.
“I thought you had learned your lesson from the last time, silly.” This owner was different from Florence’s, the facade of kindness there, though the threat still loomed right over. “And I keep giving you second chances, don’t I?”
He chuckled at that, and Joey flinched. Florence couldn’t manage to move, blotted vision plastered on the pet - ‘463, designation domestic - unable to be shifted.
The owner danced onto Joey, the only one able to pay any attention to him. “Dear, I must apologize for the pet. He can be a real dummy sometimes, and doesn’t seem to know how to handle himself.” He tapped gently at the metal railing seperating them. “I sincerely pray he hasn’t ruined your day with himself.”
In the air hung an expectancy of a response from Florence, one Joey couldn’t give, some sort of thank you but it’s fine. It took nearly all of Florence’s strength to simply turn his crackled, splitting skull. Sweat dipped over his lips, curling down his drenched, silent face. He did his best to try a smile.
The owner - Florence still blanked on his name even with the blaring white - looked just as Florence had remembered. He stood on the porch of a restaurant, hair gelled back with more gray than he recalled, but still in dapper attire. He looked eerily like Mr. Franklin, and that only nudged Florence closer to the edge.
The owner’s face flattened for a second, just as Florence’s, head cocking. Mutual recognition. And for just a flicker, his cold, creeping gaze slipped to Florence’s arm.
His barcode was long gone - stripped of his skin like they stripped him of himself - but the owner glanced at it like he’d find something there. It was covered with a bracelet like always, and it didn’t even matter if it was because there was nothing there but a tiny fucking scar, but even so Florence yanked his arm from the owner’s assualting gaze.
“Well, isn’t this a lovely surprise, Mr…,” the owner trailed off, licking his lips expectantly, before continuing. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, it seems I’ve forgotten your name. Care to remind me?”
For once, Florence couldn’t speak.
Florence paused, hesitating to say something, anything, with nothing managing to fly past his throat. He wiped the trickle of moisture -tears or sweat - from his cheek, sucking in a trembling breath.
Lip twitching, his smile faltered. “H-,” he swallowed, gulping down disgust. “Handler Thurman.”
The owner clapped his hands in amusement. “Ah, yes. I remember now!” He exclaimed, resting his chin back into his hand, clearly entertained by the fact that he’d somehow come across his pets old handler-turned-pet. What owner wouldn’t be? “My pretty boy’s handler.”
Laughing, sickly and gross, Florence more than easily slipped back into the handler persona, with a tint of hesitancy lingering. “T- that’s me.” He said, smiling strange as he licked his lips, running his fingers back through his sweat stained curls.
“What a pleasant coincidence.” The owner scratched at his silver slick beard. Squinting, he looked Florence up and down for a long, strung out second. “I certainly don’t mean to pry, but might something be wrong? You simply don’t look well.”
“‘M just sick.” Florence said, with stumbling lips.
His eyebrow pricked up at that, and Florence’s throat winded. “While out and about? Shouldn’t you be resting?”
Florence went to respond, but was cut off almost immediately. “Ah, excuse me for my intrusion, it’s really none of my business. I simply like to look out for other pet enthusiasts like myself.”
Swallowing, Florence nodded. “Thank you, sir. You really shouldn’t worry about me, we were, uh, heading home anyways.” His grip on Joey’s sweat drenched hand firmed. Her gaze hadn’t lifted from her feet in minutes, bangs shielding her face completely.
“Y’know,” the owner continued, chin getting comfortable in the palm of his hand, “I did hear a couple fanciful rumors of a handler Thurman being fired from WRU.” His eyes thinned.
“R- really?” Florence laughed, the beat of his heart filling his ears.
“Oh, yes. It was a good while ago, but I even heard some stories in which the handler ended up a pet!” The owner slipped a chuckle, hearty and matched by Florence. “Very fanciful rumors, of course. People just love to gossip, don’t they?”
He clicked his tongue. “Very funny to think of, though, isn’t it?”
“E- extremely.” Oh, they were fucked.
If he could just keep up the facade for a little longer, just long enough to end the conversation, maybe they wouldn’t be fucking done for.
The owner waved him off, and the fog of fear peaked away. “Ah, well I’ve kept you for much too long now. I would feel simply terrible if I kept you from your rest any longer, now.”
Letting slip a short chuckle, he motioned for his pet to follow. “C’mon, pretty boy, our food is getting cold.”
“Y- yes, sir.” The pet, with flickering vision, scrambled to make his way off his knees and back to his master. His owner clutched him by the back, a threatening hold that said I own you. Florence flinched as he watched the two depart past the wall, feeling the phantom touch of his own master.
The air was ever so tense, even as the owner and pet clicked away, departing.
Joey didn’t say a word, and neither did he.
The wall he was holding started to blur, and as he stepped back as if to run his foot caught on a crack of sidewalk almost tripping his jelly like legs as he whimpered a cry from the sore of his body, and his head was all woozy and so were his flailing limbs.
For little flashes of seconds everything was white, and so were his knuckles as he squeezed anything he could grab, and he felt burning hot and freezing cold at the same fucking time, and he couldn’t fucking see anymore because everything was white and he was-
Releasing a crackling shriek, Florence’s brain burnt on like the flick of a switch, flickering from a constant, throbbing ache to as if a fucking bomb had just gone off in his head.
He could sort of sense as his knees hit the ground, and the quivering grip of his hands holding himself tightly. He could sort of let the blistering heat of the sidewalk plaster his forehead as he keeled over, letting it burn him, still wailing. He could sort of feel the split of his throat as he screeched, curling around his vocal cords in a choking manner.
Not being able to clearly sense anything was horrifying enough, but the blinding white that held him - suffocated him - was a million times worse.
And it wasn’t all white. There were little glimpses of times before him and times after, all twisted together to form a sputtering mess, faces, places, sounds and scenes all rushing through him at once. There were so many people dancing around the white, so much blood and laughter and fear and tears.
His jaw turned and strained as he giggled, but it wasn’t really him, buzzing like a horn in his white filled brain.
Please, handler Thurman, please I didn’t mean to I don’t want to I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’ll do anything, please! I’m trying to be good, so good, please…!
The pets gaze soon curled into something softer, the woman with his face but much less disgusting. Her touch was sweet, too sweet to be for him but his still.
C’mon, Joe, eat your veggies, they’re good for you. Momma will eat them with you, okay?
And soon enough she was another woman entirely.
You’re pretty handsome for a pet guy, y’know. Most of you guys’re weirdos, but you seem pretty normal. You could say I like normalcy in a guy.
He felt the shock even through the white, sending him further reeling, cracking and hot in his neck, splitting through the images.
Now that’s your first lesson, good boys don’t bite. Got that?
He nodded, desperate in that time but not another, sobbing through the scald of his face. And then his head was cracked to the floor, a hand choking and his own sending a slap another’s way.
Hey-! Ow, fuck! Didn’t your momma ever tell you not to hit? Leave me- alone, Joe! Get offa me!
The face of the little boy - chubby cheeks and squished features - contorted, elongating and growing into that of a man’s.
Alright dummy, get over here and take a kneel. Oh, don’t give me that scared look ‘065, you know it pisses me off.
The man only got older, graying hair and a gruff beard, except with a growling, rumbling voice.
You are a real idiot. Get up, dog. I don’t care if you’re hurtin’, I need another cig.
Even with so much to feel he couldn’t feel anything real, only the numb of the memories twisted with the emotion of so many different times, so many different lives he had lived.
The pricking, searing pain of his own hands grabbing at chunks of his own hair wasn’t enough to cover that of his head. Hey- s- stop, Florence, I’m calling-, stop, said a voice drowned out by all the others, the ones flooding his senses and making it practically impossible to feel.
And just like the fiery way it started, the ordeal flickered out like a light. His breathing settled, hiccups scattered between. His shaking continued, a violent tremble. His limbs curled into his abdomen, stuck in position and unable to move.
The memories swiftly found their place in his mind, each slipping into their respective spot.
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