the absence of light

caretaker is by their side, taking care of them as they babble and giggle and cry. caretaker tries not to let the things whumpee says get to them. a more honest idea of what happened to them is horrifying and heart-wrenching.

"oh, this doesn't hurt—" a little giggle, "Before, I had to stay still and. there were, veryyy big needles, and it would make me cry. but then I'd get hurt. more."

"blankets? for me? why? but I won't die if I'm not warm!"

"no, no, let me stay on the floor! please don't hurt me, please, I'll be good, don't tell—" choking on whumper's name, "—please. I'll do anything."

"hey, do you think I'm broken?"

"c'n sl'p?" mumbling drowsily, "y'u c'n thr'w me o'ts'd aft'r!"

they take a step towards whumpee, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible. whumpee seems to freeze for a second, the line of their posture tense and coiled— an attempt to shrink within oneself, bracing for something and hiding from something alike.

caretaker gently pulls the sweater over whumpee's head, guiding their stick-thin arms into the soft fabric as whumpee stays still and quiet throughout the process, looking at them with huge, unblinking eyes.

"there," caretaker says, gently patting whumpee on their arms as they step away. "better?"

whumpee blinks. a weak protest, "you need that," as they fidget with the sleeves. they can't bring themself to remove it. it's soft and filled with cartaker's warmth.

caretaker shakes their head, carding their fingers through whumpee's hair in an attempt to straighten it back.

whumper used to make them pay if they were any faster than them. they would snatch the plate away, would say, "you need to learn," and the food would go down the trash chute. begging would worsen their verdict. seeing it wasted, knowing it was their fault would make tears prick in their eyes as hunger clawed them bloody from within.

so they eat slowly, slowly, slowly as caretaker sits across from them, trying not to give in to their ravenous appetite. caretaker had already said to take it slow— a clear order and a crystal clear threat. they have to hide and chew and track the other's movements.

"I mean," owner says, "I was gone the entire day. the leftovers are still here, and..." cabinets snapping open and close, "you've clearly not used any groceries other than for dinner. did you order takeout?"

whumpee would never. they don't even know how to! the word order settles like a weight in their stomach as they shake their head. ofcourse, owner may decide that whumpee is lying after all— and duly punish them for their infraction. so far, they've managed to avoid punishment, but this was inevitable anyways, they tell themself. trembling, trembling.

"were you not hungry?" what kind of question is that? what does it matter if whumpee is hungry? "are you coming down with something?" cool fingers on their forehead smooth down their cheeks as whumpee struggles not to lean in. they don't want the gentle touch to become a punch. owner rarely touched whumpee, neither for pleasure nor for punishment— and they hope that if— when— they'll be disciplined, owner will hurt them with their hands and not a— cane, or a poker.

"hmm... you seem okay, though. hey, come on, why didn't you make yourself lunch?"

pause.

"I-I would never steal!" unthinking words tumble down their tongue. stealing is a death sentence for a slave. it's asking for a painful demise for bringing about disgrace on their owner. they would— they would never. they don't want to die, but if owner thinks, if owner thinks—

"hey. hey!" hands on their shoulders. "I never said that, oh, dear..."

whumpee doesn't want to die. their breaths are coming too fast. they don't want to die. there is a rattle, rattle, rattling sound. they'll take any punishment. they just—

when it's important, when their survival hinges on the possibility of whumper surviving. they can't do this by themself. they'll be captured/killed in no time.

when they could get away with stabbing whumper in their heart. but they still do it. the fear goes too deep. even if whumper's in a light, pained doze, they can't bring themself to press the wound to draw agony from it.

when it means that something terrible is awaiting them anyhow, and their hands are shaking— but it's either whumper or the crushing solitude of being in the middle of nowhere.

when their task isn't completed yet, when they haven't gotten what they need out of whumper yet. they grit their teeth, knowing what will happen if they patch them up but doing it anyways.

when they are deathly afraid it will be them who will be convicted instead of whumper. there is no evidence, is there? and how exactly will it look when whumper will be found dead and not them?

the second time, they are almost at peace. surely they just passed out the first time. ( but there was no dreaming no pain no sensation at all—) they hope that this time whumper won't be able to bring them back. they'll be one of the several test subjects that turned out to be failures.

they're proven wrong hours later when they blink awake, scrambling and bringing their hands to their chest. their heart was removed, it was gone. there is no scar to indicate anything of that kind, only smooth skin lined with goosebumps. their stomach drops to their toes.

third death. all limbs slowly being sawed off, while they waited for the darkness which refused to take them. until it did. they woke up with perfectly functioning fingers.

fourth death. burnt alive. whumper makes some kind of joke about being a phoenix that flies past their ears.

fifth, sixth, seventh. beheaded, disembowelled, lobotomized. at least that one was funny. whumpee couldn't stop laughing.

after that, it gets a little blurry. whumpee taunts whumper somewhere around their twentieth— a dispassionate tone stating how boring and predictable whumper's methods are.

whumper makes them regret their words as they are eaten alive by a horde of starving mice.

whumpee nearly splinters into a million pieces when whumper keeps them awake and alive through their liver regenerating. whumper doesn't do it again, but the threat always hangs heavy over their head.

soon enough they begin to lose count. they barely make it to hundred and twenty eight before it all starts blurring together. sleep becomes a thing of the past. time is inconsequential and stretches, stretches, stretches. the only reprieve is death. cold and fleeting, but it's miles better than anything they are subjected to when alive.

"you should be grateful to me," whumper comments neutrally, once. "I'm making you something greater than human. you'll see."

delicious. i beg for more >:)

HELLO! ask and you shall receive >:) sorry that this is late!! i was slightly stumped with it, but here you go! part 1 here.

whumpee is slumped over caretaker's back. they barely weigh anything— and as concerning as that would be in any other situation, it proves to be extremely lucky right now— as caretaker hurries along as fast as they can.

their back chaffs against whumpee's front, the barely healed lashes smarting and burning with each movement. even as they wince, they know that they can't stop. had it not been for whumpee, caretaker would still be rotting in that accursed cell in whumper's basement.

its been three days of running and sleeping fitfully and needing to keep watch and having to look out for wolves. caretaker is running solely on the shreds of adrenaline and the pain that won't let them pass out.

whumpee made sure to leave while whumper was knocked out from the copious amounts of alcohol in their system, which gave them a headstart, but that's going to last only so long. getting caught feels inevitable— with each passing day that the road doesn't come into view, breathing becomes a little harder. panic festers like rot in their bones.

and whumper is smiling the same as ever, a familiar arrogance in every line of their stance. really, the tipping point is that they still expect whumpee to grovel by their feet, to be stepped on, to be hurt and humiliated— and suddenly caretaker and/or friends are holding whumpee back, as they try to break out of the hold to destroy this pathetic waste of space once and forever.

caretaker brings a hand down on whumpee's mouth, muffling the yelling, and when they don't stop even after several long moments, they lift whumpee up by the shoulders, slamming them back down— hard enough that whumpee is knocked out.

guilt barely makes a dent in the fear that courses through them. they bundle up, quick and efficient in their movements as they ready to move.

after all, this will all be for nothing if whumper finds them now.

as they cut the thread off, handler orders, "all done. get in the car," as they remove the belt from whumpee's mouth. without giving it any thought, a "no," slips out, obstinate and clipped. whumpee keeps their head turned away.

their failure plays like a video on loop in their head, over and over and over again. their hesitation cost hundreds of innocent people their lives. it's not fair.

"get in the car," handler repeats themself. steel underlines their tone, danger boiling beneath the surface.

when whumpee fails to comply in the stipulated five second period, they find themself pressed against the hood of the car, the metal digging into their freshly stitched wound. "whatever punishment you are seeking," handler hisses in their ear, sharp like a razor, "your superiors are itching to grant it. in fact, I'll be damned if you will be able to recite your own code once they are done with you. now get in the bloody car."

tears slip down whumpee's face, a steady chant of weak, weak, weak echoing in their head as they climb in it. they know that handler's right. they'll be screaming themself hoarse— if that will be allowed— by the end of today.

so when whumper shows up, smiling a little too wide, holding a bouquet of flowers with the rest of their friends, whumpee feels nauseous. their hands tremble imperceptibly— and they're unable to put a reason to this terrible sense of premonition.

whumper didn't expect whumpee to survive at all, but the fact that they did— and that too with no memories of their time together— it feels like a gift from the universe.

but the ones on their face, they are inescapable. whumpee starts hunching their shoulders, their neck is always bent, their face in the uneven flickering shadows. avoiding eye contact, avoiding their own reflection like it's a plague, skipping baths because the idea of the full-bodied mirror right by the shower stall is agonizing. catching a flicker of themself in windows and glasses, fading but still recognisable.

whumpee does everything in their power to stay coiled up in their bed, to avoid the questioning, if not judgmental, stares from those who don't know. and the pitying ones from those who do.

once they are done, whumpee bends forwards from where they kneel to reach whumper's shoes.

the knowledge that whumper could stomp their heavy shoes over whumpee's hands at any time without any warning makes their fingers tremble unwittingly. it will hurt, the fragile bones will crack and snap. they'll have to stay still even as pain will whiten their vision out.