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oh my gooooooood i absolutely devaured the immortal whumpee who haven't been fed in years!!!! is there any possibility for continuation please?
#354.2
first
content: emeto, immortal whumpee, nonhuman whumpee, starvation, aftermath of whump, past trauma, past torture, recovery fic, rocky recovery, comfort
Whumpee was slow to eat all the soup in its bowl — not its bowl, stupid, idiot, it was Caretaker's bowl they kindly let it use — but it did better than the sandwich. That is, it didn't immediately throw it back up. Caretaker left it on the chair while they went to clean the vomit from the couch, and it could hear them curse under their breath at how difficult it was to get out. They sounded… angry. It tensed.
Its captors were angry sometimes. Not usually; usually, they were all in good spirits, beating the crap out of it while laughing and joking amongst themselves, having a grand old time. But sometimes, it was only its main captor. Caretaker's grandfather. Its owner. And sometimes, he was angry. Sometimes, he zapped it with the cattle prod until it was nothing but a twitchy heap on the floor. Sometimes, he would burn it with different things. Sometimes, he would go at it with a whip until its back was a mangled mess, oozing blood all over the floor. And during those times, he cursed sometimes.
It was silly, to make the comparison. But Caretaker had inherited more from their grandfather than just a vague resemblance in appearance — their voice sounded eerily similar as they grumbled to themself.
Whumpee was sure to let out a sigh as quietly as it could, afraid of angering Caretaker more if it made a noise too loud. Despite their kind demeanour, Whumpee could already picture them with an angry scowl on their face, brandishing a whip, or a knife, or something cruel, and it had no strength to defend itself, and maybe it wouldn't even want to, because an exchange of soup for pain was still a good exchange, and it could behave and stay still for Caretaker to beat into oblivion—
"Whumpee?"
Whumpee slowly raised its head to look at Caretaker. It had been so lost in its thoughts, it didn't hear them come back to the kitchen. They didn't wear an angry scowl. "I'm sorry for throwing up."
"Ah," Caretaker said, rubbing the back of their neck. "No, it's really me who should apologise. I was a little harsh there, wasn't I? When it was my fault. I should've expected your stomach not to be able to handle much food after years of starvation."
Harsh? "You didn't do anything harsh."
Caretaker gave it a sheepish smile. "I'm glad you think so, but slapping your hand away, and then dragging you off to the bathroom… I could've handled it better."
"You're the nicest any captor of mine has ever been to me," Whumpee said sincerely, with gratitude in its voice. "I'm nothing but thankful. I'm sorry I made you have to clean up after me. It's not right. I wish I could help, but I can't even move on my own. I'm a huge burden right now. But I swear to you, if you help me get back to an even semi-normal state, I'll do everything I can to repay you."
Something crossed Caretaker's face. An emotion Whumpee couldn't put its finger on. Sadness, maybe? It wasn't anger, Whumpee was well-acquainted with that. It was something negative. Something was wrong with what it had just said. But what?
"Whumpee, I'm not your captor," they said, and Whumpee furrowed its brows.
"You inherited me from your grandfather, no?"
"Well, kind of…" At that moment, Whumpee remembered what Caretaker had said. 'I would set you free, but you're not in a state to be released.' At the time, though it probably should've been of more interest, Whumpee hadn't paid attention to it. It had been too focused on getting water. But now, with its belly full, it revisited the memory. "Look, I have no… I don't want an inheritance like this. You should be free. I'm not your captor. Consider me, like…" They trailed off. "Like a f…" They cut themself off, blushing in embarrassment.
"Like a friend?" Whumpee guessed, though the words rang hollow. It didn't have friends. Certainly not its original captor's grandchild. It could imagine his anger at the prospect. He would've beaten it black and blue for even considering this. Entertaining it.
"Y-Yeah," they stammered. "I know that's a little far-fetched, considering… everything. But wouldn't it be nice to have a friend? I don't have many friends either, and you've been robbed of… Man, what am I saying? I'm sorry, this is stupid. You probably hate me."
Hate? Caretaker was its saviour. What sort of thoughts were swirling around Caretaker's head that made them come to such conclusions? "I would like to be a friend instead of… a punching bag," it said quietly. Timidly. "If that's okay."
Caretaker stopped clearly mentally beating themself up and just looked at Whumpee. "You'd accept me as a friend regardless of what grandpa did?"
"I… You didn't… It has nothing to do with you. You've been nothing but kind."
That small, tentative smile returned to their face, and Whumpee quickly decided it was the best sight in the world. It liked making Caretaker smile. If only because it meant it would be safe for another minute. "Well, then… Then we're friends, I suppose." The smile disappeared again. "You look really tired. I should get the guest bedroom ready for you. Will you be okay on your own while I do that?"
A bedroom? For it? "Won't you bring me back down to the basement?" it asked before it could've just been sane and accepted the clearly superior offer. It didn't want to seem greedy. Or like it was taking advantage of Caretaker.
"You don't… like the basement, do you? I mean, it's fine if you do, but I just imagined…"
"I don't."
"So why would I bring you back there? It's an awful place."
Whumpee stayed quiet. It should've argued — it should've convinced Caretaker that it deserved nothing more than the cement floor and the plaster on the wall. But its greedy, complacent, no-good mind made it stay quiet.
"I'll prepare the guest bedroom," Caretaker concluded, and with that, they were gone.
Whumpee stayed sitting on the chair, looking at the empty bowl in front of it. Caretaker didn't put it in the dishwasher. It should do that. It should get up from the chair and put the bowl in the dishwasher. That was the least it could do.
It strained. It couldn't even lift an arm to touch the bowl with, let alone find the strength in its legs to get up from the chair. It strained, and strained, and strained, but nothing was moving as it was supposed to. It was sweating now. Good, waste the precious water Caretaker had graced you with.
It eventually gave up. It wasn't going to be able to help out for a long time.
"All done!" Caretaker reappeared in the doorway. "Are you ready?"
"Yes," it said meekly.
"I'll carry you there. Sorry, I know it's a little awkward. But soon, you'll be able to walk on your own. Or I can get a wheelchair for the time being. We'll figure it out as we go." Caretaker easily picked it up and carried it to a nice-looking room, if only a little bare. Ha! Nothing, nothing would be bare after the cell in the basement. There was actual wallpaper. And a carpet. Flooring. A bed.
In fact, Caretaker laid it gently on said bed. And it was so soft. So warm.
Caretaker fussed over it, tucking it in nice and snug, making sure all parts of its body were covered by the blanket. "Is this good?" they asked afterwards, and Whumpee, despite itself, started to tear up. "Whumpee? Are you okay?"
"Yes," it sniffled. "Yes, sorry, I just… I'm…"
"I didn't hurt you, did I?"
"No! No, the opposite. I'm sorry. I just… No one has been so kind to me in so long. I forgot… I forgot what it's like."
Caretaker's mouth formed a small 'o'. They seemed more guilt-stricken than ever before. "I'm so sorry, Whumpee. I'll… I'll try to make your days here good. Until you can leave."
"I don't want to leave," it wept, fully wept now. "I want to be here forever, and I want your kindness forever, and that's selfish of me, and greedy, and—"
"Hey," they cut in gently. "Hey… It's not selfish. If you decide to stay here, that's okay too. But I just want to emphasise, you're not captive anymore. If you ever do decide to leave, it's your choice."
Whumpee couldn't even reach up to wipe its stupid eyes. It was bawling, and it must've looked so ugly. Caretaker didn't seem to think so. They sat on the edge of the bed and gently wiped its eyes.
"It's gonna be okay," they said softly. "I'm gonna make it okay."
"I've never been good," Villain defended, taking a step back.
"Whatever you need to tell yourself. But I remember. You used to be great."
Villain swallowed, audibly, and they opened and closed their mouth a few times, trying to come up with an excuse. A story. Whatever they had in their head that made them make the switch from one side to the other. From light to darkness. From good to bad. "Does it even matter?" they asked, voice shaking a little. "The only thing that matters is that we're on opposing sides now. And my job is to take you down."
"Which of course you want to do so badly," Hero said with snark in their tone.
"I do!" Villain said. "It's my job!"
"Well, then I suppose it's my job to defend myself. And my city. Our city."
"This city has never treated me like its own," Villain spat, and for the first time, Hero heard real vitriol in their voice.
"Yes, yes, the outcast to villain pipeline. Very unique, very special," they said, and once again, they saw shame cross Villain's face.
"What do you know about being an outcast? You're revered," they shot back anyway.
"And I revered you. If you needed help, if you needed a friend, anything to keep you from going down this path, I was there. But you never reached out."
"It doesn't matter," they concluded. "I'm over here now, and you're over there. This was inevitable."
"Oh, Villain… What do you know about inevitable? You really think this was your fate? Your destiny? Don't be stupid."
"Just shut up and fight me!" Villain snapped. "Quit the monologues and come at me! I have hostages! I've committed crimes! It's your duty to just— just—"
"Okay," Hero said, gentle. "I'll fight you. I'll make you release those hostages, and I'll bring you to justice. But just know, I'm still here. You can still reach out." Villain mumbled something, and Hero took a step closer. "What was that?"
"Supervillain would kill me," they repeated, not a lot louder, but audible. "Whether you like it or not, this is my destiny now."
content: past trauma, aftermath of whump, nonverbal whumpee, emotional whump
They used to be a chatterbox.
Maybe that was why it hurt Caretaker the most that Whumper had taken it from them.
When Whumpee wasn't staring at walls blankly, they were shaking their head or nodding, or occasionally, when they really needed something, they tapped them on the shoulder to get their attention. They hadn't said a word since rescue, leaving the team guessing as to what all had really happened to them — that is, the things not readily decipherable from the scars on their body. Oh, those told a whole story.
"Whumpee?" Caretaker asked gently one morning. As per usual, Whumpee looked at them, but didn't speak. "What would you like for breakfast this morning? Cereal or a sandwich? Maybe eggs?"
They prompted them like this from time to time, softly trying to coax them to say at least a single word. Not because their silence was bothersome, but because it was devastating. It was clear by now that the chatterbox Whumpee was probably forever gone — though Caretaker always held out hope for their return — but a Whumpee who could at least make a simple choice… it seemed within reach, some days more than others. This day, in fact, felt like Whumpee was doing a bit better than others.
Whumpee pointed to the cereal on the counter. Caretaker wasn't ready to give up yet.
"There are a lot of things on the counter. Both bread and cereal. I don't know what to prepare for you if you don't use your words, you know."
For a long moment, Whumpee just let their hand drop and stared at the table in front of them. It really seemed like they were working up the courage to say something, to open their mouth and make a noise other than pained groans and pitiful whimpers. They took a deep breath; Caretaker held theirs.
But then, Whumpee stood up and took the box of cereal, sitting back down with it. Caretaker let out the breath they were holding in defeat, and went to the fridge to take out milk for Whumpee. "Okay," they mumbled. "Doesn't have to be today," they added, more to themself than to Whumpee.
They used to be a chatterbox. And Caretaker so, so regretted every single stupid time they'd told them to shut up.
content: implied past minor whump, past trauma, parental caretaker, rocky recovery, recovery fic, comfort, arguments, bad friends
"Look at you," Caretaker chastised lightly, taking a napkin and wiping Whumpee's mouth as though they were a little child, unable to take care of themself.
"Sorry," Whumpee mumbled, letting Caretaker do it. The friend group they were with exchanged glances, some even laughed.
"You were a mama's boy, weren't you?" Friend asked with a playful smile, addressed to Whumpee, but Caretaker was absolutely not going to let Whumpee answer a question that could very easily be taken as a genuine jab.
"No, they were not," they said, stern, quite a stark contrast to the gentle tone they always used with Whumpee. "And if you keep making assumptions, you're bound to get punched. Not necessarily by me, but by someone at some point."
Friend threw their hands in the air. "Whoa, sorry, I didn't realise it was that serious. But you do realise Whumpee is like, a grown adult, right? They can tell me off themself if they didn't like the joke."
"For it to be a joke, it'd have to be funny," Caretaker deadpanned. "Am I laughing?"
A mama's boy. Whumpee didn't have a mama. Never had. Caretaker had basically raised them from the time they were a teenager to becoming the person they are today. They had taken Whumpee in from the streets. A mama's boy. What a cruel 'joke'.
"I'm just saying, it's a little weird how much you're fussing over them," Friend went on, undeterred. "Whumpee," they began, emphasising that the next part of the sentence was addressed to them, "don't you want a little more independence?"
Whumpee might've grown a lot over the years, they might've grown into an adult that towered over Caretaker by now — to be fair, that wasn't hard, Caretaker was 5 foot with a stool — but they still made themself quite small in Caretaker's presence, when they knew they didn't have to look out for themself. When they knew Caretaker would have their back. When they felt safe. "I'm fine," they said quietly.
"So you can stop the interrogation," Caretaker added firmly.
"Okay, okay. I was just askin'. Not any of my business, I guess. But what's Whumpee gonna do when you're not around?"
Caretaker saw Whumpee hang their head from the corner of their eye. Whumpee was capable on their own, but they still didn't like to think about a time when Caretaker wasn't around to help them anymore. It was bound to happen sooner or later, given the age difference, but it made Whumpee sad, and Caretaker had dedicated their life to not seeing Whumpee sad ever again.
"I plan to be around," they said, and Whumpee reached out to take their hand under the table, out of sight of the others. Caretaker let them, and squeezed it to let them know they were there for them. "Besides, Whumpee's fine on their own."
"When they can't even wipe their own mouth? Can they wipe their own—"
"We're leaving," Caretaker said, standing up from the table. Whumpee stood with them, and the size difference became readily apparent. "And we're not coming back. Thanks for the meal. You're a shit friend, though. And the rest of you are as well, it shouldn't be my sole job to defend Whumpee from assholes."
Without waiting for a response, Caretaker walked out, still holding Whumpee's hand, and so dragging them out as well. Not that Whumpee had to be dragged, they followed like it was their job.
"Thanks," Whumpee said meekly once they were out of the pizzeria. "I'm sorry that I still can't… that I still won't…"
"It's okay," Caretaker said tenderly. "I'm here for you, okay? And we'll find better friends."
"They were fine…"
"They weren't."
Whumpee nodded. They had a habit of going along with whatever Caretaker said. "Okay."
"Look, I just… I want the best for you. Be it accommodations, or friends, or whatever. And they weren't good for you. I wouldn't trust you to be alone with them."
"Thanks for looking out for me."
Caretaker reached up, standing on their tippy-toes, and ruffled Whumpee's hair. "Always. Or until you don't need me anymore."
Fear flashed in Whumpee's eyes. "I'll— I'll always need you," they said, almost scared to speak the words out loud.
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content: implied past trauma, sleep deprivation, rocky recovery, recovery fic, comfort, dubious caretaker because come on you absolutely had ulterior motives
Caretaker would've never raised the strange concern out loud, or brought it up in any way, but they'd noticed that Whumpee was quite… averse to the idea of staying overnight. It was fine, Caretaker told themself. Some people didn't like sleepovers. Some people would've rather driven home at midnight than spend a few hours sleeping in the guest room. But something in their gut told them this wasn't necessarily… normal.
Still, they would've never voiced it. They just silently accepted it as one of Whumpee's many quirks.
"Wanna watch a movie?" they asked one time when Whumpee was over. It was already nearing midnight, and the movie was two hours long. Whumpee looked a little drowsy already, but they nodded anyway.
"Sure. What movie?"
They ended up watching it all the way through, but Caretaker couldn't bring themself to focus on the movie itself. They kept glancing sideways, checking whether Whumpee had fallen into the trap they'd set, maybe not intentionally, but definitely subconsciously: would they fall asleep during it?
They caught them jolting awake several times, they caught Whumpee pinching themself hard whenever their eyes closed for too long, and eventually, when the movie was over, they immediately stood up to stretch.
"I guess I should go home now," Whumpee said, and Caretaker was quick to respond.
"You're absolutely not driving while so sleepy."
"Well, I have to get home somehow," they retorted, and Caretaker gestured towards the guest bedroom.
"You can sleep here. I told you, guest bedroom's always open to you."
"I wouldn't want to burden you."
"It's not a burden; I'm offering."
Whumpee shook their head. "I'm fine to drive. Besides, who am I gonna crash into at 2 AM on the street? A ghost?"
"A lamppost. A tree. Whumpee, I'm worried for you, okay? Just stay here and sleep a bit. You can go home in the morning."
Whumpee looked uncomfortable. They stifled a yawn, Caretaker could tell, trying to mask just how exhausted they were. "Okay," they said eventually. Caretaker still didn't ask why they were so against sleeping over. They thought they were friends, weren't they? Friends slept over all the time. And Caretaker did the utmost to provide a safe, comfortable space for Whumpee. Why wasn't it enough?
"I'll set up the room for you," Caretaker said immediately, jumping up from the couch. "Just wait here a moment."
"Okay," they said, even less certain. Caretaker rushed to prepare the guest room for possibly the most important guest they could have over, putting out pillows and a blanket on the big, queen sized bed. It couldn't have taken more than five minutes — but when they returned to the living room to tell Whumpee their suite was ready, they found no one.
"Whumpee?" they asked, hoping Whumpee had just gone to the kitchen for some food. "Whumpee!"
They opened the front door and looked outside. Their car was gone. They didn't even hear them start the engine.
They ran a hand through their hair and sighed, long and tormented by visions of Whumpee having an accident because they had let them go so sleep-deprived. "Man…" they whispered. What was it with Whumpee and sleepovers?
content: emotional whump, guilt, lady whump, lady whumpee, death, substance abuse whump (alcohol)
"Who are they?" the stranger at the bar asked, and Whumpee looked over, already half-intoxicated, with a shot of vodka in her hand.
"Huh?"
The stranger leaned in, probably thinking it was the music and not the alcohol that was making processing the words more difficult. "Who are they?"
"Who?" Whumpee asked, then slammed back the shot of vodka. She waved to the bartender, and when she got a nod from her, she looked back at the stranger. The stranger pointed to her arms, and Whumpee looked down at the many tattoos covering them, as if she was seeing them for the first time. "Oh," she said then, softer. As though the names written forever on her skin weren't the reason she was drinking now. And the day before. And the day before that.
The bartender put another shot in front of her, and she took the glass, playing with it between her fingers. She watched the clear liquid in it slosh back and forth, and she wondered just how many nights of self-punishment would make the guilt go away.
"Friends," she answered finally.
Comrades in arms.
Dead.
Their names forever inked into her skin, so she would never forget how she had failed them out on the battlefield. She drank the vodka in three big gulps, then forcefully exhaled to make it burn less.
"That's sweet," the stranger said, and Whumpee snorted. Sweet. Right. It was sweet. Oh, how stupid and clueless strangers could be. "You have many friends, then."
"Yup," she said curtly, because back at base, she did have more friends. Friends she hadn't yet lost, yet was grieving already.
"What does one have to do to earn a spot on your arm?" the stranger asked with a smile that could be read as flirtatious. Whumpee looked down again. She read the names, though the letters seemed to be spinning by now. She knew them by heart anyway.
"You don't want a spot on my arm," she said, waving down the bartender again for another shot.
"What, do I have to die for you?" they asked jokingly. Whumpee stared them down until they let out a small, awkward laugh.
"No," she said, as measured as one could be at her level of drunkenness. "You have to die because of me."
"What?"
Whumpee turned back to face forward, deciding to ignore the annoying stranger who just didn't get it. Another shot was placed in front of her, and she slammed it back immediately, then put some money on the bar and hopped off her chair.
Her friends… Her dead friends…
She swayed and stumbled, and tomorrow she would go out onto the battlefield again. She would fail others again. She would get new tattoos, and they would haunt her further, and she didn't need to pay attention to stupid strangers who were… grabbing her arm and trying to steady her?
"Hey," the stranger said, more serious now as they held her. "I'm probably misunderstanding, but I know enough to know you don't want me to pry. Let me just call you a cab."
"I can get home," she said, not wanting them to hear when she gave the address to the cab driver.
"I bet. You seem awfully self-sufficient — to a fault. But tonight, let someone help you."
Whumpee yanked her arm out of their loose hold. She caught glimpses of names on there, and she closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in, holding, breathing out. No. She didn't get to close her eyes and not look at the names. She had to look, she had to face her past sins, she had to—
"Hey, are you okay?" the stranger cut in right in the middle of her internal monologue about long-suffering and guilt. "Just let me call a cab."
"Fine," she said, grumbled more like. The stranger gave her a tentative smile.
"It's gonna be okay, yeah? Whatever's haunting you, it'll be okay."
Whumpee stared at them. "Right. Call me a cab and get lost."
visual. they might see bugs crawling all over them. or they might see shadows from the corner of their eye. or they might see whumper where whumper isn't actually. or they might see gore where there isn't
auditory. they might hear their name being called. the voice might sound like whumper. or a completely other person
in that vein, command hallucinations. after so many commands being barked at them it wouldn't be far-fetched to think the command hallucinations would be similar
olfactory. they might smell something foul, but what could've gone bad in their bare cell? or they might smell smoke. what if they think the whole building is on fire and they're locked in the basement, unable to escape?
delusions
what if they start thinking they're more important than they are? they're the second coming of the messiah, that's why whumper is keeping them locked up. or they might have secret superpowers
what if they start thinking it's the government that's out to get them, and whumper is just an agent? they can't go to the cops either, they're in on it
what if their family has made a pact with whumper and that's why whumper had access to them to kidnap and torture them? nobody is looking for them, they're all in on it
what if everything they're presented with, food, water, is spiked and drugged and poisonous? especially if it has happened before
severe derealisation
nothing around them is actually real
everything is just shapes and colours
whumper is a moving talking mass of flesh
severe depersonalisation
this isn't happening to them
this body doesn't belong to them
the voice they're speaking and begging in doesn't sound like them
they don't know who they are or where they are
please please please i don't know who i am but i'm not this
they have their prescription sedatives. they have that gun in the safe. they have plenty of sharp knives in the kitchen. they have a high place from which to hang a noose.
will they ever talk about these things? obviously not. that'd get them admitted to the restricted ward in a psychiatric unit. so they just... live with it. knowing they could end it at any moment. finding comfort in the idea sometimes, other times being deathly frightened they'll actually do something
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Sniper whumpee laying in some bushes with a rifle, doing their job, keeping still and trying to get a good opening, then SUDDENLY they're snatched up and damn, that's bad, why's there an enemy that just yanked their sniper rifle and now is putting it up to whumpee's head? Oh well guess the teammate that was supposed to keep an eye on the surroundings just left. Haha what happens now? OH WAIT WATERBOARDING IN THE FIELD HEEEEEEELL YEAH
Whumpee was lying in the bushes, perfectly hidden from the enemy, trying to get an opening with their sniper rifle. They'd been in this position for at least thirty minutes now, and their legs were starting to fall asleep. Didn't matter. They had an assignment to complete.
Caretaker was a ways off, keeping watch so nobody disturbed Whumpee in their quest. They were also hidden, hopefully well-enough, in their camo gear. The two of them had been a pair several times over the past months, and they'd gotten fairly well acquainted. Whumpee would've called them a friend, truth be told.
That was, until they were yanked up from where they lay, sniper rifle twisted out of their hand and put to their own head, and they realised that Caretaker had just… left. They didn't hear the sound of them leaving. They didn't understand why or how Caretaker left. They didn't know if this was an outright betrayal of the whole team, the whole organisation, or whether Caretaker had just decided they weren't friends anymore — or maybe they never had been.
"Who sent you?" the enemy asked, rifle still pointed at Whumpee's temple. Whumpee was better than this. Surely, even the enemy knew they wouldn't get a straight answer out of them. "I'm asking you a question. Who sent you?"
Whumpee stayed silent. The rifle was lowered, then fired; a bullet straight through their calf. Whumpee screamed, deciding that if their cover had already been blown, it didn't matter anymore.
"I'm asking one last time." The rifle was put to their temple again. "Who sent you?"
Whumpee said nothing. A dead hostage was no hostage, and Whumpee knew that well. They were essentially calling the bluff with their silence. And sure enough, the rifle was lowered.
"Alright," said the enemy, and they stepped back. "Tie 'em up and bring me the bottle of water."
Whumpee was wrestled onto their stomach, arms wrenched behind their back, tied tightly with coarse ropes. Then they were manhandled onto their back, and one of them put a cloth over their face. Waterboarding. A classic. Whumpee had been trained how to withstand it, so surely, this would be a walk in the park—
The water came down on their face, cold and uncomfortable. They were drowning. They couldn't breathe. Stop. Stop. Stop.
The water stopped, and Whumpee gasped for air. The cloth was still sticking to their face, restricting some of their breathing, but at least they weren't actively drowning.
"Who sent you?" came the same question, and Whumpee knew they likely weren't going to make it out of this forest alive.
No answer.
More water.
Whumpee gasped. They had been trained for this, and yet it was just as unbearable every single time as that very first time Leader had done it to them.
"Who sent you?"
Whumpee didn't consider themself defiant. Others might've spat insults at their torturers, or taunts, but they were of the mind that silence was sufficient for the job — no need to make it intentionally harder on themself. They weren't defiant; they were just loyal to the team.
content: emotional whump, past trauma, past kidnapping
When Caretaker awoke, there was a strange, ominous feeling, a pit in their stomach. They ignored it.
They went to the bathroom, then to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Whumpee's bedroom door was still closed — sleeping in, as usual.
Around 10, Caretaker was starting to feel like they couldn't ignore the feeling anymore. They didn't want to bother Whumpee, but they decided to knock on their door anyway.
"Whumpee? Breakfast's ready."
No response.
The worst came to the forefront of their mind immediately. What if Whumpee had done something to themself? Their depression was worst during the night.
"Whumpee?"
They pushed the handle down, and the door opened; revealing an empty room, with a bed unmade.
"Oh no," Caretaker breathed. Whumper had come back. They had taken Whumpee.
But there was no sign of a break-in, and the window was locked from the inside. How had Whumper gotten in?
Another, possibly less nefarious but equally soul-crushing option popped into their head. What if Whumpee... left? Of their own accord?
Was Caretaker that unbearable?
They slowly walked into the room, searching for any sign that Whumpee had left on their own. A note, a goodbye message, anything. There was nothing.
Should they call the police and report a kidnapping? Or did Whumpee disappear without wanting to be found?
content: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, lady whump, lady whumpee, past noncon, past trauma, slut-shaming, child whumpee, threat of self-harm, restraints, broken bones mention, minor whump, grooming a child to be okay with torture and participate in it
It had been seven years.
Two months of Errol trying to get her pregnant.
Eight of carrying the child.
And about six years of the baby being trained like some sort of attack dog.
Adela hadn't gone to kindergarten, because Errol wanted to keep her home as long as possible. And with enough money, you could do basically anything you want. She would've been homeschooled as well, starting this year, but Sheila managed to shed enough tears and beg him pitifully to let Adela attend a real school. She wasn't equipped to teach her at home, and she wanted Adela to interact with other kids her age instead of hanging around Errol and his 'friends'.
It turned out to be a bad idea.
Adela came home from her first day of school with red, puffy eyes, and she slammed the front door so hard that Sheila jumped. "Adela?" she called, and her daughter walked into the living room and threw her schoolbag on the floor.
"I'm never going back!" she cried. Sheila was by her side in an instant.
"Adela, sweetie, what happened? Did someone say something to you?"
"It's your fault!" she went on. Sheila was taken aback. "Everyone knows you're a whore!"
How Adela even knew that word, Sheila didn't understand. And what… what even was this about? How did people know something like that, when it wasn't true? "Sweetie, let's sit down."
"I don't want to sit with you!"
"Please, let's sit."
Adela huffed and puffed but eventually took a seat on the couch. Sheila sat next to her. "Can you explain what you think a 'whore' is?"
"Someone like you! Who had sex super young and got pregnant! Everyone knows that's what you did, everyone calls you a whore, everyone says I'm gonna become a whore too!"
Rape culture was well and good, Sheila thought distantly. Victim blaming too. She didn't have a choice. Errol had made the decision that as a forty-year-old man he would go after her, a teen, and get her pregnant. She didn't have a choice. She couldn't run. She couldn't fight off someone twice her size. She couldn't abort when Adela was just a little fetus in her womb. She didn't have a choice in any of it.
"A 'whore' is a bad word used to describe sex workers," Sheila said as calmly as she could. "Sex workers are people who offer sexual services for money. Did I do that?"
"I don't know."
"I didn't. Will you do that?"
"No!"
"Then you won't be a 'whore'. But that's a bad word, Adela. Derogatory. Do you know what that means?"
Adela shook her head.
"It means it belittles those it's used against. Do you want to belittle others? Do you want to belittle me?"
Adela looked away. Fresh tears trickled down her cheeks. "It's your fault. All of it is your fault."
Sheila's heart was breaking for her. Errol had ruined both of their lives. Speaking of Errol, she wouldn't have been surprised to learn he had planted the seed in the kids' heads about her, that he somehow played a role in everyone knowing she was a teen mum.
But maybe the most horrible aspect of all of this was seeing how Adela looked at her with less and less love as the days passed. She didn't outright say she wanted to belittle Sheila, but Sheila wasn't sure she would've said no. Her outbursts were becoming more and more frequent as well.
"I can go in and talk to your homeroom teacher about bullying," Sheila offered.
"Yeah, right. And make it worse. I dealt with it."
Sheila froze. There was something about how she said that that made her afraid. "You dealt with it?"
"Yes."
"How, sweetie?"
"I pushed Claudio off the stairs when we were going to recess. Nobody saw it was me, I made it look like he just tripped and fell. Nobody believed him when he said he was pushed."
"Adela, that's… That's not a good thing to do."
Adela reached down and pulled something small out of her sock. It was a Swiss blade. "I could've used this. I will if he says something again."
Sheila snatched the Swiss blade right out of her daughter's hand. "Adela! Are you insane?" She regretted saying that as soon as the words left her mouth. But she was so flabbergasted, she was so— terrified.
"Give that back! Daddy gave that to me!"
"You're not getting it back! I'm putting this away, and you're definitely not bringing it to school, and you're most definitely not hurting others with it!"
"Claudio deserves it!"
"We're going over to Claudio's house right now, and you're going to apologise for pushing him down the stairs!"
"We can't."
"What?"
"Claudio's not home."
"Where— where is he?"
"In the hospital. He broke his arm when he fell."
Sheila closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. There was no remorse in Adela's voice. She didn't even know why she expected it, after all of this. "Okay. I'm going to school with you tomorrow, and we'll see if Claudio comes. If he does, and if he's dropped off by his mother, we'll talk to them."
"I'm not talking to him."
"You are, and you will admit to what you did, and you will apologise."
"Daddy wouldn't make me do this!" Adela snapped. "Daddy would be proud that I dealt with it on my own, without any help from any of you!"
"Well, Daddy isn't home. So unfortunately, you're stuck with the worse parent."
"Yeah, a whore parent."
Adela was too young for discussions of rape, Sheila told herself for the hundredth time. This wasn't the time to explain it. It wasn't. No matter how much she wanted to defend herself, this just wasn't the time. "Grab your bag and go to your room. I'm not taking you out of school just because you had one bad first day. You're going back tomorrow."
"Just wait until Daddy comes home."
"I don't care what Daddy says!" she snapped back, and once again, she regretted it as soon as she'd done it. She took another deep breath. "Daddy and I disagree on most things. I don't doubt he will be excited to hear this story of yours, but that doesn't mean what you did was right."
Just then, the front door opened. Errol walked in.
"Daddy!" Adela jumped off the couch and ran over to him to give him a big hug. She didn't hug Sheila anymore. "Mommy is being really mean to me! But I know you won't be! Can we go out?"
"No," Sheila said from the couch.
"Why does Mommy have your knife?" Errol asked when he saw her holding it.
"She took it away!"
Errol gave her a look. Sheila didn't care. He admired her strong will and personality so much, she would get a piece of it today. "I took it away because she threatened to hurt a classmate with it. Which, I assume you'd agree, is bad."
"Well, what did that classmate do?"
"He called Mommy a whore and said I'd grow up to be a whore as well!" Adela said, filling him in. "But I dealt with it. I pushed him down the stairs and he broke his arm. I made it look like an accident."
Errol ruffled her hair. "That's my girl."
Of course he would do that. Adela was beaming now, tears long forgotten. "Can we go out now?" she repeated, and Sheila wanted to tear her hair out. She hated these outings. She hated the violence Adela was exposed to, ever since she was a baby. She hated that her daughter was growing up to be cruel. "I can chain Mommy up for you."
Sheila's eyes widened. Adela had never said that before. "Adela—"
"I think that's a good idea," Errol cut in. "Bring me the chains and the lock."
Adela ran off. Errol walked over to her, still sitting on the couch, and grabbed her wrist, twisting the knife out of it. "This is Adela's, I believe," he said with a smirk. "So I'm giving it back to her."
"You're raising a monster," she hissed.
"I got it!" Adela yelled as she ran back into the room with the chains and lock.
"Good. To the radiator, just like I do," Errol instructed, and Adela walked over and grabbed Sheila by the hand to lead her to it.
"Come on, Mommy."
Sheila wasn't moving. She wasn't about to be chained to the radiator by her own child. With her dad's approval.
"Mommy!" she repeated, and Sheila recognised it as the beginning of a temper tantrum.
"Mommy doesn't want to be chained," she said calmly. "And Mommy doesn't want you to keep going out with Daddy."
Adela turned to Errol. Errol looked back at her in a sort of 'well, what will you do now?' way. He wanted to test her. Whether she could do what she'd set out to do.
Adela began crying. "Mommy doesn't love me!" she bawled. Sheila knew this was an attempt at emotional manipulation — Adela knew well that she hated so see her cry, and would indulge her when it happened. But not this time.
"Mommy loves you very much, sweetie, but I won't be chained."
Adela kept weeping and tugging on her hand for a few minutes, and while Sheila's heart was breaking, she wasn't budging. The tears stopped almost in an instant when Adela realised they weren't working. It was scary.
"Daddy?" Adela asked.
"Yes, sweetheart."
"Give me my knife."
Sheila's heart was racing as she watched Errol hand her the knife. Adela made the blade pop out, and Sheila was about to get up and literally run out of the room— when Adela placed the blade against her own arm. "If you won't let me chain you up, I'll hurt myself, Mommy."
Sheila just sat there. Bewildered. Reeling. Before she knew it, she stood up and walked with Adela to the radiator. Adela chained her right hand to it, then popped the lock in place. Then, she put the Swiss blade back into her unicorn pattern sock.
"Good job, Adela," Errol praised, and Sheila was too shocked to say a word. "Now, let's go. I'll buy you some ice cream on the way."
"Mommy said I need to apologise to Claudio," Adela said in a tone that was so clearly looking for her dad to completely contradict Sheila and get her out of the obligation.
"The kid who said those awful things? Oh, no, sweetheart. You did what you had to do. Kid had it coming."
"Yay!" she said, bouncing after Errol. "I love you, Daddy."
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