Writing & whumping

The first spin of the bottle picks the Whumper, then next the whumpee. Then 7 minutes free rein, aside from any hard boundaries the Whumpers have set (no blood, no marks, no severe damage, or just no killing them)

A pair of caretakers goes in under cover, and has to decide who will play the whumpee and who will play the whumper.

-Caretaker gently carrying a spider or other creepy crawly out into the garden instead of squashing it gives the Whumpee who was always considered expendable a lump in their throat.

-Caretaker having a “scary” dog breed like a Pitt bull or Rottweiler but treating it like a pet and lapdog, loving on it instead of training it to attack. Living Weapon Whumpee watches hopefully from their spot standing guard as the dog lays its head in Caretakers lap.

-Caretaker fixing their old beater of a car instead of getting a new one, even though they could afford it, and the Whumpee who was replaced after get hurt/making a mistake/getting too old/etc feels a sense of overwhelming relief.

-Caretaker feeding and watching over a feral stray cat from a distance, never trying to trap it or get too close, just making sure it’s okay. Stoic/defiant Whumpee not letting themselves think about how that makes them feel. Also, if/when Caretaker has to catch and treat the stray because it’s gotten injured or sick, realizing that that’s what Caretaker had been doing for them. They just were too scared to understand.

-Caretaker oiling and polishing their tools, putting them away carefully, taking pains that they were well taken care of and would last forever. Mentioning offhandedly that if you take care of your tools, they’ll take care of you. Slave Whumpee nodding emphatically, hoping that mindset extends to them as well.

But this new one underestimated how much had changed, how much they had unlearned and relearned, like bones broken and reset.

That first slap was a starting gun.

it's their birthday.

everything goes a little hazy around the edges, and they tongue at their cheeks, reaching out to taste metal that's not there, shoulders hunched in against invisible ropes. they crawl beneath the wide-legged bed. they're small enough to do so.

when caretaker comes looking for them, it doesn't really register. someone's there, and it has to be whumper. someone's screaming nearby.

whumper leaves. the scream fades away as they realise that they're the one who's been tearing their throat out. they curl into themselves. whumper will come again, soon. maybe with the hot poker. they shudder at the thought, unsaid apologies stinging their tongue as they crawl out. they don't want to be hurt even worse due to struggling. whumper would probably make it a game— a twisted version of whack-a-mole involving lots of burns.

when someone enters the room again, they don't scream. they remain pressed up to the furthest corner, knees folded to their chest. whumper is saying something, in strange soft tones. they can't hear any of it.

when whumper reaches out to grab them, instead of a bruising grip they're met with a hesitant touch. whumpee looks up. caretaker is crouched in front of them, looking wildly concerned. whumpee blinks. breathes. breaks down crying, eagerly climbing into caretaker's lap, held close and cradled tight as they smear tears and snot all over caretaker's nice, clean clothes. they aren't told off for it.

later when they've calmed down, caretaker asks them, "what happened, dear?" and they don't want to be hurt but it's out before they can stop it, "it's my birthday."

caretaker looks bemused, before they smile wide and wish them a very happy birthday. whumpee is taken aback. "would you like to bake a cake?" caretaker offers, careful not to push, to not break the fragile peace.

whumpee was expecting to be told what a misfortunate day today is. they were expecting a muzzle tight over their face to thwart screaming and biting and crying, ropes to prevent their kicking and scratching. they were expecting to be shoved in some closet, for the shame of being born.

they stare at caretaker, waiting for some forthcoming joke. when none comes, they agree, wary.

so, caretaker bakes a cake with them. it is sweet and soft and delicious. they're given a set of crayons as a "birthday gift". they draw and draw and draw, confused and marveling at the colors.

they breathe. and breathe some more, deeply, trying to dispel the lump in their throat. they can't cry, they can't. they don't want to hurt more, and their head already hurts— crying only makes it worse. they only miss— before, before it all happened. the simplicity of that pain was easy. this is not. this wants people and it wants to sleep without nightmares and it wants so much more than they can have or deserve.