When the whumpee just finished a fight, and they think they’re fine, but then one of their teammates hugs them, and pain explodes from their ribs. The whumpee making a pained noise, but being too exhausted to try to pull away, and slumping in their teammates arms. Their teammate being so startled that they almost dropping them, but managing to gently lower them to the ground as they ask the whumpee what’s wrong. The whumpee gasping out something about their ribs, and their teammate lifting the whumpee’s shirt to find the start of what will become some dramatic bruises. The teammate being so worried that they immediately scoop the whumpee up as gently as possible, and carry them off to find a medic to help them.
Warnings: lady whumpee with male whumper, selective mutism, stalking, creepy/intimate whumper, choking, broken ribs, burns
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It’s been a week since Devin’s birthday party. Six days since she received the texted photo from Oliver. She hasn’t gotten anything else from him, but she’s barely been able to touch her phone all week for fear that she would.
It took her a couple of days before she could speak at all, and even now the ability comes and goes seemingly at random. Today, the very first day that she’s ventured out of the house since the party, she managed to force out enough words to order her favorite mocha at the coffee shop where she does a large portion of her illustrating. Now she stands close to the pick-up counter, carefully angled where she can see the door without looking like she’s staring at everyone who walks in.
“Caddy!” The baristas here are about fifty/fifty on getting the pronunciation of her name right, but she doesn’t ever correct them. She waits until they’ve walked away from the counter before sliding in and picking up her drink, then weaves through the tables to one of her usual spots in the back corner.
It takes her a while to be able to focus on the sketches on her tablet. She keeps glancing up every few seconds, watching the door, checking all the tables to make sure she hasn’t missed anyone new coming in and that everyone is involved in their own work and conversations rather than paying attention to her.
Eventually, though, an idea sparks, and she lets the soothing rhythm of drawing pull her in. Her stylus strokes out black lines, and for a moment, she doesn’t have to think. She can just be.
“Cadence!”
Her hand jerks across the screen, leaving a bold streak behind it, as her whole body seizes up. It’s not you it’s not you it’s not you it’s not you. Her old name is unusual, yes, but she’s not the only one in the world who has it. It takes every bit of will she can muster to not turn around and see who is picking up the drink, forcing herself instead to tap the ‘undo’ button and erase her mistake.
“Oliver!”
All of the sounds of the café become muted around her. She can’t breathe. It’s like he’s already here, his hand clamped around her throat.
There’s no way those two names, that close together, are a coincidence.
She knows it, but that doesn’t mean she quite believes her eyes when he slides onto the bench across from her, a pleasant smile on his face as if meeting an old friend, and sets one cup in front of her while taking a sip from the other.
“Toasted White Chocolate Mocha. I thought yours might be running low by now.”
He can’t be here. He can’t be here. This is her spot, her safe place.
But he is.
“Personally I prefer a little less sweet, but it doesn’t surprise me that you’re the type who doesn’t like to taste the coffee in their coffee.” He takes another drink, grey-blue eyes always boring into her.
She’s not sure whether her stylus is still in her hand or not. Everything feels both far away and too close at the same time.
Are people staring at them? She feels like everyone in the room should be noticing that something is extremely, terribly wrong at the little booth in the corner, but logically she knows that they just look like two ordinary people, catching up over coffee. There’s no way of telling that one is a sadistic maniac and the other, his victim.
“You’ve been hiding this week. I almost thought I was going to have to find a way to coax you out of the house.” He leans forward a little, eyes finally dropping from her face to glance at her tablet. “Been busy with the McIntyre project, I see.”
The fact that he knows not only the name of her client, but also recognizes the work she’s doing for them, doesn’t even surprise her at this point. She accepted long ago, the first time he had her, that he knew every detail about her life, and the past weekend made it pretty clear that he still does.
What do you want? she longs to scream, but even in a public space he’ll find some way to punish her for speaking. All she can do is sit, frozen, eyes drying out from not blinking enough, waiting for what he’s going to do to torment her next.
“I’ve missed you.”
His voice makes her want to shake apart into a million pieces.
“You know, it’s a little warm in here. Don’t you want to take off that scarf?” His smile grows wider, as if he’s made a hilarious joke.
It feels like it’s choking her all of a sudden. The bruises underneath have faded significantly, but there are still yellow and green streaks standing out from her skin. She assumes he’s being sarcastic, pointing out that he knows the reason she’s wearing it, but then he shifts positions and something touches her knee, making her jolt. It’s his shoe, and he’s applying pressure, crushing her knee back into the bench.
It takes her a second to figure out what he wants. Once she does, she quickly reaches up with numb fingers and loosens the scarf, tugging at the knot until it opens up and exposes her throat. He leans in with a little hum, studying it.
“Beautiful.” His shoe finally relents from her knee, the bones protesting as they relax back into place. That will likely be sore tomorrow. Another reminder of him she can wear on her body.
Leaning back again, he twists his cup on the table. “You’re not drinking your mocha.”
Immediately she picks it up and takes a sip. Despite being fresher and hotter than the last, it tastes like ash in her mouth.
What do you want? She knows the answer already. He wants to torment her, to make sure she knows that he still owns her, even in her daily routine. As if she could ever forget.
“Pack up your tablet and go to the restroom.”
It takes the words a moment to compute, but she obeys quickly, sliding the tablet into its case with trembling hands, tucking it back into her shoulder bag, then standing on weak legs. She leaves both coffee cups sitting there, only intent on getting to the restroom as ordered.
There are no stalls, only a single room, so she slips inside and tentatively locks the door behind her. She isn’t sure if she’s supposed to or not. She has no idea what his plan is, but she knows he has one. Every single inch of her body is alert, waiting, moments from panicking, her breaths coming far too quickly and her heart pounding. Is she supposed to be actually using the bathroom? She can’t make herself do it. Instead she just stands, stuck, in the middle of the small room, unable to figure out what to do next.
The minutes that she waits feel like hours. Eventually, there’s a knock on the door, sharp and demanding. She knows it’s him. She prays it’s not.
She unlocks the door and he immediately pushes it open, making her stumble backwards, and walks in carrying a single coffee cup, which he sets on the counter. Then he turns to face her, looking her up and down. Burning her with just his gaze. A hand comes out toward her, and she flinches. He slaps her across the face for it with the other hand, the first removing her bag from her shoulder and dropping it carelessly to the floor.
“These need refreshing.” It’s the only warning she gets before his hand is around her throat, for real this time. He backs her into the wall before beginning to slowly, steadily cut off more of her air.
It starts hurting quicker this time. Her already abused windpipe groans underneath the pressure of his hand, and tears automatically prick her eyes. He smiles when he sees them.
Just as she starts to get too dizzy to see anything, he releases just enough that she can suck in a painful gulp of air. He watches her struggle and choke for a moment, thumb stroking across her throat.
“Lift your shirt.”
It takes her a second longer than it should to comprehend the order, her mind still swirling from the lack of oxygen. She fumbles for the hem of her shirt and quickly pulls it up past his brand, knowing that’s what he wants to see.
Without letting go of her throat, he rips off the gauze that she’d taped over it, dropping them to the floor and running his fingers across the marks. “Mm. It’s healing well.” His hand slides over a bit, icy trails following it. “This still looks painful, though.”
The hand on her throat begins to tighten again as the one on her broken rib presses in. Pain shoots through her chest, but she can’t gasp or even whine with her air stolen away.
It goes on, for a few minutes or an eternity, she’ll never know. The ability to breathe comes and goes, she coughs and whimpers when she can, and tries not to pass out when she can’t. All the while, he pokes and prods at her broken rib. She can feel the bone moving. When coherent thoughts are even possible, she’s panicking about the possibility of a punctured lung, wondering if he actually knows how to not kill her.
At last he lets go, with one last stroke of his fingers down her throat, and steps back. She somehow manages to not fall down.
“I’ve got one more gift for you before I go.” He steps backwards, toward the sink. “Come here.”
It takes her a couple of tries to push herself up off the wall. The bathroom spins around her as she walks, making her stumble and have to pause a few times to keep from face planting.
As soon as she’s close enough, he grabs onto her right wrist and yanks her forward. Her hip bone slams into the countertop. He doesn’t have to hold her as tightly as he does, she wouldn’t try to get away, but she knows he enjoys trying to create as many bruises as possible.
“Got a fresh cup just for you.” He’s reaching for the coffee he left here earlier. She knows what’s coming, tears are already starting to stream down her cheeks, but there’s absolutely nothing she can do to stop it. Even if she could get out of his grasp and make it to the door before he caught her, which would never happen, she knows him. He’s rich, influential. No one would ever believe her over him, she’d be dragged through an ordeal where he’d do everything possible to humiliate her, then they’d go right back to where they are now, but with her friends involved because of her failure to remain silent and obedient.
“Now. If you scream, people are going to ask questions. We don’t want that, do we?” The way her wrist bones creak and grind together make it clear she’s supposed to shake her head in reply.
He pops the lid off, sets it neatly to the side. She can see the steam rising from the black liquid inside. There’s not enough time to fully prepare herself, probably never would be, her hand is already positioned over the sink, and -
It’s quick, at least. He doesn’t drag it out, just dumps the entire contents over the back of her hand. Somehow she doesn’t scream. She does bite a bleeding hole through her lip trying not to, though.
Her whole hand feels like it’s on fire. She chokes out a sob, then another, trembling hard and wishing he’d just let her go, let her turn on some cold water to run over it, the faucet is right there.
But of course he doesn’t. He pulls her hand up higher between them so that they can both admire the bright red skin, the way patches of it are already starting to puff up and pucker.
Then he finally drops it, but she still can’t do anything because he’s holding her face in his hands, brushing her disheveled hair back from her forehead and drawing patterns on her cheeks with her tears that won’t stop flowing. “There you go, my sweet. A little parting gift, to make sure you’ll be thinking about me all week.”
He steps back, picks up the coffee cup and crushes it before throwing it away. Then he smiles at her, eyes sparkling. “I’ll certainly be thinking about you. And I’ll be seeing you again very soon, don’t worry.”
Cadence clutches her injured hand and refuses to watch as he turns his back and leaves the room.
As soon as he’s gone she stumbles to the door and locks it, as if she wouldn’t immediately let him in again if he returned. Then she goes back to the sink, turning the cold water on full blast and shoving her hand underneath. It feels good despite being a few minutes too late. She still can’t stop crying. Her mind is whirling with replays of everything that just happened, with the knowledge that he’ll do this again and she won’t know when it’s coming, with wondering if she has aloe at home and what Janaysia and Devin are going to say about this, with the realization that there’s no possible way she’s going to be able to finish the McIntyre project on time now. She’ll have to call them. No, she won’t be able to call them. Any progress she’d made towards being able to carry on a conversation will be gone again now.
She wants to collapse on the bathroom floor and cry until she can’t cry anymore, but she can’t. She has to get out of here, she has to go home. So she shuts off the water, dries her cheeks, crouches down to clean up the bandages he’d dropped, tries to ignore the renewed pain in her ribs every time she breathes, picks up her bag, and deliberately does not look at herself in the mirror. Whatever anyone sees when she leaves, it doesn’t matter. She won’t be coming back to this coffee shop, anyway.
Whumpee wearing oversized hoodies/sweaters to hide the bandages and wraps covering their chest
White hot pain that explodes through their chest when they cough or sneeze and it makes their eyes burn with tears
They’re reminded how shallowly they’ve been breathing only when they spontaneously take a deep breath and the deep ache flares as they feel the bones shift
It hurts too much to even raise their arms so they’ve been in the same shirt for 3 days before someone notices.
Whumpee walking around with an arm gingerly cradling their side and randomly groaning under their breath
The adrenaline is wearing off, so when their companion playfully hits them in the side they gasp sharply, stop dead in their tracks and grab their friend as they double over in pain
Being forced to go to medical, sitting on the table and scowling at their friend while the nurse gently cuts off their shirt they weren’t able to remove, to expose the profuse bruising all down one side. Their friend’s face goes from peeved to sympathetically horrified in a heartbeat.
Even getting out of bed is a struggle but they’ll be damned if they ask for help for such a simple thing
This is just a little piece of experimentation writing, I had an idea and ran with it just to try out the Vibes. I had to give them names for it to feel right, I guess we’ll see if either of them show up again in the future. I wanted to try something here, starting with the small detail and slowly widening the lens… I like how it turned out!
Contents: aftermath of torture/interrogation, mob/crime type setting, hand whump, knives, guns, blood, threats, all that juicy stuff.
It hurts like hell as his hand is lifted—the mangled broken one with its cracked bones and dislocated joints—so the pad of his thumb can be pressed to the fingerprint scanner. Of course it’s the broken one that Blake uses, not the one that’s chained to the table leg.
Gil grits his teeth through every tiny shift, air whistles past his teeth as he hisses, almost a whine. And then he breathes, swallows, gets air into his lungs just in time to be able to gasp as his hand is laid back down on the surface of the table and the pain spikes all over again. There’s a gentle clunk in front of him and he opens his eyes to see his phone shining up at him.
“Now the passcode.”
He looks up, licks his lips. The handcuff rattles as he tries to raise his right hand. Blake holds his gaze, waiting perched on the edge of the table.
“The passcode.”
They’d asked for it before, but that was hours ago. Hours before the pain he’s in now. Long before he’d reached the point of caving in, willing to do this—to make it stop.
“Y-yeah, give me… yeah.” His voice is hoarse. He’s out of options, or at least out of options that don’t involve more pain.
It’s a special kind of agony to raise his hand and use the back of a knuckle to key in the four digit number. It aggravates the injuries, but it cuts deeper too. He knows he’s giving in; too weak to hold out. But wouldn’t anyone, after all this? He isn’t sure.
“Very good. See how easy this can be?”
He scowls, face twisting in disgust. Gets a laugh for it.
“I know, you have your orders, your principles to follow. Unfortunately so do I, it’s a shame they clash. I’m sure neither of us wants to be here.”
No, he doesn’t want to be here. Would walk out if he could, if his legs would even hold his weight after all the pain, the exhaustion.
“Not exactly my choice for a vacation, no,” he replies, stifling a cough as his lungs protest. Cracked rib, then. Or bruised at least. The chair squeaks under his weight, the legs crooked. His knee knocks against the table but it’s too solid to wobble. Had held his weight well enough while they worked him over.
Blake leans back, spreads his arms wide. “We do our best with what we have.”
And what they have is a pile of shit. Fuck all. Until now… until he gives them everything he has. Maybe not everything, he’ll have to see what he can hold on to. He takes a steadying breath. Pulls himself back from the points of pain in his body, into the room to focus on what he has to do next.
“Now, let’s go through this a bit at a time.” Blake swipes the phone and clicks around. “Contacts first, one by one. I show you a name or number, you tell me what their relation is to you and your operation. Understand?”
“Can I have some water?”
There’s a silent exchange between Blake and the man guarding the door. It’s thick and heavy–the door, and the man– off to the side near the corner, opening to a room longer than it is wide, but not by much. Not big enough for Gil’s screams to echo, but big enough that his eyes can wander over cracks and peeling paint on the walls. He snaps his attention back to Blake as he gets his answer.
“After you answer some questions, sure, then you can drink.”
His throat is like sandpaper, raw and rough. He bobs his head anyway. What else is he going to do?
“Of course you’d say anything right now to get this to stop, wouldn’t you?” Blake appraises him over the phone, the blue light glinting in his eyes. Makes him look even more unnerving, eerily otherworldly. But he’s only a man, he just happens to be a man on the winning side of this exchange.
Another hesitant lick of his lips. “I… no, I mean, I’m cooperating?”
“Right, sure.” The phone is waved around as Blake squints, thinking. “But even so, you know I’ll need to verify each thing you tell me, independently. You talk, we check, then we move on. I can’t take your word for anything under these conditions.”
These conditions. The ones where he’s ratting out everyone he knows. “I understand.”
“Great, so, first things first—your role. And your real name?”
He must hesitate a fraction of a second too long because there’s the distinct sound of a gun being cocked behind him, and the large man blocking his exit comes into his field of view. Finger casually held down the side of the barrel, gun turned slightly in his direction. He sinks down in his seat, bare feet sliding on the boards underneath—slick with blood. With other things.
Blake shakes his head, chuckles. “That’s not necessary, Crill. No, no death is not what’s going to motivate you right now is it?”
He clenches his jaw, rotates it, grinding his teeth. Took one too many hits to the face and it’s all swollen, bruised and hot. He shakes his head, or at least, he shakes.
“No, the threat of more pain, that’syour motivation.”
“You don’t need—” he starts, desperately, and is cut off as a large, sharp knife appears in Blake’s hand from the sheath at his hip. He follows it, can’t look away from it. “Please, come on, I won’t…”
“Won’t what? Talk?” The knife twirls, the point edges towards him, wobbles like a wagging finger.
“Won’t hold back!”
That gets a smile, the knife sidles closer, plucks at the collar of his shirt and swipes downwards slowly until the top button strains and then pops. He looses a breath with it as the button bounces out of sight, a whine stuck in his throat.
“I know,” Blake replies.
His shirt is already in tatters, burnt, ripped, soaked in blood. Not like he’s going to miss that one button but the casual destruction fills him with dread as Blake rounds the table, picks up a pad of paper and a pen. A second phone. Settles in like this is a business meeting. As if one person at the table hasn’t been brutalised, isn’t bleeding.
The morning light just peeking through the mesh covered window paints the entire scene in bleak, grey tones. A washed out horror show that he’s too tired to make sense of.
“Keep doing what I ask and we can relax while we wait for your stories to be corroborated.”
That makes him shudder. How can he relax like this, alone, haunted, hurt? His mind drifts out of the window. There’s an entire world waking up outside. Getting out of bed, eating, starting the day right. And yet he can’t wake up from the nightmare he was dragged into. He blinks, stupidly, trying to clear some of the haze from his mind. His wits are nowhere to be found, though. Must have bled out of him along with his screams.
That smile again, small, but so confident. “Let’s begin.”
Fao’s hands burned across his skin, barely conscious but unfortunately aware enough to feel the pain. His breath hitched, a quiet gasp of pain. The fog was too thick to fight through, unable to force his eyes open.
Fao took a step back, looking Harrison over as he called Steve. Harrison’s clothes were ripped and torn, drenched in blood. His face was swollen, his cheek obviously disfigured. His left arm was pointed in all different directions, and his hand, bloody and bruised, was tucked to his chest. With each breath his ribs shifted in different directions, grating and rubbing against each other. His legs were even worse; while his prosthesis was nowhere to be found, his other leg was so obviously broken, the bone sticking through the skin. There was too much blood, far too much blood.
Steve answered, on a break from theatres. “Fao, morning. What’s up?”
“I’ve found Hars.”
“Is he alright?” Something in Fao’s tone had already given him the answer.
Fao took a breath. “No, he's… He’s a state. He’s got a compound fracture to his left leg, his left arm is broken too. Ribs are… Well, ribs are fucked, and his prosthetic is gone.”
“Shit. Where are you? I’ll get Trauma out to you.”
“On the edge of our land. North edge.”
“Conscious?” Steve asked, turning to gesture at the receptionist as he scrawled instructions down. “Get as many obs as you can.”
“I’ve got no kit.”
“You’ve got your phone.”
“Hang on, then.”
Steve was worried beyond belief. With the trauma team alerted and starting to prepare, he had no choice but to head out to find Fao. He didn’t have all the equipment the team had, but he could do something. The car tyres spun as he rushed out, and he swore quietly, trying to keep the worry from overwhelming him.
On his knees next to Harrison, Fao carefully took as many obs as he could. It wasn’t a lot, and the numbers he was getting weren’t exactly comforting. The younger man was in a bad way, and there wasn’t much he could do about it either. He’d seen patients like this at work, overseas, but not without a kit, or a senior, or someone else. He was all alone, and there was nothing he could do other than try and stop the bleeding. He tugged his shirt off, the only thing he had to put pressure on, and the cool air made him shudder. He just had to hope Trauma found them soon.
Steve found them before the team did, lugging his bag as he ran. He could smell the blood a mile off, and it made his stomach turn. It didn’t smell good at all.
“Steve!” Fao called, catching sight of the other man.
“Fao. Thank God I’ve found you. North edge is a lot of land.” He gave the other man a forced smile as he knelt to assess Harrison. “Fucking hell.”
“Sorry. Was out running, wasn’t exactly keeping track of where I was.” He murmured. “He’s not good, tachy and his resps are shocking. Think he’s just conscious, but he slips in and out. I’ve done my best with the bleeding, but…”
Steve nodded. “Did a good job. Grab some kit and keep going.” He rested a gentle hand on Harrison’s cheek. “Stay with us, okay? We’ve got you. Just hold on.”
Wiping his bloody hands on his shorts, Fao reached for the kit. “How far out is trauma?”
“Too far.” He leaned back on his haunches. “Do as much as you can. I’ll bring the truck, we’ll get him back to the clinic. It’s not enough, but it’ll have to do.” Steve didn’t have much of a choice. They either tried to get him to the clinic, or he’d die in the dirt. At least they’d know they’d done their best.
“Redirect trauma there? They can meet us.” Fao muttered. “To think I thought Afghanistan was bad. Fucking hell.”
“Exactly. It’s the same distance for them.”
“Saves them wasting time looking for us.”
He nodded as he stood. “I’ll be five minutes. Just keep doing what you’re doing. Keep him…” He trailed off, gave Fao a nod and ran off again.
“Yeah, got it.” Fao replied, not even looking up.
As Fao pressed hard against a wound, Harrison let out a quiet groan, struggling to breathe against the pain.
“I know, Tomcat, I know. We’ve got you.”
Steve returned as quick as he could, backing the truck as close as he could get. He jumped out and lowered the back. “We okay?”
“Well, that depends on your definition of ‘okay’.” Fao muttered. “We’re the same.”
“I’ll take that as okay. Help me get him in?”
“Yeah. Ready?”
“As careful as we can.”
Despite their soft hands, the movement jolted Harrison. He screamed in pain, trying to pull away from them.
They didn’t stop as Harrison screamed, quickly getting him in the back of the truck. Fao kept the kit close by, and then hopped up next to him. “You drive, yeah? I can try and keep him stable back here.”
“Thanks. Just shout if you need anything.” Steve told him, before he started the car and sped off. He kept glancing in the rearview, praying to a god he no longer believed in. He couldn’t lose Harrison again.
It was a job to stay upright as Steve sped through the territory, and Fao tried his best to keep Harrison stable. He just had to make it to the clinic, they had more there, he’d have a better shot at helping him there.
Steve had managed to source a couple of people to help out, some staff already working and others called in for the emergency. They met him at the clinic entrance, trauma board ready.
It was a smooth and practiced transition, getting Harrison into the theatre and everything connected. He barely made a noise, the pain finally too distant to hurt him. As Fao had found, his reps were through the roof, as was his heart rate. His sats were awful, and the blood pressure kept cycling, refusing to give a number.
It was impossible to find a vein through the swelling and bruising, their limited options quickly exhausted. They weren’t left with much else of a choice when Steve grabbed the kit, turned Harrison’s head to the side and apologised to the younger wolf. It was luck, pure luck that he managed it, the cannula flushing back and ready.
“Let’s get him out.”
Fao had been turning the room upside down, looking for meds and kit that they’d need. Induction drugs were already laid out, and he handed them to Steve. They didn’t have a massive stock of human meds, but they kept enough.
“Have we got blood to transfuse?”
“We’re getting it. Has to be wolf.”
“He needs it now.”
“Fluids are up.”
“Fluids won’t be enough.” Fao said. “I can donate, right?”
“I need you treating, Fao.”
“I can do both. Bloods out, fluids in, I can treat.”
“No.”
“How long will bloods take at this rate?”
“Fao, I need a chest drain in.”
“I’m on it.” He muttered, though it was hard. His landmarks were fucked, ribs shifting under his touch, bone grating on bone. Muttering under his breath in a mix of English and Gaelic, he made his incision and hurriedly passed the tube in. It was more blood for him to lose, Fao all too aware he’d need more, and soon.
Steve glanced over at Fao’s work, mentally ticking it off. He gave it a moment to work, blood pouring through the tube, but it didn’t help. Harrison had reached his limit, his body had started to give up and was starting to decompensate.
“Right, fuck it. Fao, blood.”
“I can’t cannulate myself.” He muttered. “I’ve tried.”
One of he techs grabbed him, steering him to a chair. Fao’s veins were shit, everyone knew that, but Harrison’s life was on the line. No time for niceties, they cannulated as quick as they could.
Fao didn’t fuss, and he was glad when everything was in. It was made easier by his run, the way he was completely on edge, still so hot and strsssed. Better warm than freezing cold. He’d managed to throw on a scrub top now, and they set up to transfuse.
Steve wasn’t happy with the set-up, but it was dirty medicine. Not everything could be perfect all the time. As long as it worked, it didn’t matter.
Fao didn’t like it either, but he didn’t have a choice. If it would stabilise Harrison, it would buy them time.
Their hail Mary worked. Finally they got a blood pressure from Harrison. It was terrible, of course, and ready to bottom out again, but it was there. Slowly things started to stabilise again, allowing Steve to take a breath.
More blood was pushed, as was the sedation, and they gradually clawed back some control. Blood was still pouring from the chest drains, and Steve was sure there were more internal bleeds. It wasn’t something he was happy opening on his table, so he just hoped Trauma would hurry up.
With Harrison out, they also put his leg back in place. It was a struggle, and they weren’t sure how long it had been out. He was already at high risk for infection, and that just made it a million times worse. They knew if he made it through all this, it was going to be a long recovery. Nerve damage, chronic pain, and poor mobility threatened his recovery. Steve wasn’t sure he’d make it through it. He wasn’t convinced there wasn’t going to be another amputation.
Let’s lay this one out right now: this post is talking about uncomplicated rib fractures, not ones that puncture the underlying lung, or have concomitant damage to underlying organs (like the liver). This is not here to talk about flail chest.
“Broken Rib” = “cracked rib” = “nondisplaced rib fracture”. The only difference is, “broken rib” can also refer to a shattered rib, or a rib that’s sticking into the lung, but for the purposes of this article, this post is here to talk about a pure, simple, straight-up broken rib or three. Otay? Otay.
Causes: Primarily Blunt Trauma
Broken ribs can be a side effect of a gunshot, of course, but they’re usually a product of some form of blunt trauma, whether that’s getting thrown a blanket party or getting bounced off a wall, or landing awkwardly from a fall, or getting punched with brass knuckles, or hit by an angry old man with a cane. The middle ribs–those in the middle of the chest–are typically the ones that get fractured.
Billy Badbones Gets Beaten
It’s a trope played out time and time again: Billy Badbones is Bad to the Bone. And by that I mean, some jackass has taken a bat to Billy’s chest from behind. He feels something crunch in his chest as the bat collides. (Or maybe he dumps his motorcycle, or falls off a climbing wall onto an inconvenient rock.)
….okay maybe don’t fall off your motorcycle naked. I’m just saying. (Who even MADE that gif….?)
ANYWAY. Billy tries to be a real Bad-butt, but after his breathing grows progressively worse, he finally bites the bullet and goes to the hospital. Where his doctor looks at his shiny chest x-ray, and tells him….
“Billy Badbones, you broke your ribs.”
Great! So…. now what?
Typically, Billy won’t need surgery (or splinting)
It is possible to have broken ribs threaten the lung or underlying tissue, or be so displaced that they need to be surgically repaired. But typically, there’s no need to surgically repair ribs; most rib fractures are nondisplaced (the bone ends stay put).
As for splinting–putting a belt or a binder on the chest–it’s actually a bad idea. On the one hand, it reduces motion and thus reduces pain. On the other hand, it contributes to the potentially-fatal complication of pneumonia, because the lungs can’t really move air (or gunk) around. So rib fractures aren’t splinted.
First: Pain. He will have lots.
Broken ribs are painful. They hurt. They hurt because, unlike other fractures, they can’t be splinted. It used to be common practice to tie a belt over the rib, or splint it, but we found out that doing so actually increases the likelihood that Billy will get pneumonia. So there’s no splinting. It’s rare to need surgery for “just” a broken rib or two, especially if the rib doesn’t threaten the underlying lung.
But that doesn’t mean it won’t hurt, because it will. The ER doctor has a number of options for treating pain. An especially effective combination would be a nerve block–an analgesic like lidocaine injected in such a way as to numb the nerve for the affected rib(s) for 12-24 hours–plus something like Percocet for the first 3-7 days, and then probably high-dose ibuprofen after that.
Of course, in America we throw narcotics at everything that moves, so he might be on the Percocet for months; he may even develop a nasty addiction. But that’s neither here nor there.
Billy will also be given a set of discharge instructions, including how to care for his ribs. He’ll have to do some deep breathing or coughing exercises every couple of hours, and he’ll be encouraged to do light activity, like walking. A good set of instructions can actually be found here: https://medlineplus.gov/ency/patientinstructions/000539.htm.
Sleep May Be Hard At First; Coughing and Sneezing Will Be Hell
A lot of people with broken ribs describe issues surrounding falling asleep, especially if they typically sleep on the same side as the affected rib(s). This is usually because of pain.
Meanwhile, involuntary motion of the chest, like coughing or sneezing, are gonna suck. They’ll hurt, badly, for some time, but most especially during the first two weeks. (Hate your character? Make them break their rib during allergy season!)
Rehab is Deep Breathing and Coughing.
But didn’t you just say that’s what will hurt? Why yes, yes I did. However, the chest wall needs to get its flexy back, and deep breathing and coughing help the lung’s immune system attack invaders. So it’s important, not just for healing but for preventing pneumonia, that Billy do some exercises where he coughs and takes deep breaths every couple of hours.
As he heals this will hurt less and less, but at first he may need to time his pain medication to when he’s about to do his rehab (probably 30 minutes before for peak effect). He’ll also be encouraged to hold a pillow against the broken ribs while he does this one.
Exercise: He can do some (but not a whole lot) (at first)
Like we said above, walking is encouraged, but nothing strenuous involving the chest for at least a month, especially not lifting weights, fighting demon spawn, or saving the world. Running is also a terrible idea, because the impact of foot-vs-ground travels much further than you realize, biomechanically speaking, and he’ll feel every step in his ribs. It might be something he tries once, early in his recovery, and doesn’t try again for quite some time.
Honestly, his pain tolerance will say a lot about his ability to exercise while healing. Exercise can generally be taken as tolerated, but pain is a powerful motivator to not do something.
Now, this is where drama and reality butt heads. The truth is that you will likely need Billy back on his feet sooner rather than later. This is fine–again, he can walk, probably drive (unless the narcotics make him woozy), think, talk on the phone, etc. And he can do a little physical activity–but pain can be dramatically useful too. He might start chasing a bad guy only to find he simply can’t run that far without wanting to die from pain like fireworks going off in his chest.
Best-Case Recovery Time: 6 Weeks, More If He’s A Moron
Gradually, as the bone heals, he’ll get stronger, but it will take about 6 weeks to fully heal. Some people take less, as low as 4, but realistically it’s 6. And some people have significant pain long after, especially if they’re pushing themselves too hard. Walking is okay, but running is not; lifting of heavy things should take at least a month off.
But what protagonist has a freaking month to not pick up heavy things, or shoot a gun (remember, recoil is a bitch), or move a couch?! Billy is an active guy, okay?!
Yeah, well, Billy is setting his recovery back something fierce, and hurting himself A LOT in the process.
Pitfalls, and How to Avoid Them
I think the biggest pitfall to writing rib fractures is that often times, writers forget that they injured their characters. Wherever you keep your notes, put a big note: Billy Badbones – Broken ribs – EVERYTHING HURTS!
Think about doing the thing you are going to have your character do in the first few weeks after the fracture. Does it involve heavy breathing? IT WILL HURT, and probably prevent them from doing it. Billy Badbones WILL NOT BE BONING HIS GIRLFRIEND for at least a couple weeks. It will hurt him way, way too much.
So that about wraps up rib fractures!
All of this is, I hope, useful for helping you write better broken ribs. It’s all subject to the Disclaimer, of course, but I think we all knew that by now, didn’t we?
Warnings: lady whumpee with male whumper, selective mutism, stalking, creepy/intimate whumper, choking, broken ribs, burns
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It’s been a week since Devin’s birthday party. Six days since she received the texted photo from Oliver. She hasn’t gotten anything else from him, but she’s barely been able to touch her phone all week for fear that she would.
It took her a couple of days before she could speak at all, and even now the ability comes and goes seemingly at random. Today, the very first day that she’s ventured out of the house since the party, she managed to force out enough words to order her favorite mocha at the coffee shop where she does a large portion of her illustrating. Now she stands close to the pick-up counter, carefully angled where she can see the door without looking like she’s staring at everyone who walks in.
