#whump scenario
The Whumpee’s eyes open, but they see nothing. It takes a few moments to orient themselves as they realize they are blindfolded and sat in a hard chair, wrists bound behind them and ankles bound to its legs. The chair creaks as they shift their weight, but it’s the sound of something else that they fixate on. Slight, small tick tick ticks. The squeezing noise of latex gloves. The sound of careful breaths in and out that belong to someone else in the room. “That’s annoying,” the Whumpee says aloud. The Whumper is sat at a workbench with a single warm light cast over a dismantled and very old looking compass. Their gloved hands hold the watch and a small tool, and they take their eyes off it just for a moment to give a fleeting glance at the Whumpee. “You weren’t good to your friend here,” the Whumper states plainly. The Whumpee snorts. “You giving out lessons on how to be good to your friends?” The Whumper continues picking at the compass and pulls it apart piece by piece. “Some people find these sounds soothing, you know,” they say as they lay each of the tiny pieces down with soft clacks on their wooden workbench. “Me included.” The Whumpee shifts again in their chair and the realization dawns on them as to what the Whumper has taken. The Whumper continues. “Maybe something to do with watching people work when you were little. Reassuring guidance. Expertise.” The Whumper lifts the small plate marked with cardinal directions and holds it beneath the light. “Someone to show you the way.” They lower it and look again at the Whumpee, this time for longer as they notice the Whumpee’s battered body start to become tense. The Whumper shakes their head as if disappointed. “You’re the very picture of a person who’d walk around with a broken compass.”
An icy wind whips across the churned rows of dirt in a farm’s field. The Whumpee’s fists grasp the terrain as they tremble on all fours, collapsed to the ground just seconds before. The Whumper stands over them, their own heavy coat billowing around their figure while the Whumpee shivers in their lighter clothes. The Whumper sees the Whumpee’s hands in the soil and their stoic face twists a little as they feel a rush of pride. “Tilled it myself this year. My daddy and my daddy’s daddy tilled theirs too.” The Whumpee leans their weight forward onto their hands as they spit blood onto the ground. “There,” they say. “Watered it for ya.” The Whumper walks ahead and kneels next to them, and defies the Whumpee’s expectations by laying a gentle hand onto the back of their neck. They hold it there like someone about to grab a dog by the scruff of their neck, but instead decides to caress them. “Do you think we were all born knowing how to make things grow? Like it’s some kind of innate knowledge that everyone has, like some instinct that any person with some dirt and some seeds and some time can make this happen?” The Whumper pauses, and so do their fingers on the Whumpee. “Or do you know the truth that someone needs to show you? Needs to teach you the hard way?” At these words the Whumper opens their grasp and squeezes the Whumpee’s neck hard, lifting them slowly up from the ground. “Needs to work you until your hands bleed, and your muscles scream, and push you until you can’t take it anymore.” The Whumper’s teeth are gritting so hard as they speak that they sound like they might break. They flip the Whumpee over and hold their upper body above the ground while their lower half drags limply. The Whumpee struggles to breathe as they face the night sky while the Whumper continues. “The way this land is. The way I am. It ain’t instinct, boy. I’ve had many teachers.” They hiss their last words: “And I’m not done teaching you your lesson.”
The Whumper’s hand hovers over a full wine glass as they stand and look at it thoughtfully, torn about whether to let their grasp close around it. The Whumpee watches them from where they sit in the room - unbound but still captive. The Whumper’s hand eventually touches the rim of the glass but then releases it as though it were white hot. This makes the Whumpee laugh. The Whumper looks at them, which makes the Whumpee laugh even more. Their formerly split lip threatens to open again, their rib cage is sore from being beaten, but in spite of it all - they laugh. “I’m sorry,” the Whumpee says as they try to compose themselves. “I just… I see it now.” The Whumper’s eyes lower again to the glass and they look at the reflection of the overhead lighting in the deep red mirror of the liquid. “See what?” The Whumpee tries to smother a smile. “What you like about it. Seeing me… cower.” The Whumpee clenches and unclenches their fist as they speak, their body confused by the surreal feeling of alluding to their ongoing trauma aloud. “I see now in your eyes - by the way your fear manifests - I see why you like it so much.” The Whumper rests their hand on the table next to the glass without touching it. “You’re right. I am afraid. But not for me.” They grab the glass and lift it to their mouth, drinking the liquid inside without savouring it, then resting the glass back on the table with the lightest of hollow clacks. “For who then?” the Whumpee asks. The Whumper grabs the bottle and starts to refill the glass. “You’ll have to see, won’t you?”
The Caretaker’s eyes widen as they see who has stepped out from the darkness surrounding both themselves and the Whumper. They are standing across from the Whumper at a basement meeting place lit by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling midway between the two of them, but the two of them are newly not alone. The Whumper’s stoic face allows for the smallest of smirks as the Whumpee steps in front of them like a guard, interrupting the space between the Whumper and Caretaker. The Whumpee’s face is somehow familiar but completely different. It looks like stone - weathered and cracked in some places with red lines like the dark veins of marble swirling over their brow and down to their chin. The Caretaker looks at the Whumper when they speak. “I’m not usually a fan of your surprises, but I’ll take this one.” The Whumper remains silent. The Whumpee frowns at the Caretaker. “Don’t talk to him.” The Caretaker looks at their friend, taken aback at feeling treated like a stranger. Or worse, the enemy. They look again at the Whumper when they say, “What is this?” The Whumpee advances on the Caretaker threateningly. “I said don’t talk to him. You want to talk to him, you talk to me.” The Caretaker takes a few steps back to avoid being knocked over. The Whumpee glares at them angrily like an attack dog, and behind them the Whumper is pressing a thumb to their lips to keep from smiling. The Caretaker looks closely in the eyes to try and find a sign of the person they know. “You know you can’t believe what he says. You remember that, right?” the Caretaker whispers. The Whumpee clenches their teeth behind their cheeks. “Funny, I’ve heard the same said about you,” the Whumpee growls coldly. Behind the unflinching Whumpee, the Whumper gives a small shrug, pretending to be helpless to the circumstances. “What can I say? I can be incredibly persuasive.”
“Do you mind telling me how you learned to do that?” The Whumper leans against the bars of their cell and uses a single finger to lazily point at the Whumpee as they ask the question. The Whumpee is holding a knife and is using it to slowly peel the skin off an apple in one long piece. They briefly look up at the Whumper before resuming their concentration on the task at hand. The Whumper watches them for a minute before speaking again. “Skin’s the best part. It’s where all the nutrients are. Shame to throw away something that looks so good, too.” The Whumpee tries to ignore their captive but can’t hide the beads of sweat that are budding on their forehead as the Whumper’s voice gets under their skin. The Whumper notices. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me how you learned to do that?” The Whumpee’s knuckles are white around both the apple and the knife’s handle. Their hands are shaking as well, and a rage builds in their chest that they must fight to avoid throwing the knife straight at the Whumper’s exposed hands. Instead they lift their head and meet the Whumper’s eyes with theirs. “A teacher that needs credit for everything the student does is the worst kind of teacher,” they finally say. The Whumper just smiles. “Can’t be that bad if it worked. And we both know it’s not the only thing you remember how to do.”
The Caretaker’s hands raise slowly as the Whumper aims their gun at them. The Whumpee is on their knees next to the Whumper, their balance unsteady and their head lolling as they try to stay upright. The Caretaker’s face grimaces as they realize they can’t keep quiet about their friend. “You can’t keep doing this,” they say desperately. The Whumper’s head cocks while the gun remains steady. Deadpan, unmoved, they ask: “Why?” Only the sound of the Whumpee’s struggled breaths fill the air. The Whumper repeats themselves again earnestly. “Why?” They look down at the Whumpee, then back to the Caretaker. “What reason is there for me to not get what I want? I have the power, I have the means, I have the wherewithal,” they list off. “So why can’t I?” The Caretaker’s heart sinks as the Whumper’s gun swings from being pointed at them to being pointed at the Whumpee’s head. “Look up,” the Whumper commands. The Whumpee is too dazed to comply at first. “I said look up,” the Whumper commands again. The Whumpee struggles to lift their head, but slowly complies and pulls their chin from their chest to tilt their head back. The Caretaker takes in the sight of their friend’s exhausted and bloodied face. “Your friend thinks I can’t do what I wish. What do you think?” the Whumper asks the Whumpee, the gun still aimed at them emphasizing the directness of their question. The Whumpee just manages to meet the Caretaker’s eyes and shake their head. The Whumper, satisfied, looks back at the Caretaker. “I agree. It is none of their business.”
“I was never good with history,” the Whumper says, a finger tracing the papers strewn across the Whumpee’s desk in their studies. Open books on pages with black and white photographs and many texts about war litter every surface. The Whumpee sits slumped in a chair with one hand covering their eyes while they hold out their opposite arm. It is bloodied and pinched at the top of their bicep by a tourniquet tied right where their dress shirt was ripped off. “Maybe that’s why you have a habit of repeating yourself,” the Whumpee mutters, then winces from pain. The Whumper flips the pages thoughtfully. “I have a hard time accepting it as something real. The dry text - this happened then this happened which caused this. Makes it hard to feel like it was truly an experience the way you and I are experiencing this very moment. It is missing a good storyteller to bring it to life.” The Whumper walks over towards where the Whumpee sits and observed them with as much emotional distance as they did the books. “Speaking of which, I would love nothing more than to hear the story of how this happened. And why I was privileged enough to be informed about it.” They sit on the edge of the desk as the Whumpee lets out a long pained breath, their hand still pressed hard over their eyes to try and suppress the pain of their shredded arm. “Perhaps we can save it for after you’re done,” the Whumpee suggests. The Whumper shrugs and crosses their arms, then looks thoughtfully at the nearby medical bag. “Yes. A test of whether I remember my non-history lessons.”
The Whumper ties a final knot on one of the many needed sutures on the Whumpee’s arms. They work deftly but make no extra effort to spare the Whumpee any added pain. After they finish that one, they take a moment to rest their arms, placing their hands on their knees and looking at the Whumpee who is still hiding their face with a quivering hand. “I know I don’t have the best brand when it comes to listening to you, but I promise I am up for it now,” the Whumper says. The Whumpee lets out a shaky sigh. “Forgive me if I don’t accept that promise.” The Whumper nods. “I made some bad ones in our time together.” The two sit in silence as the memories of their last encounter fill both of their minds. There is no hint of guilt on the Whumper’s side, and perhaps more strangely, the Whumpee somehow accepts their help and presence. The Whumper picks their tools back up and goes to begin again on the next deep tear on the Whumpee’s arm, but the Whumpee flinches as soon as they feel the heat from the Whumper’s hands. Something about resuming their pain at the hands of the Whumper after a brief reprieve was all too familiar, too much to handle in the moment. “Are you waiting for me to say I did it?” the Whumpee blurts out, again pressing a hand over their eyes. The question seems to aggravate the Whumper. The Whumper roughly grabs the wrist of the Whumpee’s wounded arm and pins it to the armrest of their chair. The Whumpee gasps and clenches both fists, too stunned to speak as the Whumper stares them directly in the eye. “Break you once, shame on me. Break you twice…” They let the sentence hang in the air as they let go of the Whumpee’s wrist and resume picking up their tools.
The Whumpee follows the Caretaker into their home warily. Something is untrustworthy about their old friend, but they can’t put their finger on the reason why. They look around, studying their surroundings, thinking about everything that the Caretaker has told them recently. Things add up, but not all the way. Their eyes land on a stack of papers near the front door. The Whumpee reaches a hand out and pulls the top page down, exposing something on the second page that all at once feels like it affirms everything they were worried about. Proof of one lie that felt like proof everything was a lie. The Caretaker approaches them, and finds themselves quickly knocked back by a strike of the Whumpee’s arm. They stumble, and then fully fall when the Whumpee strikes them again. The enraged Whumpee climbs onto them and pins them to the floor. “How much have what you told me isn’t true?” The Caretaker tries to catch their breath but has their head knocked against the ground as the Whumpee shakes them by their collar. “Tell me why you’re lying to me!” the Whumpee demands, their eyes wide and body overcome by both rage and paranoia. The Caretaker summons the strength to grab the Whumpee right back and meet their eyes. Through a bloodied mouth and gritted teeth they say: “Because look at yourself. Just look at yourself.” The Whumpee pauses but doesn’t move their eyes from the Caretaker’s or release their grasp. “You don’t trust me,” the Whumpee says. The Caretaker shakes their head. “I can let you in my house, but you and I both know why I can’t let you in my head.” The Whumpee releases their friend and lets them scramble to a sitting position from the floor. “You don’t trust me,” the Whumpee says again, paranoia being replaced by hurt. The Caretaker wipes the back of their hand on their mouth and sees the blood. “Look at yourself,” the Caretaker also repeats. They slowly stand and leave the room as the Whumpee is left to stare not at their reflection, but at the floor.
The Whumpee leans against the wall behind them, their knees on the verge of buckling beneath their body. They manage to stay standing, but just barely, as the Whumper approaches. A fire alarm is sounding while the two are still inside an unfinished building that is quickly deteriorating from an explosion that rocked its base. The Whumpee coughs hard enough that their knees finally give out, and they fall hard onto the floor. The Whumper studies them. “You know, when I saw what you did to my brother, I never looked at him the same way again. It was him, but it wasn’t. I would see him but never as he was in front of me - only as he was when you were done with him.” The Whumper nears the injured Whumpee and looms over them. “The person I knew was replaced by a living record of what you did, and nothing more. I thought about that every day he was alive.” The Whumpee can barely bring air in and out of their lungs to breathe, let alone talk, but still tries to croak out a response. “I didn’t…” The Whumper won’t have it. “It’s too late now. I can’t erase that memory from either of us. But now, as luck would have it, I get to choose how I will see you. What I will see when I look at you. Never you as you are, or you as you will be, only you as you were in this very moment.” The Whumpee lifts a hand as they again try to speak, while the Whumper slowly and soberly pulls a knife from their waistband. “So I’ll try to make it count.”
The Caretaker’s shoes echo loudly in the corridor as they walk out of their office. Nighttime in their university building is typically quiet but never silent - even at a distance down the halls, quiet voices mixed with bursts of laughter can be heard of people using the building as a shortcut between the bar and their dorm. The Caretaker makes their way to the front entrance where there is a large atrium filled with windows and tall ceilings. Near the doors, they notice that someone sits on a bench just outside. The Caretaker pushes the door open and pulls their jacket closed as the hit of the nighttime chill goes right for their bones. They go to leave when they catch sight of the person on the bench. The person sitting there has their eyes closed and is sitting slumped as though they are drunk. Their own coat is wide open. The Caretaker approaches them and finds that they recognize the coat as one often slung over a student chair in one of their classes. “Hey,” the Caretaker says. “You alright?” The Whumpee’s eyes remain closed and their whole body remains still. The Caretaker approaches and goes to touch their arm, but for some reason thinks better of it. It’s at that time that the Whumpee jerks awake as if falling off a cliff in a dream. They look at the Caretaker wildly. “I’m so sorry, I’m late,” they say. The Caretaker steps back as the Whumpee stands and starts to look around. “My books, they were right here. Have you seen my book bag, sir? I promise I’m caught up.” It takes a moment before the Caretaker realizes there is blood on the Whumpee’s teeth, and they see it around the same time as the Whumpee’s knees give out beneath them like a string toy with the tension released. “Sir, I promise, I promise I had it all done, don’t kick me out,” they slur as they reach out and grab for the shocked Caretaker’s pant leg. The Caretaker looks around for help, and realizes that, for now, they are the help.
“I was never good with history,” the Whumper says, a finger tracing the papers strewn across the Whumpee’s desk in their studies. Open books on pages with black and white photographs and many texts about war litter every surface. The Whumpee sits slumped in a chair with one hand covering their eyes while they hold out their opposite arm. It is bloodied and pinched at the top of their bicep by a tourniquet tied right where their dress shirt was ripped off. “Maybe that’s why you have a habit of repeating yourself,” the Whumpee mutters, then winces from pain. The Whumper flips the pages thoughtfully. “I have a hard time accepting it as something real. The dry text - this happened then this happened which caused this. Makes it hard to feel like it was truly an experience the way you and I are experiencing this very moment. It is missing a good storyteller to bring it to life.” The Whumper walks over towards where the Whumpee sits and observed them with as much emotional distance as they did the books. “Speaking of which, I would love nothing more than to hear the story of how this happened. And why I was privileged enough to be informed about it.” They sit on the edge of the desk as the Whumpee lets out a long pained breath, their hand still pressed hard over their eyes to try and suppress the pain of their shredded arm. “Perhaps we can save it for after you’re done,” the Whumpee suggests. The Whumper shrugs and crosses their arms, then looks thoughtfully at the nearby medical bag. “Yes. A test of whether I remember my non-history lessons.”
The Whumpee keeps their lips pressed tightly together but can’t stop the air squeezing from their nostrils as the Whumper’s hand encircles their neck. They look the Whumper squarely in their eyes as they are held by their neck and pressed against the concrete wall behind them. Neither of their hands raise in defence, nor to try to pull the Whumper away - they merely stand and squeeze breaths from their nose, mostly out and not in. “Do you feel afraid?” the Whumper asks, their brow furrowed and jaw clenched as they press their hand powerfully into the Whumpee. The Whumpee feels the grip on their neck lessen only enough to permit an answer from them. They continue to stare the Whumper down like a dog trainer knowing to remain still but to stand their ground. Their confidence in this approach alone seems enough to disarm the Whumper. “Do I look afraid?” they say with a tight throat. The Whumper returns their gaze for a long minute before releasing the Whumpee entirely, consumed by a feeling of profound disappointment. “Leave it to you to take the magic out of a moment,” the Whumper says as the Whumpee coughs, acclimatizing to full breaths once again. They remind themselves not to get used to it - there was no indication of this encounter with the Whumper ending anytime soon.
The last guests are at the front door being seen out by the Whumper. The Whumpee keeps their head bowed as they wipe dish after dish with a cloth and mechanically set them aside on a nearby drying rack. They fixate on the task, but listen as the door shuts and the Whumper lets out a heavy breath through their lips. The sound of their shoes echoes in the now empty house, a slight drag making a “shh” noise between each step. They near where the Whumpee is and stop for what feels like an eternity in a long silence. The Whumpee imagines this is the moment that their cover is blown. All the work to get close to the Whumper only to have it all end this way, their surveillance and investment all for nought. The Whumper reaches a hand out, their arm extending and almost wrapping around the Whumpee, and stops the running tap with a push of their hand. “That’s enough,” the Whumper says. The Whumper then goes to the counter behind them and starts to pour themselves a drink, while the Whumpee tries to control their breath and stop a tremble in their hands before they break a dish. So this is how I die, they think to themselves. Playing pretend housekeeper for a psychopath. They turn around to see the Whumper has poured not just one but two glasses of hard liquor. The Whumper holds their own glass in their hand and use their other knuckle to rub their cheek. “You ever feel like you’re pretending to be someone else?” they ask aloud. The Whumpee feels a flush of fear in their face, convinced they have been caught. The Whumper sips their glass then growls as the liquid goes down their throat. “It’s all a show, isn’t it. Whoever you are in front of someone else, it’s not who you are when you’re alone. But what are you if there’s not someone to see it.” The Whumpee realizes the words may not be directed at them, but doesn’t quite relax. “It’s all just one big goddam show,” the Whumper says. They grab and then hold out for the Whumpee the other drink, which the Whumpee steps forward to accept. Their hand meets the glass but the Whumper doesn’t let go. The Whumper is frowning and studying the Whumpee as they keep their grip on the glass and the two stare each other down. “Isn’t it?” the Whumper demands pointedly. The Whumpee swallows hard, but keeps their grip as well. “What do you mean?” The Whumper’s look lingers but eventually they release the glass. They finish what’s in their glass and set it down on the counter. “It doesn’t matter. The show must go on,” the Whumper says, then leaves the Whumpee alone in the kitchen, paralyzed again by the thought that they aren’t really fooling anyone.
The Whumpee stands across from the Whumper, a homemade bar occupying the space between them. The Whumper reaches beneath the bar and pulls out a bottle of liquor that they set gently on the table top. The two never break eye contact in the dimly lit garage, and the world outside the open door is still and quiet in the country night. “I didn’t come here to drink,” the Whumpee states plainly. The Whumper’s usual menace is barely quelled by their casual appearance in their own home. “You may be an unwanted guest, but you’re still a guest.” They open the bottle and pour its contents into two mason jars, then screw the lid back on and grab one of the jars in their hand. They wait until the Whumpee touches their own glass before the two simultaneously take their drink, both downing it in one go, with the Whumpee’s jar hitting the countertop first. The Whumper nods at the Whumpee, impressed at their quickness with the harsh drink. “So what else have you been practicing since I last saw you?” The Whumper’s sentence barely finishes before the Whumpee unsheathes a knife and goes to attack their former captor. Even from across the bar the Whumper deftly dodges them, ensnaring the Whumpee’s arm like a bear trap and quickly removing the knife from the Whumpee’s clenched fist. “Still telegraphing, I see.” The Whumper pushes the Whumpee back, and the Whumpee takes a few steps to right themselves. The Whumper stabs the knife into the bar top and points a finger at their former captive. “This is why I gave up on you. All emotion and no skill.” The Whumpee goes to lunge at them a second time, but the Whumper subdues them again with a grab and twist of their arm. The Whumpee cries out in frustration and pain. “Telegraphing everything like you’re Alexander fucking Graham Bell.” The Whumpee rights themselves and backs away, feeling breathless and defeated in the Whumper’s presence. The Whumper takes the knife from the bar and throws it across the concrete floor, and the two of them watch as it skids to a stop lifelessly at the Whumpee’s feet. “Good for you for finding where I live, but I gotta tell you: I ain’t scared. Because you won’t kill me for the same reason I let you go: you’re no goddamn good.”
“You gone done it now,” another captive says to the Whumpee. The Whumpee rests their arms in between the bars of their shared cell, then looks over their shoulder at their cell mate who is lying on the floor with an arm across their eyes. “Thought I was sleeping didn’t you?” The Whumpee, irked, looks away. “Thought you were dead,” they admit which prompts maniacal laughter from their cell mate. “If only. If you ever get the guts to make it happen, boy, we’ll both be out of here. Not the first class ticket I been hoping for but I’ll take it.” The Whumpee ignores them, instead looking at their bloodied knuckles and flexing them thoughtfully. “It’s not that easy,” they say aloud, mostly to themselves. It’s then that they hear the outer door open, and they instinctively step back from the cell bars as the heavy strides of the Whumper and their right hand make their way towards the cell. The Whumper stands in front and nods at the Whumpee. “This one,” they say, which prompts the right hand to open the cell door and roughly pull the Whumpee out. They’ve rarely been directly face to face with the Whumper themselves, and it’s intensely uncomfortable. The Whumper’s fine suit belies their dirty deeds, case in point being how they deftly pull a gun out from inside their jacket and point it at the Whumpee. The Whumpee freezes. “I don’t get you,” the Whumper says. “Time and again, you let me down. You can beat someone within an inch of their life but you can’t go the final inch. Why is that,” they say, less as a question than a statement. They surprise both the Whumpee and the right hand by flipping the gun so that the barrel faces themselves and the trigger is in front of the Whumpee. The three of them stand in a painful minute of silence as the Whumper waits on the Whumpee to take the pistol from them, shoot them dead, and end their captivity once and for all. They don’t. The two stare at each other in the eyes, caught in a complete standstill between ethics and expectation. The Whumper pockets the gun and buttons their suit. “Fucking useless. Get rid of ‘em.” The Whumpee remains where they are as the Whumper leaves, and their cell mate is as stunned as they are at how the events unfolded. “I dunno, man,” the cell mate breaks the silence. “Seemed easy enough to me.”
The Whumpee stands across from the Whumper, a homemade bar occupying the space between them. The Whumper reaches beneath the bar and pulls out a bottle of liquor that they set gently on the table top. The two never break eye contact in the dimly lit garage, and the world outside the open door is still and quiet in the country night. “I didn’t come here to drink,” the Whumpee states plainly. The Whumper’s usual menace is barely quelled by their casual appearance in their own home. “You may be an unwanted guest, but you’re still a guest.” They open the bottle and pour its contents into two mason jars, then screw the lid back on and grab one of the jars in their hand. They wait until the Whumpee touches their own glass before the two simultaneously take their drink, both downing it in one go, with the Whumpee’s jar hitting the countertop first. The Whumper nods at the Whumpee, impressed at their quickness with the harsh drink. “So what else have you been practicing since I last saw you?” The Whumper’s sentence barely finishes before the Whumpee unsheathes a knife and goes to attack their former captor. Even from across the bar the Whumper deftly dodges them, ensnaring the Whumpee’s arm like a bear trap and quickly removing the knife from the Whumpee’s clenched fist. “Still telegraphing, I see.” The Whumper pushes the Whumpee back, and the Whumpee takes a few steps to right themselves. The Whumper stabs the knife into the bar top and points a finger at their former captive. “This is why I gave up on you. All emotion and no skill.” The Whumpee goes to lunge at them a second time, but the Whumper subdues them again with a grab and twist of their arm. The Whumpee cries out in frustration and pain. “Telegraphing everything like you’re Alexander fucking Graham Bell.” The Whumpee rights themselves and backs away, feeling breathless and defeated in the Whumper’s presence. The Whumper takes the knife from the bar and throws it across the concrete floor, and the two of them watch as it skids to a stop lifelessly at the Whumpee’s feet. “Good for you for finding where I live, but I gotta tell you: I ain’t scared. Because you won’t kill me for the same reason I let you go: you’re no goddamn good.”
The Caretaker pushes their stool back on its wheels and holds up their hands in submission, still loosely grasping the pen light they were trying to shine in the Whumpee’s eyes. The Whumpee recovers from the full body startled jerk that they had when the Caretaker was last close to them. “Don’t be sorry,” the Caretaker says before the Whumpee has a chance. The two sit in a barely-lit doctor’s office at night, and the only sounds in the room are the distant hum of city traffic and the Whumpee’s heavy breaths. The Whumpee’s face is covered in semi-healed cuts, and their body with bruises in the same state. The Caretaker sits completely still as they wait for permission to advance again. The Whumpee, still sitting on the edge of their own chair, shakes their head and wipes the sweat from their forehead, then shuts their eyes and gestures at the Caretaker to come forward again. The Caretaker wheels forward slowly, lifting their hands in plain sight, as they close the distance between the themselves and their friend. The Whumpee looks up at the ceiling and tries to keep their eye open as the Caretaker’s pen light nears it again. The Caretaker uses their other hand to hold the Whumpee’s chin still, which prompts the Whumpee’s jaw to clench and their eyes to lower and meet the Caretaker’s. The whole city somehow quiets in that moment as the two held themselves a nose-length apart. The Whumpee’s hand trembles in their lap as they fight every instinct they have to push their friend away from them and run as far away as they can. Their mind races but they hold still. The Caretaker eventually leans back and clicks off the light, and the Whumpee is surprised that the distance now somehow, against all odds, makes them feel worse. “It’s bad, right?” the Whumpee asks quietly. The Caretaker lets out a sigh. “I wouldn’t call it good.”
“Do you know what strikes me?” the Whumper asks as they sit on a table next to where the groggy Whumpee is sprawled on their back. “Other than you, if you could.” The Whumper speaks comfortably, though the circumstances are anything but casual, as the Whumpee struggles to take in breaths that don’t make them cough it right back out. “As I get older, I find I don’t have regrets so much as… constant wondering.” The Whumper looks over at the Whumpee and touches a gloved finger to their victim’s forehead, the edge of their scalp, and then into the inches of hair that are strewn as haplessly as they are. The Whumper starts to take pieces of hair between their fingers then stroke and set them in the opposite direction that they previously lay. “I look back not with longing of something I didn’t do, but in absolute wonder at the paths I could have taken. Roads I could have gone down. I just imagine that I’d chosen differently and what that life would look like,” they say, still stroking the Whumpee’s hair in new directions and either not noticing or not caring how the unwanted intimate gesture makes the Whumpee feel. “Imagine all the parallel lives I could have lived. Imagine I hadn’t met you.” The Whumpee stifles a bitter laugh, trying in vain to summon the strength to evade the Whumper’s touch. “Or that I killed you when I had the chance,” the Whumpee chokes out, trying yet unable to swat the Whumper’s hand away. The Whumper removes their hand mercifully and just nods with both distance and fondness. “Yes. Imagine that.” The two are quiet for a moment before the Whumper slides off the table and brushes themselves off, probably preparing for another round of torturous acts. “Alas. It is what it is.”
Whumpee surrenders themself to Whumper to save Caretaker’s life.
As soon as they do it, Whumper smiles wide and starts laughing. Caretaker was never the one in danger, they were the one Whumper needed. And Whumpee is how they’ll make Caretaker cooperate.
After they’ve had a little fun with their new hostage, that is.
“You either sing, or you scream. Your choice.”
Martin raised the cane, tapping it against Lev’s cheek, running it along the underside of his chin.
“No, please,” said Lev. He raised his hands slightly, in gentle surrender, trying to placate the man. Attempting to broadcast the right amount of subservience, despite already being on the concrete, on his knees.
It was better when he faced him, talked to him, played along. The man seemed to revel in his nervous obedience. And Lev was happy to give it, if there was any chance of being spared a beating.
“I don’t know what, what, uh, which song. What do you want me to sing?”
The look of disappointment that fell across Martin’s face was strange, as if he couldn’t believe Lev would let him down like this.
“Come on, now. I can’t do all the work for you.”
Lev hated that he was like this. Twenty-five, a fully-fledged, bona-fide, tax paying adult— to whom the begging, the kowtowing, the prostration came embarrassingly easily. Flinching at a stern voice. Coming to heel at the first mention of a firm hand.
He didn’t want to give in to the other man. He didn’t. He just didn’t want to be hurt. That was it.
He closed his eyes, and searched for the right note. Going with the first song that came to mind, one deep within his psyche. A favourite.
His voice shook at first, before he schooled it into something sturdier. He got through the first chorus with barely a waver, and then Lev could only cower, and curl, and try to shield himself with his arms as the rattan cane was brought down on him again, and again, and again, and again.The whistle and crackof it hitting a shoulder blade. The heavier thud as it hit a meatier part.
And then he could only lie on the floor, and bleed, and bruise.
“You said, nhh… you said you wouldn’t…”
“Wouldn’t what?”
“Promised…”
Martin tutted. “I made no promises, darling. Besides,” he said, wiping the blood from the cane with a cloth. “How can you expect me to resist, when you sing so sweetly…”
He stooped, and Lev would have been afraid, if he had the energy. Martin pressed a kiss to Lev’s temple.
“…but your screams are like music to my ears?”
Teaser
“Master.” Occuldous asked one day, as he’s kneeling on the plush rug under his master’s feet. He looked up at the tall, muscular man lounging on the leather couch in his underclothes. The large living room was lit only by the projector, showing a football game on the screen The man didn’t respond to his voice so Occuldous asked again.
“Master?” His voice was quiet and timorous. Master seemed to be in a good mood and he didn’t want to anger him. But he’d been wondering, and Master was so smart, Master would know the answer to all his questions.
Master grunted in response. “Get me a beer.” He ordered, poking Occuldous with his foot.
“Yes, master!” He scrambled to his feet and ran to the fridge, hoping they had beer still, they had to have beer. Nothing made Master angrier than there being no beer. He sighed in relief when he opened the fridge to find one more unopened bottle. He grabbed it and the bottle opener from the drawer and brought them back to Master.He knelt on the ground again and popped it open in front of him. Master didn’t like when he opened the bottles in the kitchen, he would yell and throw the bottle and mumbled things like “poison” and “fucking stupid goat” while Occuldous picked up glass shards from the floor and wiped up the frothy liquid. Goat. That’s what Master would call him, with his lip curled in disgust, like Occuldous was a piece of dog shit that had somehow found its way onto the expensive imported rugs.
Master took the bottle from his hands and took a long sip. “What do you want?”“Master? Ma-May I go outside to-tonight?” Occuldous’ throat got tight and he tried to force the rest of the explanations out. “M-master, m-master, please, it-t’ll m-make my n-next sh-show better, I-I’ll b-be able t-to p-put on a big- bigger per-performance. I-it’s t-th d-day t-the com-comet-.”
“Get the crop.” Master’s voice is tight and angry. He’s sitting up now, the beer is on the end table.
“M-master p-please, I-I-I j-just w-want to see t-the comet-t,” Tears welled up in Occuldous eyes, as he looked up at him, begging. “P-please m-master, p-please? I-I w-won’t ask ever ag-gain, p-please?”
“Get the crop!” Master’s voice is thunderous now and he aimed a harsh kick at Occuldous’ stomach.
Occuldous doubled over, dry heaving, he couldn’t throw up on Master’s expensive carpet, he couldn’t do that, the carpet was expensive, more expensive than him. “y-yes master.” Occuldous coughed out, staggering to his feet, still clutching his stomach.
Master kept a collection of whips and crops and collars in his room. Each one was different and Occuldous could tell them apart from feel when Master used them. It was always a trick when Master sent him in to get one. If he chose one too soft, Master would beat him until he couldn’t move without pain, would beat him until he bled, even if the instrument had no sharp edges. If he chose one that was hard, then Master would beat him less but each blow would hurt more.
He had to choose one that was in the middle, nothing made of soft rough-out leather, like the whips Master carried during shows, nothing with braids that would leave individual welts with each turn of the braiding pattern.
Finally, he picked up a smooth leather crop, it was sturdy and firm, but it wouldn’t split his skin and leave blood on the floor that he would have to clean up. At least he wouldn’t have to clean blood up.
He carried the crop back to Master and handed it to him. Master stood up, towering a foot and a half over the diminutive Occuldous. Occuldous turned around and put his hands on his shoulders to prevent himself from trying to blow the blows with his hands, biting his lip and squinting his eyes shut to keep the tears in
Master grunted. “Strip.” He barked, his voice sharp.
“S-sir?” Occuldous’ voice shook.
POP.
The crop connected with his back sharply and he yelped, arching against the pain as he quickly scrambled to take off his shirt.
“All of it.” Master ordered when Occuldous looked up at him. “I want you to remember this lesson. You don’t ask for anything, you especially don’t ask to go outside, you filthy goat.”
Occuldous trembled as he stripped off his pants and trousers. He looked up at Master again, his solid black eyes glistening with tears. “Y-yes s-sir.” He whispered, crossing his arms over his chest and turning around, his bare back, crisscrossed with hundreds of lash marks both healed and unhealed, exposed to his master.
“Don’t move boy.” Master growled. “10 more lashes for every time you move.”
Occuldous nodded. Why had he ever even dared ask? Why had he allowed himself to think about seeing the comet? He was so stupid, so stupid, just like Master said. A stupid goat who couldn’t even learn to be good.
(Tagging@castielamigos-whump-side-blog@0idril0@imagination1reality0@thatsthewhump)Ajagrjshshhd qjjsg3jwjsgdjwjqcxjskansvwjqbdusbsnsjdnsbdbwhwksbd ensk ahhhhhhh poor bby
