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palmofafreezinghand · 6 months

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under the apple trees

Charles Evenson searches for his wife in 1920 and finds something haunting under the apple trees, or Charles thinks he killed his wife. on ao3 here. content warnings: references to domestic violence, sexual assault, burying alive, murder, and alcohol abuse.

June 16, 1920.

Charles Evenson awoke to the feeling of an ice pick piercing his skull. The sip of bootlegged whiskey he presumed to be water, had last night’s dinner threatening to make itself known. As the wrinkles in his face deepened — making him look like his father more each passing day — his tolerance for the drink that once sustained his youth deteriorated.

He stumbled to the bathroom, tripping over his own feet as he squinted to avoid the rising sun peeking through the blinds. He had asked his wife to replace the flimsy lace curtains to something more substantial. She refused, whining she had spent hours crocheting them while he was away. He didn’t have the energy to fight her.

The bathroom door was closed, a sliver of light telling him his wife was holed up in there, again. The same sight and pain in his head had greeted him the morning prior, and the one before that.

Naively he had presumed she was avoiding him, throwing one of her hysteric fits after a disagreement. The memory of their fight had evaded him, the cause long forgotten. What remained was dried blood caked to his knuckles, pools of rust-colored stains on their bedsheets, and a knife lodged in the kitchen countertop.

That morning, unlike the two previously, he twisted the doorknob. His shoulders straightened, preparing for one of their early morning fights. It was a habit of theirs. The oak door creaked open to reveal an empty room.

“Hello?” He muttered. The only response he received was the flicker of the overhead light.

The impending disagreement escalated. He let the anger simmer as he went about his routine; using the restroom, showering, cooking himself a breakfast he burned, smoking a cigarette without opening a window.

He half-heartedly searched the rest of the house, paying closer attention to her typical hiding places. She was nowhere to be found. The impending battle jumped another pitch, his nails dug into his palm.

She had insisted on publicly embarrassing him before. Less than a month into marriage, after she had pushed him too far, she had run off to her parents. A weekend with her cousin for Christmas had turned into a week. He was forced to traipse all the way out to Milwaukee. He refused to acknowledge how exhilarating those fights had been. The hours spent sitting in ugly silence as a train engine chugged along, a tea kettle at a near boiling point for an uncomfortable, unnatural amount of time until the kettle nearly exploded. A shrill scream as a room was drowned in blinding steam.

A thrill ran down his spine as he began to think of the hunt. It was cut abruptly by the realization she may not be hiding but hidden.

———————

He pulled his automobile off the dirt farm road, parking in between dense rows of fruit trees he knew well. Despite its density, Charles knew the orchard had not turned a profit in nearly a decade. The peaches were never quite sweet enough, the apples never red enough, the plums too tart.

The Platt’s grove had made a brilliant hiding place for Charles over the years. In the few months they courted, they had secretly met in the orchard a handful of times, away from her mother’s grating inquisitiveness.

Once they were married, many months in, he had met another woman among the trees. One less stubborn, who did not pester, a woman whose name he could not, nor cared to, remember. He had met a half dozen forgettable women thereafter.

A little over a year into their marriage, in the middle of the night he had raced to the grove. His wife wrapped in a bed sheet lying lifeless on the back bench seat. Frantically he had dug a grave under the apple trees, under the light of his headlights and the full moon. Four scoops of dirt had been thrown into the shallow grave — making a point to cover her face first — when she screamed. He helped her out, and they went home and never spoke again.

Less than a month later, after one particularly loud argument, he snuck back onto the property, spending most of the night digging the small hole into a proper grave. He covered the grave with a board and leaves, telling himself it was a precaution. He would never need it.

When he returned from the front the times he thought he would need it were countless — countless fights and snide remarks — but he had never used it, at least not as a grave. An occasional barrel from his friends in New Straitsville had been stored in the hole to avoid his wife’s nagging.

The engine shut off as he stepped out of the car, scanning the night. It smelled like rain and wet soil. The cicadas screamed, a deafening incessant buzz.

He looked for the heart he had carved in the trunk of an old apple tree; hoping if someone ever discovered the symbol they would suspect adolescent antics, not a morbid gravestone. The trunks looked as if they went on for miles, rows, and rows of evenly spaced trees taunting him.

He walked further into the grove, twigs crunching under his boots, his step quickening. The sun was almost done rising, the old farmer was undoubtedly moving about his routine, unaware of the potential disaster lurking in his yard.

Charles could foresee one of the old hounds digging up the grave, dropping her femur at the front door. He shook his head violently, the ice pick returning to its familiar place in his skull.

She was hiding, throwing a fit, mocking him. She was not buried hundreds of feet from her childhood home at the hands of her husband.

His search was a precaution, he would not kill his wife.

The boy’s face flickered across his mind. He shook his head. That was different, war. His life had been on the line, anyone would have done that.

He was not evil. His wife’s screams echoed in his brain, her pleading, the words ‘no, God no,’ beat in his brain like a pulse. The blood, hers, under his nails, on his knuckles, the bruise on his forearm. Disagreements, like any other married couple.

They had disagreements, but it wasn’t the only thing they had. The happy moments. Summer evenings were spent watching the neighborhood as they sat on the porch swing, nursing a drink. The feast she had cooked when he returned home after sixteen months. The taste of apple pie, the promise he made to do better, her genuine smile. The first time he had brought her to his house, she had prattled on about decorations and Christmas stockings. The moment they learned she was expecting, and every moment after, the bump, the kicks, the nursery that would never be used.

The light of his lantern fell on a mound of fresh dirt, five feet long, and three feet wide. Shit. Shit. Shit.

No.

She was not dead.

He did not kill her.

He had not held a pathetic burial for a pitiful woman, and forgotten entirely.

No.

Excuses for the public began racing through his head: she ran in the middle of the night, it was a complete surprise. No, that would lead to questions about why she would leave him. She could not handle the grief any longer. She slipped on the stairs.

He could move, let her slip from everyone’s memory as he lived a life without her.

“Charles?” A deep voice called out through the trees.

Charles's head snapped to attention. “Hello, George,” he called to the father-in-law he had not seen in nearly four years.

He needed an excuse, now, because she was, he did, and he had. Or at least that’s what he believed.

#charles evenson #esme cullen #esme platt #cw domestic abuse #my stories #this scene is referenced in charles evenson's very unlucky day and bride of cullen and i think one more but i couldn't find it #one day i'll make one of those boards with string with all the stories referenced in other stories

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honeycollectswhump · 9 months

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Gone, gone

[masterlist]

CW: accidental self-harm-like actions, suicidal ideation (NOT acted upon), blood, emeto, loss of a friend, mental breakdown, referenced: substance abuse, pet whump recapture

The plates are the first thing she sees. She had set the table and prepared dinner. The sauce is still in the pot, now cold. Aveline should put the pot aside, clean away the remains of what was supposed to be their meal. She doesn’t.

The plates are the first thing she sees, and she tears them down. She swipes over the table, not stopping as they shatter on the ground. Gone.

The glasses are next. Intricate, little designs that once belonged to her old landlady. Aveline pushes her palms into the glass, crushing them until shards dig into her flesh. She doesn’t feel anything. Blood seeps into the tablecloth, that's how she knows, the knowledge just barely grazing her mind but leaving no impact. Gone.

Tears blur her vision, as the grabs the cloth. A breath, then two. With a jerk, she rips and tears, cutlery clattering to the ground. Aveline claws at it. She wants it to hurt. It can never hurt, she can never hurt, but she wants to.

This is pain, she thinks, this must be pain.

A scream wrenches itself from her throat. Her voice cracks. She cracks. She is in her body and she is not. The sight of her home disgusts her, it destroys her. If she is loud enough she won’t have to hear herself.

A glint of the sun against one of their pictures catches her eye. Aveline whirls around, cloth in hand, disoriented. She stumbles against the wall, the cloth getting caught on the frame, and she tears and tears and tears.

The photo falls to the ground, breaking on impact. There is a crack over his face, there is a crack over Atlas’ face and he’s gone. Aveline stares at it, at the ruined picture, at what she’ll never have again. Gone. He’s gone.

The thought settles over her like a fog, taking over. Someone is screaming, she is screaming, and she’s breaking apart at the seams. Aveline yanks at the coffee machine and throws it across the room. It collides with a cabinet, the booming sound ringing through their empty house. Filling the silence between her screams, her sobs. Gone.

There are still shards stuck in her hand as Aveline lurches forward to retch into the sink, her ears filled with a deafening ring. Nothing but bile comes up but she feels like she can see pieces of her very soul laying exposed to the world, ugly and rotten, with fraying edges. Fat tears roll down her face, dripping down and mixing with droplets of blood. Gone.

Aveline crumbles to the ground, falling hard on her knees, barely registering the impact that will leave her with bruises she will never be able to feel.

It doesn’t make sense!

Atlas was supposed to go out for a short walk, he was supposed to come back just in time for dinner. He didn’t even take his phone with him.

They told her he’d run away, like he did before, from his old life. But Aveline knows, she knows, he wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t run without preparation, he’d take money with him, or a proper jacket or anything at all.

They don’t trust him, they say there is no evidence. They say it’s to be expected of someone like him, someone like her Attie, especially with his addiction.

He is six months sober now, but they don’t believe him or they don’t care. To them, it doesn’t matter how hard he worked to get to this point, how much blood, sweat and tears went into this. Atlas had fought to get bits and pieces of his life back, that his old Master had stolen from him. It would be all for nothing now.

Atlas is gone, he was taken.

And no one will do anything.

It hits her then, all at once.

There is nothing.

There is no hint, no message, no reason. No evidence and no case. No one to turn to, no one to lead the search.

He’s alone, she’s utterly alone and he’s gone.

Gone.

The moon rises. It takes a while for Aveline to notice the shift in light, to notice that the taunting sunset has given way to the cold moonlight. Distantly Aveline thinks her knees must hurt, her joints must be stiff. Time simply passes by her without touching her and it’s not like her body can tell her otherwise.

The blood has started to dry, sticking to her skin and clothes in clumps. She is barely there, her mind moving through a swamp of numbness. This must be pain and it will kill her.

It will eat her from the inside out until there is nothing left and Aveline will welcome the bliss of nothingness with open arms. She can’t do this, she simply can’t. She can’t continue on with her life, as if nothing happened, can’t imagine a life without him, without her Attie.

She wishes him back, begs for him, even if in his darkest days, high or drunk, she doesn’t care, she’d take it all if just to get him back. Having him back, anything would be enough.

Maybe she will die like this. Aveline contemplates never moving again, it has nothing left to give anymore. Maybe she will starve or die of thirst, maybe her heart will just mercifully stop beating. If it doesn’t, she could help, doing nothing but accelerating a natural process.

Then he’d be gone and she would never have to feel this torment again because she’d be gone too.

Still, something inside her fights the thought, sending a spike of urgent desperation up and down her spine.

Atlas, her Atlas isn’t dead. He is gone for her but he isn’t gone gone.

He would be if she gives up. He’d be gone, in the sense that he could never be there again if there isn’t someone fighting for him.

Someone has to do something.

It won’t be any law enforcement and it won’t be the Pet Lib shelter Attie told her about either, the one that had helped him become who he is now, doesn’t believe her or in him. Maybe she could ask around in Pet Lib groups but it’s not like Atlas ever gave her access to their resources and Aveline knows they are notoriously impossible to find for outsiders.

And what can a girl like her do anyways? She has nothing but her mind and her body and that can never be enough when all the world demands is money and power.

But there is no alternative, is there? If Aveline doesn’t do anything, then no one will, and then Atlas will be left all alone in whatever hell has claimed him.

She is nothing without Atlas and maybe these feelings will pass but Aveline hopes they don’t. She holds onto the longing, the desperation, making her frantic, making her shake.

In the end, Aveline has everything to give. If she loses her mind or loses her body, it will be no different from now. And for now, it’s enough to help her get up, to help her move, even if she is just a tool to get her Atlas back.

taglist: @octopus-reactivated let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

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leighsartworks216 · 3 months

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Endings and Beginnings

Father-figure!Halsin & gn!OC

My first time writing Halsin and it's because I had this thought of him helping my dnd bard Rynd learn to accept death and moving on from the past. If you have any questions about Rynd, please do not hesitate to ask

@shenanigans-and-imagines You had to read this idea when I first had it, and now you get to read it come to fruition lol

Warnings: references to past abuse, depression, self-destructive behaviors, crying, animal death, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 2,348

Main Masterlist

First Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist - Second Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

The fire crackled late into the night, long past when it should have been reduced to embers. It chased away the darkness and radiated warmth, but its light hid the stars and illuminated decay.

Rynd turned their hands over in the firelight. How many times they'd done so was anybody's guess. They only stopped to throw more kindling in the flames when it began to die down. The irony of it wasn't lost on them; they destroyed themselves for months using necromancy to raise the dead, and now they refused to let the fire die, just so they could see the effect the dark magic had on their body.

They rubbed their fingertips together.

They remember visiting Astarion months back, desperate for the Necromancy of Thay. He'd smelled the rot then. He refused to hand over the book until they could explain why they needed it. They’d never been good at lying, so they told him: Now that they were free of the monastery, of the tadpoles - free to make their own choices, they wanted to find the parents that left them on that doorstep to begin with.

They asked everyone who could have an inkling of who their parents were. They even went back to the damned monastery to ask the monks that tortured and abused them what they knew, though they told Rynd nothing, merely cursed their existence as they always had. They searched everywhere for any hints of a Tiefling with blue skin like theirs, who had musical talents, who had white hair - any scrap of identity they could have shared with their parents.

When they could not find any hint they were alive, it seemed only natural to turn to darker magics.

The book had been a waste of time once Astarion reluctantly handed it over; nothing useful for their needs, just a lot of voices shouting in their head.

He must have told Gale. Or maybe Gale just knew. He was always better at magic than they were, always connected to the Weave. When they appeared on his doorstep, he lectured them for almost an hour about self-destruction. Once he calmed down, he finally let them inside.

He was right, of course. They were destroying themself and he knew how to spot it best after his own struggles.

Necromancy decayed the user. Weakened muscles and bone, left them ever fatigued and exhausted where no amount of sleep ever seems like enough, cut circulation from fingers and toes until they're left black and cold.

Gale had forced them to stay in his Tower until the long-term effects had lessened, until their fingers returned to a normal shade and they didn't look on the edge of death themself. Tara had been a great comfort, even if she would scold them just as much. When they were well enough, and anxious to get back on the road, Gale made them swear never to use necromancy spells ever again. Agreeing hurt more than letting the spells take their toll.

They turned their hands over again. Despite the blue tint of their skin now reaching to their fingertips, they remained cold and numb. It was harder to play their ocarina, but when had they last cared to play anyway? Music felt hollow. They felt hollow.

"You have been troubled from the moment you returned, little cub." A hulking figure, large but never intimidating to those who knew him, sat on the ground beside Rynd. Halsin held out a large handful of berries, contained in a handkerchief. All of their favorites. "I have not seen you eat or sleep. If you'll allow me, I would like to help you carry your burdens."

They stared at the berries for a long moment. When had they last cared to eat? When Gale cooked dinner for them, a few weeks ago? When did they forget the comfort of being able to eat when they wished; food that was not stale or moldy, but fresh and sweet?

They opened and closed their hands, stretching their fingers as though it would bring some feeling back to them. It didn't. They picked up each corner of the handkerchief, lifted the berries from his hand, and rested them in their lap where they grabbed a raspberry. They were fresh, of course. Halsin would only pick the best of the best for times like these. And that first bite - a shudder ran through their body, as though it was suddenly aware what it had been missing.

The tight knot around their heart, intricately woven and pulled taught, loosened ever so slightly. They leaned against Halsin, doing their best not to let their horns poke him. He didn't mind, he was used to dealing with Tieflings less considerate than them. Instead he wrapped an arm around them and pulled them closer. They closed their eyes, relaxed into the warmth he himself radiated in spirit as much as body, and slowly ate each berry one by one, until they were all gone and the sun was beginning to rise. They fell asleep with a sunbeam on their face.

Despite the comfort and food, when they awoke, tucked tenderly into their bedroll, it felt like nothing really changed. The sun shone brightly at its zenith high in the sky, but their mind was still so dark. The rampant thoughts that tore them down repeated over and over, cursing their very existence. They sat on the ground by a trail of ants and watched them march along, allowing the thoughts to consume them.

The children of the Grove no longer spoke to them. They begged Rynd to play every day, every hour of that first week. When there was never any response, they stopped asking. Now, they no longer came near.

Rynd had at first appreciated the isolation. Now they just wish they would ask again, even if the answer never changed.

They did not hear Halsin approach despite the scraping of his sandals over the dirt. They only noticed his presence when he lightly touched their shoulder. "Come. Let us go for a walk."

It wasn't a question, but their gut reaction told them to refuse. They clenched their hands into fists, fighting against the horrid weight dragging them down, the disparity of trying to do anything, and stood when they found a crack to break through. No matter how much they wanted to continue being alone, Halsin had always been a source of comfort and a force for good. Even if they couldn't help themself, he could find a way. They had to believe he could.

He smiled warmly. They did not feel it. He turned and led them into the woods.

They expected him to speak, to ask why they were so changed from the last time they visited. The fear that he would hung over their head like the axe of an executioner. How would they answer? Would they tell the truth or lie? What if he saw past the lie? What if Gale already told him? What if Astarion had told him? Would he ask them to leave? Their body was tainted with dark magic, surely he'd want them as far from the Grove as possible. Where would they even go? They just wanted to be alone. They just wanted to hide.

Some small part of them cringed at the thought. Isolation felt altogether safe and scary, their salvation and destruction. They didn't want to be alone. No, of course not. That's what had started this whole mess; being a lonely little orphan, trapped in their small room. Alone.

Halsin pointed out a patch of flowers growing in the shade of a sycamore tree. Rynd stared at them for a minute, thinking. They didn't know there were flowers who could grow so vivaciously in shade; the tree seemed to block the sun from every angle, preventing it from shining on most of it at any given time. For a flickering moment, their mind was not consumed with the journey to find their parents.

It reminded them of the monastery where they grew up. The big tree in the center of the courtyard that towered high above the walls, with brilliant white flowers that filled the air with the sweet fragrance of spring. When they were too small to lift themself up and see through the high window in their room, all they could do was look up at the tall branches. They’d yearned to sit under that tree, climb it, feel it and be at peace. The only times they’d ever gotten close, they’d snuck out of their room through secret passageways, but lingering meant getting caught, which meant being punished, so they never got to be around it for very long.

They loved that tree. But thinking of the monastery soured any positive thought they'd had. They could see now how terrible that place really was under the golden haze of naiveté. They grimaced as they continued to walk on.

Halsin led them along an invisible path through the trees and underbrush. If he had any thoughts about where he was taking them, Rynd couldn’t tell. For a while they’d stared straight ahead at his back. They were starting to regret coming along; they didn’t want to keep walking aimlessly through nature. All the life, the bustling world of bugs and birds… Maybe they should have gone to Baldur’s Gate instead, wallowed in Ramazith’s Tower with Rolan, Lia and Cal. Maybe there they would have found the strength to read or practice magic. (They wouldn’t have. Being so close to that much knowledge would have destroyed them.)

After quite some time, they gave in to their restlessness and looked around. Green leaves and dark bark - thrilling. They would have found it so, once upon a time. They’d loved finding books about flora during their time in the monastery. They would write countless notes on the shapes of the leaves, the types of sap and so on. Now it was just a cruel reminder of their failure.

They glanced at the ground as they passed a large oak tree and stopped in their tracks. There, curled up by the thick roots and hidden under a leafy plant, was a little mouse. They watched it for a moment, but they knew. They’d surrounded themself with death for months. They knew.

Rynd knelt down in the dirt and instinctively reached out a hand, hovering it over the tiny creature. But then they stopped. They did nothing. They promised Gale they’d not use necromancy spells ever again, but… Why did this mouse deserve to die? Why should this creature pass away into obscurity? It had lived a life, too; maybe it had a family nearby, waiting for it to come home. The thought made their heart ache, the knot in their chest tightening ever more.

But they couldn’t. They promised Gale.

Their hand hovered a moment longer still, beginning to shake before they finally dropped it to their lap. Just one spell and it would be able to scamper off. But even they knew it was one spell too many.

The mouse’s fur was white. Pure. No blood. The only dirt that could be found stained its little paws. They wondered when it died. If it was sudden or slow. It was curled up like a fetus, tail pulled toward its chest. Its pink ears seemed to stand to attention, like it was still listening to the world around it. They could almost imagine it was just sleeping.

The large druid knelt down beside Rynd, hands resting on his thighs as he took in the dead mouse and the Tiefling that mourned it. It was the first thing he’d noticed Rynd take an interest in this entire trip. And slowly the pieces started to fit together.

Despite the somber mood, he wore a soft grin as he quietly dug a small hole. He piled up all the dirt next to it, working to ensure it was deep enough for the little thing to fit inside. After all his years as a druid, it still amazed him how tiny nature could be.

Rynd watched wordlessly as he delicately scooped up the mouse in his large hands. It limply followed every slight jostle. He was careful as he laid it down on a leaf.

Rynd’s eyes burned. Their lungs felt tight in their chest.

Halsin picked up the leaf by its pointed tip and its stem, and he lowered it into the hole he made. “May the winds carry your legends forward, and the spring flowers blossom with the same richness and beauty as the life you’ve lived,” he prayed quietly. He heard Rynd sniffle beside him, but he gave them what privacy he could as he began pushing the dirt back into the hole. The mouse and leaf would decay and be returned to the soil, becoming nutrients for the large oak, so that it may continue to live on and provide homes and nourishment to thousands more creatures just like it. This was merely the next step in the never-ending cycle of life.

Before he could push the last pile of dirt onto the pile, smaller hands intervened. They tenderly guided the soil to its place, forming a small mound over the little body. A little grave. Gods, how many graves had they seen? How many had they walked over, desperately searching for any hint of familiarity? None of the headstones or mausoleums had stirred any reaction in them. Now, tears seemed to fall endlessly for a life so small.

They sniffled and gasped around their sobs, muffled by habit more than a conscious effort. Halsin touched their shoulder. In a heartbeat, they were clinging to him, trying to wrap their arms around his hulking frame as they pressed their face into his chest. He wrapped his arms around them, rubbing their back and gently massaging their scalp, combing his large fingers through their unruly curls. “Release your emotions, little cub. You do not have to hide them anymore. You can let go.”

The knot around their heart unraveled.

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es-quest · 4 months

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you should keep moving towards the light.

You look closer and you other than the vines you can see some roses, you try to go Even closer, but you stumble and your body slides into the hole.

You land face first onto the vines you saw, but they didn't cushion you fall this time, the thorns actually pricked your cheek and your arms. You rub it carefully. Ow...

Luckily Shidou doesn't seem to have suffered any damage, actually he finally seems to be stirring awake.

That's good! You raise your head to take a look at the place you landed...

#es quest #milgram #ask blog #es milgram #shidou kirisaki #amane momose #cw child abuse #I...I dont know how to tag this actually #ooc: For the people who know what im referencing this is in a different context #but all girls are...

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nami-writes · 1 year

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[ an apple | a day | (keeps the doctor) away ]

couple month old 3 part story i conjured up! i came up with this concept and thought it was pretty cool so yknow. wrote it and now here we are <3

content warnings: implied/referenced abuse, emeto, bad/reluctant "caretaker," starvation, begging

It’s his first day being tasked with watching Villain.

He arrives half an hour early, signs in, and sits in the lounge to pass the time. This promotion may not be due to his competence— it's no secret the heroes’ main facility is becoming understaffed after their public support started dwindling— but he’s not going to let that disprove it. The heroes need all the loyal supporters they can get. Guard can ignore a couple of rumors to prove he's worth their time.

He triple-checks his sidearm before he rounds the corner and exchanges a nod with the guard already there, then takes her place. In five hours they’ll bring him Villain’s dinner to slide under the door and then three hours after that he’ll switch out with the night shift guard and go home. Easy as that. He just needs to ensure Villain eats and check the barred window every few minutes to make sure Villain is still chained up.

He is, upon Guard’s first glance in. The chains are longer than he expected and the cell is also much smaller than he expected. Villain is slumped against the wall, so still Guard can't quite tell if he's still breathing, but he decides that even if he's not, so be it. His job isn't to keep Villain alive. His job is to make sure he doesn't escape.

Things get boring quickly. He starts out looking in every dozen seconds or so, just out of curiosity and amazement that he’s this close to a completely helpless Villain, but nothing ever changes. Minutes and hours drag on and he thinks a strand of hair shifted out of place, but even that could be his imagination. Maybe Villain is just asleep. Guard passes the time counting the cracks in the wall. Then counting them again, just to make sure he didn’t miss any.

Finally, someone brings him Villain’s dinner tray. It holds a couple spoonfuls of what looks like mystery meat, half a cup of water, and a limp carrot. Guard frowns, then shrugs and slides it under. They must intentionally keep him weak. It doesn’t matter to him anyway, just makes his job easier. He's a little hungry too, in fact— maybe he'll bring a snack with him tomorrow.

He checks on him again a few minutes after sliding his lunch in. Villain still hasn’t moved. The chains must be as long as they are so that he can reach his food, but if he’s tried, he left no signs of it. Guard’s starting to think maybe he is asleep.

“Hey,” he calls, knocking on the door with a knuckle. “Wake up and eat your lunch before the rats get to it first.” He doubts there are actually rats, but it makes for a marginally meaner command.

Villain doesn’t show any signs of life. Maybe he’s just dead.

“Hey!” He slams a fist into the door this time. “Wake up!”

He flinches and his head lolls just a bit. Guard frowns, annoyed. So he is alive. He’s just ignoring him.

“Eat your lunch or I’m coming in there,” he shouts. He was instructed to avoid unlocking the door but he is authorized to use force if he deems it necessary.

Either way, that seems to get his attention. Villain’s eyes snap open and he scrambles for the tray of food that Guard isn’t even sure is fully edible. Just to be safe, he watches as Villain takes each painstaking bite. Each one comes slower than the last until he stops completely, with half the tray still untouched. He downs the water, stares at the rest of his food like it hurts to look at with a hand clutching his stomach.

“Stop wasting time and finish your food,” Guard says. Villain has survived this long on this same food. What makes this particular tray so awful?

“I…” He drags in a ragged breath. “I c-ca…”

And then he retches onto the floor, just beside his tray of food.

Guard doesn't know what to do. He watches Villain heave the undigested contents of his stomach onto the floor he now realizes has stains from previous incidents like this and he just stands there because he wasn't told what to do in this situation. He stares in shock as Villain coughs up the last of the chunky vomit and then drags himself back over to the wall, where he collapses again. He doesn't even bother to sit upright, just lies down on his side.

It's fine. They'll probably bring him something new to eat tomorrow. He did eat, technically, and he won’t die from one day without food. Guard knows that doesn't count as eating, but something twists in his gut at the thought of making Villain choke the food down and swallow back his vomit. So he leaves it at that.

He lets Villain sleep for the last hour of his shift, even though the next guard shouts and bangs on the door to wake him up the moment Guard steps away.

—

He brings his own food the next day. A sandwich and an apple. He doubts he's supposed to be eating on the job, but he doesn't exactly have a lunch break and Villain is in no shape to try anything funny.

Things go about the same way they did the day before. He looks into the cell every couple of minutes. There’s a fresh new stain on the floor now, no doubt from yesterday. It seems the janitors didn’t clean it up very well.

With nothing else to do, Guard nibbles on his sandwich. Villain only moves once and it’s to curl up on his side with his arms around his abdomen like he’s still in pain even though it’s been a day. He’s completely silent, though, so Guard leaves him alone.

Five hours have never felt so long. At least yesterday standing in the same place while glancing through bars on a door was new. Now, the minutes drag on and he recounts the cracks in the wall but when that gets old, he starts counting how many times he needs to nibble his sandwich to finish it. When it's gone, he still has three hours left. He could’ve sworn it’s been longer.

He’s bored. He’s tired of standing here. And his only source of entertainment is Villain.

He checks in on him again. Villain is still lying on the ground curled up in a ball. Vomiting should’ve solved whatever was upsetting his stomach, right? What’s still wrong with him?

“Hey,” Guard calls. “Something wrong?”

Villain curls himself tighter. “No.” His voice is strained. It’s a boldfaced lie.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“M’fine.”

He shouldn’t pick a fight with him. He knows it’s not worth it. But he’s bored out of his mind and maybe he shouldn’t just resign himself to letting Villain die, if just because he needs something to do.

He pulls out his key and unlocks the door. The click of the lock catches Villain’s attention immediately and wide eyes meet his as he steps into the room.

“W-wait,” Villain stammers and holds up a thin pleading hand, “wait, wait, I’m sorry, I wasn’t— I didn’t mean to—”

“What’s the problem?” Guard snaps at a cowering Villain. He didn’t exactly expect him to start grovelling, but he just needs to know what’s wrong with him.

His eyes flick between Guard and the door, but then drop to the floor fast. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to look at the, um, I just— my… my s-stomach…”

“Throwing up didn’t fix it?”

Villain winces. “No, no sir, it happened, um… after.”

After? “What happened after?”

“...Nothing. Nothing. S-sir.”

“Spit it out,” Guard says, annoyed. “I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong. What is it?”

Villain looks torn and terrified. Guard doesn't understand why it's such a big deal. He lifts a hand to gesture “well?” but Villain only cringes away from him.

“Well, it’s something with your stomach, right? And it’s not a digestive issue,” he says. Villain doesn’t respond. That’s a yes. “Lift up your shirt.”

He freezes. Understandable, but annoying nonetheless.

Guard frowns. “You’re not exactly making it easy for me to figure it out a normal way, so lift up your shirt.”

“No, wait, just— I-I’ll talk, I’ll talk, okay?” He sighs and mumbles shamefully through grit teeth. “I… it was a punishment. For throwing up. Okay? That’s— that’s what happened. They, um… beat me.”

“They beat your stomach?”

He nods. He doesn’t lift his gaze from the floor.

“Why?”

“My stomach’s why I threw up,” he shrugs. “So, that’s… that’s what they beat.”

Guard hums in acknowledgment. He sees the reasoning, he supposes, but beating his stomach won’t make him vomit any less. Isn’t the goal to solve the problem?

Villain raises his head just a little bit, daring to glance up. “Am I… are you done now?”

That’s when he remembers he originally just came in here to harass Villain and entertain himself. He almost feels bad. He does feel bad. But he’s already established that he isn’t here to be nice to him, so he just gives him a curt nod and lets him suffer in peace. As close to peace as he can get, at least.

Villain doesn’t move again for the next two-and-a-half hours, save for painstakingly shifting back into the same position on the floor he’d been in before Guard entered the cell. He doesn’t know how Villain is going to stomach his dinner if he threw up last night and now his stomach is in pain. Guard doubts the food will be any better tonight.

He receives the tray on schedule and slides it in. It holds the exact same food as yesterday, only the mystery meat is replaced with beans. It’s not enough to sustain him, not when he didn’t eat last night’s dinner and probably couldn’t eat any meals in between. But what can Guard do?

Thinking about food starts to make him hungry again too, which reminds him— the apple. He’ll just snack on that until his shift is over. He pulls it out and brushes it off and goes to take a bite, then stops. He takes a second to check on Villain. Villain hasn’t moved.

“Hey,” he says. “Uh…” How does he say this without being weird about it? “Are you gonna be able to eat that?”

Villain looks up at the tray of food and his eyelids droop warily. “Yes sir, I will, I’ll… I’ll eat it. I'll eat it. Have to.” He mutters the last bit hoarsely like the knowledge that he needs to eat it to survive is painful.

“I told you to stop lying to me,” Guard snaps. He’s trying to help Villain this time. “I’ve got an apple. If you couldn’t eat that I was gonna give it to you.”

At that, Villain’s eyes light up with hope and desperation. “Please.” He doesn’t even hesitate to beg. “I’m sorry, please. Please, I-I need— I won’t lie to you again, I swear I won’t, I swear, please!”

Part of him relishes in being able to make Villain beg. The better part of him rolls the apple through the slot under the door to get him to stop. “Here. Just don’t throw up again.”

“Y’sir, I won’t, I swear.” He practically lunges for the apple and bites into it. He still winces when he swallows, likely due to his stomach pain, but he gobbles up the apple twice as fast as he tried to eat his dinner last night. “Thank you— thank you, sir.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, then adds, “Really. I doubt I’m supposed to be giving you food. Don’t say anything to anyone or you’ll regret it.”

It’s a bluff— he isn’t actually going to do anything about it, not really— but Villain either doesn’t realize or doesn’t care because he nods vigorously nonetheless. “Yes sir.”

“Good.” He looks down at the untouched tray of prison food beside Villain. “An apple isn’t enough to make up for a day’s worth of missed meals. Try and eat that too. Just don’t eat so much you throw up again and the apple ends up not doing anything for you.”

Villain eyes the tray painfully but at Guard’s command, he steels himself. “Yes, sir.”

He doesn’t make it past three bites, but at least this time he doesn’t vomit. Guard counts that as a win.

#writing #original writing #whump #cw implied/referenced abuse #cw emetophobia #cw bad caretaker #cw starvation #cw begging #guard caretaker villain whumpee dynamic bc i lov it

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jamietarttsnorthernattitude · 4 months

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⭐star⭐

For your whumptober fills in general- how did you go about planning what to write for the month? Did you have certain goals for word count?

Then more specifically- anything you can share about ‘i say I don’t care, I say that im fine’?

Thank you friend!

So whenever the prompts dropped the end of August, I filed them all into a google doc and just wrote notes of ideas for each. Some ideas I already had, like Jamie hiding in injury when Zava was there so he didn't lose more ground and then saw the "suppressed suffering" and thought, perfect! I just went through each day, jotting down quick ideas that came from the prompts.

Some came easier than others, like swooning, okay concussion, and thermometer would be a sick fic. I made a google sheet with each day once I decided on the general idea. I tried to vary the actual injuries/whump. Some prompts I thought I would use and didn't, like broken, I thought, oh easy, broken bone, but I don't think I even used it even though it probably would have worked for a lot. Someone asked for some Roy whump, so I tried to include him in it.

My original idea was to do a single story for 31 days. I had no goal for word count. My problem is I am unable to tell a short story a lot. I can't keep my thoughts clear and concise when an event like an injury happens. I tend to want to go on longer with recovery, etc. So I ran out of steam trying to write 31 entries. I wrote wherever the plot bunnies took me originally, and as I got closer, I realized I needed to buckle down because I wanted to post these in order. So, I had to adjust some into multi-chapter stories and move around certain things.

Thank you for asking about, i say i don't care, i say that I'm fine, because it is one of my favorites.

it wasn't one I really had the thought of until the day of, actually. The prompts for the day were "recording", "made to watch", and "it should've been me". None of those I really vibed with, so I was planning to use one of the alternate ones in it's place. But then I was inspired by The Good Place storyline with Eleanor's Mom, how she struggles with thinking if her Mom could change this whole time, why was she not the one she changed for? And suddenly, it should've been me, made sense.

I struggled with a reason why James suddenly was sober over a year after last seeing his son. So this seemed as good a reason as any, and wanted to explore more with Jamie of his relationship with his father because I am of the strong belief that sober does not equal a good person. So I wanted to have Jamie not only find out someone else is the reason he's sober, but James still not truly changed. And then, of course, Jamie feels guilty about being jealous of someone he's never meant but also genuinely fearful for the child.

I am also obsessed with the notion of Jamie taking people's advice, but it's like a game of telephone where it's just slightly distorted. As fucked as Ted's advice to Jamie was in Mom City, I do think he meant Jamie should forgive his father for his own benefit (Ted having never forgiven his own father, etc.). Jamie wants to be accountable like Keeley told him to, but he never expects anyone to be accountable to him. And he takes accountability for things that really aren't his fault (being hacked). And I also think Higgins' advice is swirling around in that pretty head of his as well to forgive his father for who he isn't. So he's gotten all this advice meant to make him a better man, and he's trying, he's really trying, and all the advice is in a blender together and Jamie's drinking it down, combined in ways it wasn't intended. And also, Jamie forgets how he deserves to be treated, or thinks he doesn't deserve to be treated well.

I was also listening to a lot of Olivia Rodrigo's album, specifically The Grudge, where I got the title from, and it's just perfect for Jamie and his Dad. Some lyrics:

"It takes strength to forgive, but I don't feel strong."

"I fantasize about a time you were a little fucking sorry."

"I know in my heart, hurt people hurt people, and we both drew blood but man those cuts were never equal."

"How could anybody do the things you did so easily?"

"You know I can't let it go; I've tried, I've tried, I've tried."

"You built me up to watch me fall"

"I try to be tough, I try to be mean, But even after all this, you're still everything to me"

"And I doubt you ever think about the damage that you did."

"I hear your voice every time I think I'm not enough."

#director's cut commentary #ask box is always open #thank you thank you thank you friend #thank you for another excuse to talk about my writing <3 #jamie tartt #olivia rodrigo #the grudge #the good place #writing inspo #fic: i say i don't care i say that i'm fine #fuck Jamie’s dad #cw referenced child abuse

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runekeepershymnal · 2 years

Text

TRC AU- Everything is the same except Adam is the ghost.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, asshole?" a voice echoed around the warehouse as Ronan smashed plate after plate.

"My dad was murdered," Ronan answered, flinging a large dish like a frisbee in the direction he thought the voice came from. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

When Ronan threw the next plate, it didn't crash into anything, and was caught instead. The figure who caught it didn't wince at the impact against his long fingered hand. He was wearing an Aglionby uniform; it looked frayed. He was so pale and faded that Ronan thought that maybe he'd coalesced out of the motes of dust that perpetually drifted in every sunbeam.

The boy laughed, softly.

"That's funny," he said distantly. Ronan was across the room with his hand fisted in the boy's sweater before he'd even realized that he'd moved.

"Funny?" Ronan seethed, planning on beating the shit out of this kid no matter what he said next. "Tell me, you piece of shit, what's fucking funny about it?"

The air grew suddenly humid, and Ronan's right ear popped, the pressure in the left building without relief. The ancient outlets, never properly grounded, started to spit sparks.

Ronan hadn't struck him, but the boy had started to bleed, just on one side. Blood dripped from his nose, slid down the left side of his face from an ear, and, lastly, beaded at the corner of his eye until it overflowed, a viscous red raindrop.

"It's funny," the boy said, and his voice was wrong, so wrong, an echo without the source, thunder without the flash of lightning, "because my dad murdered me."

Lightning did strike then, no gap between it and the thunder because it was right outside the window. Ronan shut his eyes against the brightness, and when he opened them, his hand was empty. The sun was shining brightly as it had been when he arrived at Monmouth twenty minutes ago.

The plate he'd just thrown was on the ground, at his feet, whole. When he reached down to pick it up, Ronan noticed a drop of blood, patriotically crimson against the white of the porcelain with its decorations of Wedgewood blue. He stood. Tomorrow was the fourth, after all.

"I guess you had to be there," the boy's voice crackled right next to Ronan's ear.

The plate slipped from his grasp as he whirled in that direction, crashing to the floor and shattering as surely as if he'd done it on purpose.

No one was there. He turned and turned, but there was no one. Just dust in the sunbeams from a cloudless blue sky.

#trc #trc fanfic #horror #Adam is the ghost AU #no idea if I'll do anything more with this #cw: blood #cw: referenced child abuse #ronan lynch #adam parrish #the raven boys

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kittykatkatelol · 4 months

Text

"It was all worth it, wasn't it?" OC Oneshot

Prompt by @whumpcember - prompt: fire - day 17

(Half)Angel!Whumper, (Half)Demon!Whumpee

CW: Talk of religion/Religion being used an excuse for abuse, referenced/mentioned abuse - please let me know if I missed something

"There, there.. See? It doesn't hurt so bad now."

Wrong. It did hurt still. A lot. But Whumpee doesn't bother saying so - for all they knew, Whumper already knew Whumpee was still in pain from the latest cleansing ritual and was just waiting for them to complain. They just nodded their head meekly before resting in back on Whumper's lap.

Whumper let go of Whumpee's hands, both blistered beyond recognition - oh if they could just have bottled the cries of pain that escaped Whumpee's lips when it had happened. They could listen to that all day - Whumpee deserved it, didn't they? They were a devil - well half one but still - they had to have done something to displease Father, and that is worthy of punishment. What better than punishment while cleansing them?

It was all going to be worth it - redemption was worth the pain. Whumper was helping them get redeemed, they just had to trust the process.

The angel ran a hand through Whumpee's hair - the unholiness they felt was enough to want to throw Whumpee back into hell where they belong. But they were a half-breed just as Whumper, and even they deserved the smallest glimmer of hope that things would get better.

They would not, but Whumper enjoyed this a little too much to burst the demon's bubble - it was their job after all to redeem Whumpee in anyway they could.

"It was all worth it, wasn't it, Whumpee? You don't want to give up on redemption now, do you? After we've come so far.."

"It was all worth it.. Thank you, Whumper." Their voice sounded weak and rough, maybe from the screaming, maybe from the holy water they had drunk for the ritual - maybe it was both.

Whumper sighs contentedly at Whumpee's words. They both knew Whumpee would just get sent to the fires of hell the mere moment they decided they didn't want redemption or it just wasn't worth it.

Whumpee remembered the fires of hell well, and was in no hurry to return. The tortures of there was worse than the cleansing rituals here. They'll take Whumper's occasional cruel words and the harsh slap when they were being stupid, and the painful rituals over hell.

"I would get some rest if I were you. You'll need it for tomorrow."

This was one request Whumpee gladly followed and they were glad Whumper had saw their eyes start to droop from where they rest in their lap.

Whumpee kept his head at an awkward angle to keep it resting on the angel's lap - Whumper's demand request - while the rest of them stayed on the floor. They slept, but not very restfully - visions of torture and death filling their mind each time the demon closed their eyes. It disgusted Whumper, but there wasn't much they could do about it.

Whumpee didn't know how long they "slept" but they were woken up with a, "You've slept long enough. We can't keep Father waiting."

From this angle, Whumpee couldn't see the awful smile on Whumper's lips. It was another day, another ritual.

It was all worth it. It had to be.

[Word count: 523]

#whumpcember2023 #whumpcemberday17 #angel whumper #demon whumpee #whump #whump writing #microfic #cw religion #cw referenced/mentioned abuse

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troublewithvampires · 8 months

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@bxtsence said: “You don’t need to tell me everything. I just want to know how I can help.”

(noticing trauma starters - open)

Salvatore's skin was on fire. That was the only way he could explain the itching, burning sensation dancing across his body. It had to be on fire, and he had to be slowly melting from its agonizing touch. He couldn't see or smell or hear the flames, but they had to be there. They had to.

Reality, though, wasn't that simple. There was no fire.

Salvatore was curled up in a defensive ball under a table, his claws digging painfully into his arms as he stared into space. There was no blood left in him to spill, but still he heard it roaring in his ears.

It took a few seconds for him to realize that Rowan was there, kneeling by the table and watching him. When he did, Salvatore startled, rearing back and bashing his head against the wall behind him in his haste to escape. Immediately, he cursed, one hand going to the back of his head as he stared at Rowan. He was trying to glare, but there was no anger in the expression.

"F... fuck you," he spat weakly. He swallowed. "Don't sneak up on a guy like that, asshole." Rowan hadn't been trying to sneak up on him, sure, but he was startled nonetheless.

Soon, though, Rowan was speaking, sounding actually concerned for him. What a fucking joke, someone worrying about Salvatore. He wasn't meant for that, and he fucking knew it. If Rowan was checking after him, it was out of pity at best, he was sure. Despite himself, Salvatore bristled and bared his teeth, the grimace of a frightened animal.

"You can help by not fuckin' crowdin' me," Salvatore growled. "I-I feel like I'm fuckin' trapped in here, fuckin' caged in, like in th-" Like in the warehouse. Like in the basement. But Rowan didn't know about that, unless Dio spilled the beans. And Salvatore couldn't bring himself to explain.

The anger drained from his expression, and for a moment he just looked miserable. Then, he hid his face in his folded arms, curling in on himself. Victor never liked it when he did that, always mocking him for not being enough of a man to fucking take it, but he couldn't find it in himself to care about that then.

"Thanks," he said bitterly, "for tryin', I-I appreciate it, but there ain't shit you can do for me." He sighed. "... If you wanna go, go ahead, but..." A pause. "... Please don't lock the door behind you." Oh how he hated how small his voice sounded there.

#❝ take it from old sally two shoes‚ kid ❞ 「 in character 」#❝ i'll talk your ear off‚ kid ❞ 「 answered 」#❝ here comes the debt collector ❞ 「 jojo verse 」#bxtsence #//ohhh boy tags time #self harm cw #abuse cw #forced imprisonment cw #//<- mostly referenced but just in case ig

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scratchandplaster · 8 months

Text

Stack The Deck - Fair-weather company

CW: corny behavior, suggestive language, PTSD, aftermath of torture and injury, medical whump, mention of self harm, hand whump

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

The taste of cheap liquor still stuck to the roof of their mouths, and with the streetlights already guiding the way, they could stumble freely onto the driveway. Hardly trying to keep her laughter down, Amber unlocked the front gate of the massive family home and let the cold spring breeze follow them.

Her escort was close behind her when she stepped over the doorway, hands still clutching onto her bags. As always, they had swiped a lot more food from her friend's house party than intended, but that turned out to be his favorite part of the night.

"You good?" she slurred while turning around to meet him.

With a gentle push of his foot, Elliot let the door fall back into place: "Yup, I'm just gonna say hello real quick and get going. I got practice tomorrow morning."

This would be a terrible first impression, but better than bluntly running through a house he didn't belong in.

"My parents aren't home tonight," she disclosed, the news echoing through the foyer, "So no rush. The party doesn't have to stop."

Elliot knew that glance well enough, the one he got at family reunions. Or birthdays. Or funerals, for some tasteless reason.

"Oh come on, not when I'm half-shitfaced!" A tired huff was all he could muster as she grabbed him by his hands to lead.

"Please, baby..."

With that, he was dragged through the hall past the coat rack and over to an upright brown piano at the back of the living room. The simple white decorations didn't divert him from noticing how this room, apparently only existing for a couch and TV, was nearly big enough to fit his whole apartment.

"Still a no," he tried to mumble, only to be excitedly interrupted.

"Pleasepleaseplease!" sparkling eyes begged without ever losing contact, "You didn't want to do it at Rhys' place, it's just us now."

Amber hugged his waist tight, holding him close for a minute. Elliot knew what she wanted and also how it would end: with her winning, like she always did.

"Alright, alright," he pressed a quick kiss on top of her head. "But only one!"

Kicking his shoes off at the carpet's edge, Amber made him sit down on a dusty velvet stool to warm up to the old box. Elliot thought about playing some ethereal overture, an hour-long session that would only impress his conductor; or maybe the Faerie's Aire...

Let's hope I still got that ready on call.

Through his tipsy courage, he remembered a gift he prepared weeks ago, before their first big fight-

Why not, actually?!

Slender fingers pressed carefully down on the black and white keys, forcing the first notes of the evening out from the mahogany.

"I know you like this one. I had to secretly google the lyrics first, though," he admitted through a whisper.

A few wayward sounds proved what he had already worried about: that thing hadn't been tuned in forever. What a waste of art in this suburban ivory tower.

"But you know I can't sing for shit, so save your jokes for later. And if Sahra ever gets wind of this, she will not let me live it down," Elliot continued to sigh dramatically, "I mean, should I flop at the next auditions, maybe they can use me as a choir boy instead."

"You would get one of those pretty white robes, so think about it!" Amber too settled down on behind him, arms wrapped in sequin rested around his neck.

"You'll definitely need a safeword when this gets too sappy."

His hands practically danced from left to right now, filling the whole room with bone-deep warmth.

"How about something creative; like: Please, Elli, stop! My ears are bleeding!"

An amused scoff was everything she earned and unable to hide his smirk, Elliot cleared his throat one last time. As the familiar melody began to match the gentle hum in the back of her sweetheart's chest, Amber got more than she bargained for:

"True that I saw her hair like the branch of a tree

A willow dancing on air before covering me

Under cotton and calicoes

Over canopy dapple long ago"

Elliot must've had a few more drinks than expected, she wondered, giving how calmly he let the words bubble from his lips; usually she had to press up against the bathroom door to catch a taste of it.

"Must be felled for to fight the cold

I fretted fire, but that was long ago"

With a sudden spark, the pace picked up intensity, fingertips now slamming out the melodies from inside the wooden frame.

"And it's not tonight

Where I'm set alight

And I blink in sight

Of your blinding light"

How lucky could a girl like her be?

"Oh, it's not tonight

Where you hold me tight

Light the fire bright

Oh, let it blaze, alright"

To meet someone like this?

"Oh, but you're good to me

Oh, you're good to me

Oh, but you're good to me, baby"

To wake up with hands around her shoulders, holding her close. Not on her chest, ass or in between her legs. No hard, needy pressure rubbing against her back.

"With each love I cut loose, I was never the same

Watching still-living roots be consumed by the flame

I was fixed on your hand of gold

Laying waste to my lovin' long ago"

No, he never used her like this - even when she asked him to.

"So in awe, there I stood as you licked off the grain

Though I've handled the wood, I still worship the flame

Long as amber of ember glows

All the would that I'd loved is long ago"

The drone of the strings still reverberated deep inside them, as the last echo died down somewhere between these walls.

Meanwhile, Elliot was grinning like an idiot because of the puns and if not for free video tutorials, he would've missed out on this inviting opportunity. He really overdid it with the shots this time, even made him miss some dazed notes, but he couldn't say no to a shot of Apple Pie.

From the corner of his eye, he caught the glimpse of a teared-up Amber. Her head rested on his shoulder, shaky hands petting his back.

"That terrible? Oh god," he whispered against her hairline with a small chuckle. She dyed it honey-yellow this week, very pretty, like always.

"Shut up." Amber kissed a line down his neck.

He hoped the embrace they were caught in would last forever. It did, for a moment, until they both noticed a shape leaning against the doorway to the kitchen.

"Cute," Chase nodded, munching on his midnight snack of dry high-protein cereal, "if that didn't make you wet, I don't know what will!"

Lovely like always.

"You're so fucking gross," Amber hollered with an earring in hand, ready to be thrown. "No wonder that Taylor didn't screw you without getting paid first. Piss off!"

Elliot decided not to get in between the twins when they were... mediating. God knows he never had to bother fighting any sibling off, but all they got was the dirty "Make me, bitch!" Chase made on his way upstairs anyway.

Public Amber was back, it seemed. Not that she wasn't herself when they had company, just... different. Elliot wondered when he would get used to it.

Walking back to him, she let the grained lid lower itself down onto the keys: "Should've eaten him in the womb, honestly."

Besides her irritated huffing, one question remained, though: "Can you stay? I don't want to be alone tonight."

Of course he did, but the only downside threatened to ruin this too.

"Practice?"

Amber melted into the hands that slowly stroked over her forearms: "I wake you up, promise!"

As if that ever worked before.

"Okay then," he blinked towards the full bags that still leaned against the door frame, "just need to get this into the fridge first."

If it meant he would always be like this for her, Amber could wait for him. And if she let herself be herself with him, Elliot could learn to love all her other sides too. Together.

Always.

---

"Mr. Ribera?"

"Mhh?"

"Are you still with me? Just this exercise and you're done for today."

"Yeah, sorry..."

The off-white walls of the hospital room had grown homelike during the weeks he spent in and out of feverish delirium. Fahim from OT, more than an angel in his turquoise scrubs, patiently let his pen rest on the clipboard. He had been here every day since the fog inside his head had lifted, but today, Elliot wasn't sure if he liked the company.

Sitting together at a small table, only a bit of equipment and a glass of water between them, this suddenly seemed too familiar in the worst way possible.

Yes, he needed the exercise, be it a walk around the corridors or a quick game of catch, but after all the training, he knew he was still where he started. And Fahim seemed to finally recognize this too.

Elliot had offered to be on a first-name basis, but even after agreeing to it, the OT was too polite for his own good. Elliot could try to read the annotations that waited to be shared with the doctors and nurses, long upside-down medical babble was all he could make out right now, ready to be filed.

Did he really want to know what it said?

The sudden beep of monitors around them reminded of the fact that he was still wired up like the Christmas tree in the foyer, just less joyous. The tube of a catheter snaked up to his left collarbone, making Elliot accessible for whatever they wanted to shoot him up with. Liquid relief, if only for a few hours. He didn't press the friendly red button at his bedside often enough, especially not before therapy, to not alienate the outcome, Fahim insisted.

And why not so? He already hit rock bottom.

"Let's go, then," Elliot said, and his voice cracked weakly.

"Okay!" Fahim quickly picked up and let his attention rest on the board between them; nine holes in it, waiting for the unlucky patient to fill them up.

"Now I’d like you to switch and use your left hand. You can use your other to stabilize the board. Ready?"

Only one at a time and neatly placed, surely. How thrilling my life is.

"Same order as last time?"

"Exactly. Whenever you're ready." With his thumb steady on the stopwatch, Fahim waited for Elliot's left to start moving. It was still wrapped up in tidy white gauze but left his fingers free to move. His first three ones, that was, the rest stayed tightly screwed together.

At the click of the watch, Elliot had already picked up a peg between his thumb and pointer finger to carefully maneuver upright into the first hole. With this one placed securely down, the second made his whole forearm shake so badly, it nearly slipped out of his grasp in the first few seconds. With the iron grip back, the always present burning decided to let itself surface from under the chemically induced numbness. Quicker than anticipated, the flare shot up from his hand all the way to his neck, meeting where the thin plastic tube had been shoved in.

His face was on fire now too, from pain or humiliation, he couldn't tell. The white-hot prickle gouged itself deeper and deeper into his flesh, dancing around the wires that held the bones in place, making Elliot feel them straining the tight stitches ever so horribly. A pressure that didn't belong inside him.

The wooden peg fell down onto the board, rolling back towards its box.

"Take your time."

He despised Fahim for these calming words and hated himself instantly for it. The poor man was doing his job, wasn't his fault that Elliot was as strong as a bundle of lettuce.

Despite all efforts, he couldn't get a grasp on that little stick again and with another click of the timer, this chance was officially over.

The therapist gave him a reassuring smile, just as empty as his words: "Great work, I think you can rest for today."

I performed Beethoven, you know?

Enjoying his prescribed rest, he watched Fahim move the pen on the paper, probably documenting every failure of the day. A peek could do non harm, Elliot supposed. He thought of how his music teacher made him play with the sheets turned upside-down, as a fun warm-up. What a cruel blessing this turned out to be.

Thumb opposition (✔, Kapandji 6)

Inferior+superior pincer grasp (✔)

Radial palmar grasp (✔)

Closure of fist (✗)

9HPT: r= trial 1 (16s), trial 2 (14s), l= trial 1 (✗ after 120s). Elliot could make out a big thunderbolt scribbled behind that, probably the first note he understood. Weakness, P unable to complete trial due to physical limitations.

Physical limitations. That sounded so nice; much more harmless than molten iron running down his arm and turning to ants under his fingertips.

"Let's try that again soon," Fahim finally looked back up to collect the arsenal of tools and elastic bands, "until then you need to take your walks and train your hand." His head bopped toward a small foam ball on his bedside table. Elliot had stomped on it a few times, to give it that well-used look the therapist needed to see.

"How long will it take?" he mumbled with a thin smirk on his lips.

"My colleague will be here tomorrow, so-"

"No, sorry. I mean...how long will it take?"

As he leaned back into his chair, Fahim was visibly trying to hold back a sigh, his ink-black beard rustling against the hospital's uniform. He let his view rest on Elliot for what felt like the longest five seconds of his life, warm and patient. Elliot hoped he wasn't a 10 on the annoying-patient-scale, but he just had to know-

"One day at a time."

Yeah, they were definitely on the same page now.

"Thanks for your time," Elliot tried to sound at least a little bit motivated as he walked with him as far as the tubes allowed, "See you on Monday."

--------

The first thing Elliot remembered was screaming at the doctors. How they had gotten him into the hospital was lost to the feverish heat of the first week, just as any questions or treatments he endured. Thank god he kept his stupid mouth shut, even though that didn't stop anyone from asking over and over again.

Elliot hadn't been lucid enough for a good enough excuse, so none ever made it across his lips, he didn't own that cheap lie to anyone. Any injury had to be self-inflicted then, more or less officially because nobody intended to get the police further involved. Too much paperwork, they had whispered.

Now, everybody knew it was his fault; that's what they believed, and he didn't intend to convince anyone of the opposite.

Elliot's mother had told him about how terribly he lost it when they brought him in for the first surgery. Embarrassing, really, but he couldn't think of what he went on about or why he would ever be so aggressive.

They treated him to some extra medicine, making him stay quiet for even longer. He recognized that weirdly trusted feeling after a while: whatever had kept him down during his time in that crack house bathroom was also flowing into him with a press of a button, conveniently placed in reach.

He was behaving himself since, of course, after that aimless fury got out of his system. They gave him a splint and biweekly counseling and OT... as a treat, he supposed.

The man in the bed to his right went home after a day, "Just carpal tunnel," he said with an apologetic smile.

Elliot was alone again, only surrounded by an ocean of flowers with some cards swimming in between:

"Get well soon!"

"All the best! "

"Visit Fleming Beach!" Huh?

In the short time living on his own, he wasn't able to make many friends around town; his parents visited nearly every day, but that only made it harder. Between her shifts, Elliot's futility had practically forced his mom to pack up everything on her own: the ultimate offense to the woman who had nothing but helped him.

They were all safe now, but somehow the relief about dodging his worst fear didn't show itself. It was just pain now, every day for every minute.

Two more weeks in here, according to the latest prognosis, and then straight into the unknown. Ambulant rehabilitation maybe, workplace retraining - something like that.

Alone again, until another blood sample or change of dressing became necessary.

Couldn't it have been something else? Elliot would rather be living with his ankle smashed to pieces... or skull, he didn't use its contents anyway, right? Otherwise, he wouldn't be in that fucking bed with a piss bottle on its side.

How much healing to get his life back?

It would only get harder from here on out, that's for sure; although he didn't have to feel all of this right now, therapy was over. So Elliot pressed the big red button down, letting the rush of numbness take him away, if only for a moment.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Thanks for reading 🤍 [Masterlist]

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