#*unkills your whumpee* woe overstimulation be upon thee

[hurtmyfavsthanks]

Shuffles in

I’ve once again been inspired by your ideals. I give you, a character that dies, right? Their dead, dying was scary but death? Oh what bliss. Floating in an endless cocoon of love and safety waiting in between worlds to be reborn once more, seeing glimpses of their loved ones through eyes of birds, bugs, and trees. Finally safe, finally at peace

Only to be resurrected.

Oh dear god it hurts. Their first breath of their new life is used to scream out in agony. They’re in pain, disoriented, and dizzy, unable to breathe through the ragged sobs. Typically the more stoic type, whumpee now clinging to caretaker like a child, screaming and crying into their form. Caretaker assumes death must be horrible watching Whumpee trying to live again, what else could have them so traumatized? Whumpee is exhausted by everything. They’re despondent, maybe a part of them remained in the beyond. Part of them is furious that they were even resurrected, another wants to return.

ANYWAYS RESURRECTED WHUMPEES ACKNOWLEDGING THE MANNER OF DEATH AND THE RESURRECTION IS WHAT HURTS RATHER THAN DEATH ITSELF >>>>

Oh hohohohohohohoh this is SO up my alley!!

One of my FAVORITE tropes is the ‘for their own good’. I love some conflict between Whumpee and Caretaker. Caretaker genuinely wanting to help Whumpee, loving them, but that love pushes them to hurt Whumpee in some way.

Painful resurrection is perfect for that!

Like you said, dying is scary. Their body torn apart, air crushed from their lungs. It’s terrifying, maddening, and there’s nothing Whumpee wants more than to live.

But death? That’s different. The moment Whumpee’s pulled from their mangled body, all pain is left behind. The terror leaves just as quickly, their mind clearing of panic. In an instant everything is calm, peaceful, perfect. It’s a level of peace Whumpee has never known, and in that moment all they feel is relief.

And then Caretaker reaches out, some sort of dark magic glowing at their fingertips, and drags Whumpee’s spirit back into its broken vessel.

It’s agony. Every nerve that comes back to life screams with a pain that no living creature should feel. The pain of decay, the pain of rotting, life being forced back into a body no longer fit for it. Whumpee wasn’t supposed to feel this; they weren’t supposed to be here.

In that moment, delirious with pain, overwhelmed by their rekindled life, Whumpee hates Caretaker. Hates their gentle touches that send agony through their body. Hates the tearful, loving expression on their face that should bring them comfort. Hates how they can feel Caretaker’s nails digging into their very soul, bringing them out of peaceful oblivion into agonizing life.

Whumpee’s beyond words, beyond reason. All they can do is cry; a wordless, haunting wail as they’re pulled back together against their will.

Caretaker holds them close. Whumpee doesn’t have the strength to pull away.

“I won’t let you die,” Caretaker says they pull Whumpee close, sending another wave of regenerative magic through them. Their voice is thick with tears, yet there’s an unwavering determination that speaks to their conviction. Their words are a promise, and Whumpee can only sob in response.

Whumpee doesn’t die, as much as they wish they had. Their body, only recovered enough to keep their soul contained, is carried to a hospital.

Recovery is slow. It’s days before Whumpee can so much as move, let alone acknowledge the world around it. It’s as if they’ve forgotten how to puppet their own body; it's as if they have to puppet their own body rather than movement being instinctual.

But eventually, they learn how to force their flesh under their command again. Eventually they remember how to force themselves to speak. They learn how to live again. But they’re not quite the same.

Caretaker tries to help the best they can. They’re an attentive nurse; always lingering nearby, ready to get Whumpee anything they could ask for. They’re patient when Whumpee struggles to speak, still remembering how to use their tongue. There’s nothing but joy and relief in their eyes, and a smile rises to their lips whenever they look Whumpee’s way.

Whumpee hates it, though they know they shouldn’t. Something in them screams that Caretaker is cruel and heartless and selfish, and they hate that they can’t blot the voice out.

Whumpee knows that Caretaker’s efforts are worthless, because Whumpee could never explain what’s wrong. How could they explain the total peace of death? How can they explain how everything was overwhelming in comparison, even the touch of air against their skin? How could they explain the ache they felt; the ache of a body they no longer fit in, the ache of something deep inside them that knew they weren't meant to be here?

How can they explain that everything is to much now? The feeling of soft bed sheets burns against their skin, the blandest means so overwhelming that Whumpee wants to gag. Just the feeling of their own skin, suffocatingly tight, feels baddening after the peaceful nothingness of death.

There aren’t any words that Whumpee could say to make Caretaker understand. They don’t have the words to explain it. And so when Caretaker stares into Whumpee’s eyes, so desperate to help them recover, there’s only one thing Whumpee can think to say.

“You should’ve let me die.” They whisper, the most they’ve spoken since their revival. They feel both a bitter satisfaction and a deep ache at the way the words make Caretaker’s expression crumble.

Whumpee doesn’t die again, not anytime soon. They eventually leave the hospital, returning to as close to normalcy as they can. But they don’t talk to Caretaker much either, and they never quite fit in their own skin anymore.