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tildeathiwillwrite · 2 months ago

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Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow

Whumptober Day 1: RACE AGAINST THE CLOCK | Search Party | Panic Attack | "If only we could hold on.”

Whumptober Day 2: TRUST ISSUES | Amusement Park | Role Reversal | “You got away with the crime while the knife's in my back.”

Whumptober Day 9: OBSESSION | Broken Window | Bruises | “Frame me up on the wall, just to keep me out of trouble.”

Whumptober Day 18: REVENGE | Unreliable Narrator | Loss of Identity | “I see what's mine and take it.”

Whumptober Prompts List | Masterpost

Bad Things Happen Bingo: Tranquilizer Dart

Fandom: Original Work

Words: 4000

Tag List: @badthingshappenbingo @fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds @pigeonwhumps @mr-orion

@scaewolf @the-ellia-west

CW: 2nd person POV, running, attempted escape, tranquilizer dart, failed escape, amnesisa, noncon drugging, carewhumper, deception, panic, knife, needles, blood, threats, broken glass, drowning, bad ending

A/N: It's only day 1 and I'm already combining prompts like the madwoman I am. This is based on a dream I had at the beginning of September, and believe me when I say all four of these days PLUS the BTHB all apply.

----------

You are running for your life.

You hear shouts some distance behind you as you sprint through the woods, hands held protectively in front of your face as pine branches whip past you, striking any exposed skin with a harsh sting. You can only hope that the branches that slow you down also slow down your pursuers, and you seem to be right, the shouts are getting quieter.

You had a good head start, you think. Before you started running, things were kind of a blur. But that’s why you had to run. Right?

It doesn’t matter. You’re running for your life, your bare feet pounding against the pine-needle-covered ground, enduring torture from the branches you push through. Your calf muscles are beginning to ache, and you have stitches on both sides, but you keep running.

Running is better than being caught. You’re not sure why that is, but you know that with absolute certainty. And that certainty is what keeps you running.

So you run.

And run.

And—

You burst free from the thicket of pines into some sort of clearing covered in dead, dry branches, perhaps from a storm long ago. Glancing up, you glimpse the sky through the gap in the trees, and hope swells within you. No longer hindered by the trees you just forced yourself through, you put on more speed, dodging around the graveyard of branches.

Pain erupts in your thigh.

You stumble, looking down to find a feathered dart sticking out of your leg. Not daring to glance back, you yank it out and keep running, nearly to the far side of the clearing.

But the damage has already been done.

The world blurs before your eyes, and the ground seems to vanish beneath your feet. You crash to the ground, pain tearing through your hands, arms, and back.

You landed on one of the dead branches. The delicate twigs must be sharper than you realized. Lethargically, you raise one of your hands to your face, but the world is still too blurred—or your eyes are still too unfocused—to make out anything but a vague red splotch among the brown and gray and green. Your hand falls.

Dead pine needles crunch as someone approaches. You try to turn your head, but it doesn’t move. A shadow falls over you, and you barely see a dark silhouette at the edge of your vision.

No.

Someone’s hands appear, supporting your neck and legs.

No.

The hands lift you up, away from the branch, away from the ground.

“Nonono….” you mumble, trying to move, trying to get away.

You do not move. You do not get away.

“It’s okay, I got you,” a voice says.

You do not recognize the voice.

“You’re safe now.”

You are not safe.

“You must be so tired from all that running.”

The voice speaks the truth.

“Rest now. I’ll keep you safe.”

You can’t rest.

But your traitorous body thinks otherwise. Your eyelids slide closed, and the entire world spins around you as the voice begins to carry you away. You don’t know where.

You don’t want to go with them.

But as the drug contained in the dart pulls you under, you find you don’t have the energy to care anymore.

----------

“...how far…”

“No… last time….”

“...thicket…?”

“Ha! That didn’t… a bit….”

----------

You open your eyes, and you are not alone.

You lay on your back in the softest bed you ever recall sleeping in, a plush pillow beneath your head and a warm blanket over your body. The ceiling is dark paneled wood, and the walls are decorated with faded wallpaper patterned with flowers.

An armchair has been pulled up next to your bed, and a man sits in it, reading a book whose title you cannot make out. He glances up as you turn your head, and smiles.

“Hello,” he says gently, “how are you feeling?”

You stare at him for a moment, thinking. Now that your attention is drawn to it, you are aware of bandages wrapped around your hands and forearms. You raise your hands, feeling a strange sense of deja vu, but nothing about them seems out of the ordinary aside from the white cloth wrapped around your palms. Flexing your fingers causes a slight twinge of discomfort, not quite pain but not nothing, either.

“What happened?” You try to ask, but your voice catches. You clear your throat and try again.

“You had quite the fall in the woods,” the man explains, closing his book and setting it on the nightstand beside your bed. A cup of clear liquid sits next to it, and he hands it to you. “Here, drink.”

When you hesitate, he smiles patiently. “It’s just water.”

The water has a faint metallic aftertaste, but that’s not unusual. You think. Perhaps it’s well water.

“You can call me Theron,” the man says as you sip at the water. “I found you semiconscious in the woods near my house. Your arms and hands were pretty scratched up, and I thought you just had a mild concussion until you passed out and wouldn’t wake up.”

“Oh…” you mumble, frowning. You don’t remember any of that. You remember… uh… that… you remember running. And falling. But now you’re not sure.

“What’s your name?”

You open your mouth to answer confidently, but the words die on your lips as you realize that no, you don’t know your own name. Your hands begin to tremble, and Theron quickly takes the cup from you and sets it back on the nightstand. “I…” you stammer, “I’m sorry… I don’t remember… I don’t….”

“Hey,” Theron says gently, taking your hands in his own, “that’s okay. I’m sure it’ll come back to you soon. I don’t suppose you know why you were in the woods?”

“I…” you begin hesitantly, now half-convinced that the blurry memories of running and falling might just have been dreams, “I think… I think I was running. And I tripped… I think. But no… I don’t know why I was running.”

“I’m sure you had a reason,” Theron encourages, “just give it time, you’re still healing. You’re probably hungry, so how about we get some food from the kitchen? Do you feel up to coming with me?”

You think for a moment, gauging how well your body would react to standing up and walking. You're not dizzy or anything, maybe a little light-headed, but considering what Theron said it made sense. Your hands and arms with their aching sort of discomfort, but otherwise you think you feel okay. "I think so."

Theron nods and rises from his chair, holding out a hand to you. You push back the blankets covering you to discover that you're wearing clothes that are comfortable but don't seem like the kind of thing you'd typically wear. Soft, flowing garments of a muted green color. As Theron helps you to your feet, you can't help but think that while the clothes are comfortable, something about them feels slightly off to you.

"Is everything all right?"

You realize your confusion mixed with a vague sense of disgust must be showing on your face. "Yeah," you lie, "just a little light-headed. I'm okay now."

An emotion quickly crosses his face, gone so quickly you don't have time to place it. But he immediately accepts your explanation, leading you to the door. "Let me know if you need to rest. The kitchen isn't far."

"Okay."

Theron opens the door and moves out into the hallway, and your breath catches in your throat, along with the realization that this isn't simply a house. It is a full-on manor. The carpet on the floors is a deep burgundy, and while the walls are simple dark wooden panels, they are adorned with paintings and lined with small tables with sculptures and decorative china and lamps resting upon them. Massive windows allow natural light to illuminate the hallway, revealing a thick forest beyond the walls of the manor.

The two of you are also not the only ones in the manor. You pass by three people on the way to the kitchen, two men and one woman, all dressed in uniforms colored in black and green. They all nod to you and Theron in greeting as they pass.

"My household staff," Theron explains, noticing the way you stare. "It's a lot of work for one person to run a place this size."

"How many are there?" You ask softly, wondering if the latest passerby is still in earshot.

"No more than twenty, usually. On special occasions I hire temporary staff. Things like parties, renovations, or hunts."

You tilt your head curiously. "'Hunts'?"

"Yes. I own an extensive amount of land, roughly several square miles. I host hunts in the autumn and winter for a number of seasoned huntsmen. They're the most chaotic of the events I host, with many guests and the usual fast pace of a hunt, but I enjoy them immensely."

You contemplate his words as you enter a room that appears to be a dining room, with a heavy table in the center lined with chairs. A simple white tablecloth covers it, with a lace runner down the center. A chandelier provides the illumination, lighting the room with a warm vaguely yellow light cast from the electric bulbs. Theron leads the way past the table into a swinging door opposite the door you came in through, entering into the kitchen proper.

The kitchen is devoid of activity, dark and completely deserted. Theron flicks a light switch, and a single row of overhead lights snap to life, leaving the rest of the kitchen in darkness. The lights show a few countertops, one with a sink, several cabinets, a row of metal refrigerators, one of many stoves, and a plain table in the corner laden with a tea tray, near a door that you guess leads to a pantry. A kettle rests on the stove you can see.

Theron ushers you to one of the chairs around the small table and pulls it out for you to sit. You obey, still mulling over his earlier explanations. What was I doing on his land, if he owns 'several square miles' of it? Was I one of his hunters? If so, shouldn't he know my name?

You realize you still don't fully believe his story about a fall. Perhaps it's just the lack of headache, but something about it, something about everything rubs you the wrong way.

"How long was I unconscious?"

Theron pauses as he fills the kettle with water. He frowns in thought for a moment. "Most of the day," he finally says, turning off the faucet. He places the kettle on one of the stove burners and turns it on with a click. "Roughly sixteen hours. I found you yesterday, sometime in the evening, when I was out on a walk to clear my head before the sun went down. It's now mid-afternoon."

You nod hesitantly. That same uneasiness still curls in the pit of your stomach, almost taking away your appetite.

"We're lucky I found you when I did," he continues, crossing the kitchen and opening the nearby door. You spy rows of well-stocked shelves inside. Indeed a pantry. "We're currently in the off-season for hunting, but who knows what sorts of creatures might wander about the grounds?"

He returns with a covered basket. Setting it on the table, he returns to the stove and removes the tea kettle, steam now rising from its spout, and brings it over to the table, putting it next to the basket. Finally, he ducks back into the pantry and returns with a few small jars carefully stacked in his hands. The jars all appear to contain the exact same dried leaves.

"All right," Theron says, pulling out the chair opposite you and sitting down, "take your pick. I grabbed white tea, green tea, and herbal tea."

You slowly nod, as if you had any way of knowing which jars held which tea. Do you even like tea? After a long moment, you point to the one on the right. Theron smiles and takes it, unscrewing the top and scooping the contents into the teapot with a little teaspoon. He doesn't clarify which is which, and you don't ask.

"How are you feeling?" He asks gently, setting aside the jars of tea. "You look overwhelmed."

"A little bit," you admit, tracing a finger along the wood grain on the table. "It's just... it's a lot... and I just woke up... and I still don't remember anything...."

Theron hums in sympathy. "I can't claim to understand, but I'll do my best to make you comfortable. Just let me know what you need, okay?"

You smile uneasily. His words were intended to put you at ease, but they somehow have the opposite effect. You simply nod, unsure of how to even articulate the sense of wrongness about all this.

Theron doesn't press you any further, instead pouring tea into two small cups. A light, almost floral scent rose from the orange-colored liquid along with the steam. Perhaps you had chosen herbal? You didn't know what white tea was supposed to look like, but green tea you assumed was supposed to be, well, green. Theron pushes one of the cups towards you and removes the cloth cover from the basket, revealing an assortment of rolls and pastries.

You grab one covered in a yellow glaze and bite into it. The glaze is sweet, balanced by an almost plain flavor from the pastry. You almost expect the taste to invoke a memory, but it does not. The tea is almost too hot to taste, but you taste enough to cement that you have chosen herbal tea.

Silence settles over the kitchen as you eat, Theron nibbling at a poppyseed muffin. Your earlier apprehension and fear seem to evaporate by the time you finish the pastry and the cup of tea. You consider taking another roll, but somehow find your eyes glazing over.

"You okay?" Theron asks quietly.

You blink up at him and almost nod, but instead, you shake your head. "My head," you say in a whisper.

He pushes back his chair and stands, holding a hand out to help you up as well. Your vision tunnels as he pulls you upright. "Here," he says softly, "I'll take you back to your room so you can rest, and I'll come back when it's time for dinner. If you're feeling up to it, you can eat in the dining room. If not, I'll bring it to your room. Sounds good?"

Anything involving rest sounds good. You nod and smile, although somehow, you feel this isn't right. But the feeling quickly evaporates like the morning mist in sunlight.

----------

It is late at night. You slowly drift fully awake, alone in your room, and for a few moments, everything is peaceful. You are numb, and comfortable, and happy.

The peace vanishes. And everything off crashes down upon you like a tidal wave of anxiety.

You bolt into a sitting position, hands pressed against your temples as the pieces fall into place. You had fallen, yes, but not out of a tree. Theron had found you, yes, but he had not rescued you. He had retrieved you.

You were trying to escape.

You need to get out of here.

Panic racing through you like lightning strikes, you throw off your covers and get out of bed, crossing the room to the door. Your hand is on the door handle when your logical mind catches up with you. What if Theron sees you? What if one of the staff sees you?

The kitchen isn't far, you think. Your memories of the past few days are such a murky, blurry mess you aren't certain how long you've been here. But you think you can get to the kitchen, get a knife or some other weapon. And then find a way out. A door, or breaking a window would suffice. As long as you could run and get away and stay away, this time.

Your heart beats like a drum in your chest, but you force yourself to pause and listen for movement outside in the hallway. Silence. Everyone is asleep. Should be asleep. Just like you should be.

You still aren't sure how you had been so docile this whole time. It seemed like every time a rebellious thought occurred, a thought of escape, it had simply vanished. Until now.

Which was why you needed to get out of here fast. Before the soothing, dreamy, terrifying calm settled back over you like a smothering blanket.

You turn the door handle slowly. It clicks softly, but in the quiet of the night, it might as well have been as loud as thunder. You freeze, handle still partly turned, and listen again. Still nothing. And it had better stay that way.

The door is silent as you ease it open. Another thing you had noticed but somehow never registered. None of the doors creaked or squeaked, the hinges were always kept well-oiled and straightened. Was that a preference, or protocol?

It doesn't matter.

Silence envelopes the hallway. You tread carefully, bare feet padding on the soft carpet, marveling at just how dark the manor can get. Every shadow that could hide a potential threat also hides you. The moonlight shining through the windows is the only thing lighting your path, filtered through dark gray clouds.

You stare out the window. You have been here before, in this very spot, staring at this very sight. Adrenaline floods through you at the thought, and you shake your head and move on. Kitchen. Quickly.

The dining room is pitch black, but the light from the hallway is just enough to show a path to the opposite door. As you pass the dining table, you are struck by a hazy memory of dining there with Theron. The memory is clouded like the night sky, and you move on before you can dwell too much on it, flicking on the kitchen light and dashing to the knife block.

Your hand closes around the largest one, but before you can pull it out, someone speaks.

"Well..." Theron says casually as he seems to melt out from the shadows, twirling a slim object in his fingers, "I was wondering when you'd wake back up."

You yank the knife out of the block and point it at him. "Stay back!"

He regards you with an amused expression. "I must admit, you are quite the predictable prize. You always come here for a weapon. You always choose the same chef's knife. And you always pause at that one window. I'm sure you've noticed the familiarity, correct?"

You back away. "Enough with your damned games! I'm leaving."

Theron steps forward. The light gleams off the object in his hands. A syringe filled with a clear fluid. "You like to say that too. I must say, this repetition is getting boring. I might have to move on to more interesting prey."

He lunges, closing the distance between you so quickly you almost don't notice. He drives the syringe into your shoulder and pushes the plunger.

No! I will not succumb!

You duck backward, bringing the hand with the knife around and slashing it across Theron's chest. It tears through his shirt and cuts into his flesh, spattering blood on the ground. He staggers, staring at the blood in shock. Without thinking, you slam the knife handle into his skull, sending him to the floor.

Theron groans and tries to rise. A grim satisfaction settles over you as you yank the syringe out of your shoulder and cast it aside. Your head's already swimming, but you won't give in. Can't give in.

You flee back through the dining room. The nearest window does not open, but it, like Theron's skull, is no match for the handle of your stolen knife. You strike the glass with all your strength, and it takes three before the window breaks.

One. The impact jars your entire arm, and small cracks begin to form on the surface of the glass.

Two. The cracks spiderweb across the window.

Three. The glass shatters into a hundred thousand shards, scattering across the lavish carpet and the ground outside the manor in a cascade. The knife slips out of your hand, but you don't bother to retrieve it, scrambling through the opening and hitting the ground outside with a thud. Glass digs into the soles of your feet, but you don't hesitate before breaking into a sprint.

Keep running.

Just keep running.

You try to go north, but after a few moments, you are struck with such an intense deja vu that you recoil and veer east instead.

----------

You are running for your life.

You had a good head start, you think. Before you started running, things were kind of a blur. But that’s why you had to run. Right?

It doesn’t matter. You’re running for your life, your bare feet pounding against the pine-needle-covered ground, enduring torture from the branches you push through. Your calf muscles are beginning to ache, your bare feet throb and sting, and you have stitches on both sides, but you keep running.

Running is better than being caught. You’re not sure why that is, but you know that with absolute certainty. And that certainty is what keeps you running.

So you run.

And run.

And—

The forest abruptly ends at the shore of a fast-moving river, the water churning so violently you can’t make out how deep it is. You pause at the bank, bouncing on your toes in panicked impatience as you try to gauge how wide the river is. If you can swim that far.

Drowning is better than getting caught.

You splash into the water, the riverbed at such a steep incline that you fall forward, immediately forced to swim. The river battles you at every stroke, and you are tired, your limbs ache from running, and after only moments of swimming, you know you will not make it across.

You’re not sure why, but you are not frightened by this realization.

You are halfway across the river when complete exhaustion settles over you, making your limbs feel as if their bones are made out of solid stone and your flesh heavier than titanium. Your body stills, and you sink beneath the surface of the water, allowing its currents to pull you far, far away. Your lungs burn, not wanting to release the precious air you have left.

The world darkens around you, and you feel at peace.

Air re-enters your lungs, harsh in its vitality. You gasp, coughing and choking, expelling water with each spasm. Rough hands slam against your back, forcing the liquid out.

No.

The hands turn you over, supporting your head. Sharp pain stings your neck, and you gasp in brief recognition before your thoughts begin to muddle.

No.

The hands lift you up, away from the river, away from the ground.

“Nonono….” you mumble, trying to move, trying to get away.

Your body twitches, but you do not move. You do not get away.

“It’s okay, I got you,” a voice says.

You do not recognize the voice.

“You’re safe now.”

You are not safe.

“You must be so tired from all that running.”

The voice speaks the truth.

“Rest now. I’ll keep you safe.”

You can’t rest.

But your traitorous body thinks otherwise. Your eyelids slide closed, and the entire world spins around you as the voice begins to carry you away. You don’t know where.

You don’t want to go with them.

But as exhaustion pulls you under, you find you don’t have the energy to care anymore.

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