#i have ''the dismemberment song'' by blue kid on loop fun fact

[razzle-zazzle]

Whumptober Day 08: Sleep Deprivation

Isolation Chamber

2565 Words; Sit Still Look Pretty

TW for forced helplessness, forced drug use, doll whump, emotional abuse, dehumanization

AO3 ver

“Annnnd.. there!” Carrie stepped back, making a frame with her fingers as she examined her work.

Dion sat still—as if he had any other choice, when he couldn’t move—as she stepped forth and back, side to side, hemming and hawing as she examined him from all angles. Tonight’s outfit was less gaudy than he expected, given how she’d gone “all out” for his dinner. If Dion getting to eat more than soup and some bread counted as “all out”, that is.

The turkey had been fine. The cranberry sauce was a little marred by the aftertaste of the drug currently running through Dion’s systems. But it was different from the soups Dion was slowly getting sick of, even if the bread was the same.

It had nothing on his mother’s cooking, though. And it probably had nothing on Dion’s cooking, either—or it wouldn’t, if he wasn’t so awfully out of practice.

Oh, yeah.

Dion would have grimaced if he could move his face at the reminder that he had been here for two months. But he couldn’t move at all, his face frozen in the soft smile Carrie had forced it into, sitting there quietly in the matching pants and jacket in autumnal dark red and gold, hair tied back loosely. Carrie had reportedly had a lot of outfits for this “late Thanksgiving”—she had been too busy for any outfits on the actual day, if she was being truthful about the dates—and had managed to narrow it down to this. Dion was glad; he didn’t want to imagine what over-decorated monstrosity he could have ended up in. Vera’s notebook flashed through his mind—that outfit had been just awful.

Not that this outfit was much fun either. Nothing about this situation—being trapped down here in this dollhouse hell—was fun.

Dion’s mind circled back to the food as Carrie moved his chair in front of a clear section of wallpaper. For all that Carrie did feed him—if he was good—it wasn’t enough. Breakfasts of oatmeal and dinners of soups and bread wasn’t enough. Not even the turkey leg and cranberry sauce were enough, Dion knew—he’d be hungry by the morning, enough to sit politely and let Carrie hand feed him a breakfast that wouldn’t last him until dinner.

He supposed it was a part of her strategy, this slow starvation. He wished the notebooks explained how to tell when she was getting tired—would the poison she fed him come after she pulled out his funeral clothes; or would it be like every meal prior, with no warning of what she was going to dress him in? All Dion knew was that Carrie buried her victims in a replica of the outfit she took them in. It would be his only warning—so what if it came too late?

But he couldn’t refuse meals—he needed every bit of strength he could get his hands on, if he wanted to get out of here. Even if he still didn’t have a plan on how he would do that.

Carrie grinned as she took the last photo, praise falling from her lips like flies buzzing around as she dragged Dion towards the washroom to clean him up and change him into jammies. Dion let his mind turn inwards, away from the humiliation of being stripped down and washed like a lifeless puppet. Homesickness squeezed at his throat as thoughts of the night’s dinner opened up memories of his mother and nona’s cooking. What Dion wouldn’t give to eat with his family again, or to work with his mother in their little kitchen in the caravan, reaching under and over and around her in the complicated dance they’d gotten used to. His mouth watered as recipes floated through his mind—

But dolls didn’t cook, and Carrie wouldn’t let him. Not that Dion would ever want to cook in a place as awful as this.

Dion wanted to go home. He wanted to flop down on the mattress he and his siblings shared in the caravan when they were traveling, or onto his creaky bedroll in his tent when they set up camp—he didn’t want to be gently tucked into the soft pillow-laden monstrosity with the blue covers and pillows while Carrie crooned to him to sleep well like he was just some doll she was done playing with for the night—

But it didn’t really matter what Dion wanted, did it?

(Esperanza. Felix. Vera. Callum. Lesley. Tobias. Alicia.

It hadn’t mattered what they wanted, either.)

At least Carrie was gone. Dion supposed he could at least be thankful for that small mercy. Ha, thankful on late-thanksgiving. What a joke.

He laid there in the gloom, waiting until he could move again. The moment he could do more than useless finger twitches, he was kicking, fighting the heavy covers until he was free, thrashing until he was off the bed entirely.

The floor was cool against Dion’s cheek. He breathed, waiting for the world to stop spinning and motion to return to him fully. And then he waited a little longer, exhaustion heavy in his bones. The hood of his pajamas—Dion was not calling it a onesie; that it was a silly pink cat was bad enough—had fallen from his head in his struggles. Dion made no effort to pull the hood back up when he stood.

The world wobbled, and Dion set his hands on the bed to steady himself. His balance had been off longer and more often, Dion had noticed—and it was no less awful than the first time.

Eventually, Dion was able to walk without feeling like the floor was about to come up to meet him and he did so with a vengeance, reveling in the ability to just move. The chain connecting him to the bed scraped the floor as he paced back and forth, but he was long used to the sound. It was a well-worn routine, this nightly pacing in the darkness until he’d worn himself out—Dion would go mad if he spent his time in this hell never moving at all. He was an acrobat, for god’s sake!

Well. Was an acrobat. Now he was just…

Dion shook his head. He passed by the vanity—though he couldn’t make out his reflection in the low light, which was why he had refrained from turning on the washroom light—and kept going. “Don’t think like that.” He muttered. He would get out of here and go back to normal life eventual—any day now—and put all of this doll bullshit behind him. He would.

(Well, he’d put it behind him once he’d made sure the notebooks came to light. Esperanza, Felix, Vera, Callum, Lesley, and Tobias didn’t deserve to be forgotten. So Dion would make sure they never were.)

In fact… Dion swallowed, as a thought crossed his mind. He still remembered how to do his basic stretches—he’d been doing them every day while Carrie was out when he wasn’t handcuffed to the bed. They’d been getting harder to do, lately, but—

But Dion was an acrobat. So what if he never had any energy these days? He was an Aquato! Two months in doll hell couldn’t change that!

Dion nodded. He walked to the washroom, flicking the light on and blinking at the sudden brightness. Once he could see, he wandered back to the half-lit gloom of his room, and bent down, planting his hands flat against the floor.

He wasn’t a doll. And he was going to prove it.

Dion lifted himself up until he was standing on his hands, the chain hanging awkwardly from his ankle. He grinned at the sudden rush, his chest light—

He wobbled dangerously, his body refusing to stay where he held it—

The floor came up to meet Dion’s back with a hard thump, knocking the wind out of him. He wheezed, lying there for a moment before he rolled over and sat up.

Okay, so his first attempt hadn’t been great. He was out of practice! A few more tries and he’d be as good as ever.

With that in mind, Dion stood up again, rolling over into a handstand with ease. He wobbled, shifting his weight to account for it—

And fell again.

No, no, he overcorrected that time, he could still do this! He got back up and tried again—

He fell to the side this time as his arm locked up on him. He stayed down a little longer, waiting for the rising bile in his throat to subside before getting up and trying again—

And fell right to the floor.

Whatever. He’d get it! It wasn’t like he’d get much sleep, anyway. He tried again—

His back was starting to dislike all this falling over.

Dion stared up at the ceiling. What was wrong with him? Was… he knew he wasn’t being fed enough—was he really so weak already?

No! So what if his balance was always screwy once the paralytic wore off, so what if Carrie didn’t feed him enough—he was an Aquato!

With a snarl, Dion moved to get back up and try again—

Only to trip on that damned chain, sprawling to the floor and slamming his face against it. Owww.

“No no no—” Dion got up more carefully, this time, kicking the chain out of the way before leaning down and planting his hands on the floor again. He breathed in, out.

“I can do this.” He muttered. “I’m an Aquato! I learned to fall before I learned to walk!” He could do this, and he would—

His back slammed against the floor.

+=+=+=+=+

“I promised I’d only do three ugly sweaters this month—but it was so tempting to do more!” Carrie was chattering as she did Dion’s makeup, talking on and on. It was the kind of noise Dion was used to, now, so he let the words wash over him in resignation. It wasn’t like he could say or do anything in response.

The ugly sweater in question was itchy, but again—Dion couldn’t move. All he could do was sit there as Carrie removed the headband holding his hair back and began to play with it, chattering to herself as she tried to style it. Eventually, a new headband came down to replace the previous one, and Carrie turned Dion towards the mirror—

Dion didn’t even have it in him to be annoyed. Of course the headband had fake antlers on it, and of course those fake antlers had lights at the tips to match the lights all over the awful sweater. The red Carrie had put on his nose was just adding insult to injury, at this point.

But Dion couldn’t scowl or grimace or say that he hated it—no, all he could do was sit there as Carrie pushed his mouth into a smile, cooing over the outfit she’d put together.

“You really are so gorgeous, doll.” She crooned, moving Dion over to the wall. She had added a cutout of a christmas tree—with lights, of course—and tinsel to that spot on the wall a few days ago, to make the backgrounds of her photos “more in line with the holiday spirit.” Dion didn’t exactly get to voice his opinion on this, but it wasn’t anything new: he thought the additions were an eyesore and awful and emblematic of the suffering Carrie constantly put him through.

But Carrie thought it was wonderful, and said as much as she lifted the camera and started snapping photos, praise pouring from her mouth like water from a faucet. After a while, she stepped back, letting the camera hang from its strap around her neck.

“Oh, don’t you just love this time of year?” Carrie sighed dreamily, clasping her hands together. “The lights, the glittery snow… decorating the tree with the coziest little fire—oh! And the way that warmth comes from the love and community in the air as families come together…” She sighed again, and Dion scoffed.

That proved to be a mistake as Carrie turned her attention to him. “Aren’t you so happy, doll? You get to spend the holidays being taken care of like you were always meant to be! No messy relatives to crowd things!” She cupped his face in her hand, brown eyes like deep pits threatening to swallow him whole. “We’ll be like one happy family, darling, isn’t that so exciting?”

It was not exciting. But Dion couldn’t move or respond at all, so he just sat there as Carrie leaned in to adjust his headband and tuck a lock of hair behind his ear.

Thoughts of Dion’s real family flashed through his mind, homesickness clawing at his chest. His treacherous mind then decided to dart back to the night about a week prior, when he’d tried and failed to do a handstand—

“Shh, shh, don’t cry darling.” And there was Carrie, leaning into his space to dab at his eyes with a handkerchief. “I know, it’s so wonderful, isn’t it? You must be so happy.” She crooned.

No I’m NOT! Dion wanted to kick, he wanted to scream, he wanted to bury his face in his bed and cry until his throat was raw. He wanted to yell, to grab Carrie’s hands and force them away from him, to get away from her touch and the way it burned under his skin. He didn’t want to be here, sitting on this chair, dressed in this outfit, being cooed at by a woman who treated him like a mindless doll—

But that was what he was, wasn’t it? Because dolls didn’t do handstands. Dolls sat perfectly still as they were dressed and played with—

Dion’s eyes stung.

Dolls didn’t cry.

“Shhh, shh, it’s okay,” Carrie cooed, moving to hold Dion close, his face pressed against her collarbone. Her fingers threaded into his hair, stroking gently. Dion wanted to crawl out of his own skin. “It’s okay, darling, I’m here. You’ll never have to have a holiday without your mistress again.”

Dion sobbed, even as his mouth remained frozen in a smile. He wasn’t a doll—he wasn’t! His tears were proof enough of that, weren’t they? But he barely felt like Dion Aquato at all, these days…

He wanted to go home. He wanted to go home and do his chores and bicker with his siblings and be nagged by his parents. He wanted to see his Nona and sit down and mend clothes with her, he wanted to let Raz ramble about the latest dumb psychic magazine, he wanted Frazie to hit his head with a pinecone, he wanted to clean Queepie’s nasty blanket and he wanted to hear Mirtala’s bells until he was sick of the sound and he wanted to handle groceries for his mother and he wanted to see his dad come into those powers he’d never known he had. He wanted to go back and do all the things he used to hate, if only so that he could have just one more day with them—

Dion wanted to go home. He’d thought he’d never felt further from it, in this awful room. But the memory of the failed handstands—he couldn’t even imagine what would have happened if he’d tried something more—stung, raw and tender, and Dion realized he could feel even further away.

He needed to get out of here.

He didn’t have the first idea how to do that.