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lilacthebooklover · 1 year ago

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Dehumanization

@badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: Hatchetfield Universe (Starkid) Character(s): Paul Matthews Rating: Teen Word Count: 3795 Summary: After the events of 'Hey, Melissa!', Paul is left reeling. He leaves hospital and returns home, plagued by memories of all that transpired during the worst week of his life, and makes a call to the person he cares about more than anyone else. TWs: Dehumanization, referenced kidnapping/captivity, graphic description of murder, panic attack AO3 LINK

Paul returns home after the worst week of his life with a fractured skull and wide open eyes, alert and straining for any sight of danger. He’s hypervigilant, his fingers trembling uncontrollably as he unlocks his door, a shiver running down his spine.

He fumbles with each of the locks, sliding them open one by one as his heart pounds and his blood rushes in his ears, this is his only chance and Ted’s barking at him, they’re going to come back and she still has that taser and he needs to get out, he has to, he can’t stay here to be treated like a–

His house is silent. It puts him on edge. Hers was too, forbidden as he and Ted were from making a sound most of the time. He considers putting on music, then remembers he lost his phone when she abducted him. He’s going to have to buy a new one, he realises morosely, and maybe that’s not what he should be focusing on amidst all this but at least it’s a distraction from the chaos inside of his head.

There’s a fog over his mind, clouding his thoughts, making everything dim and blurry and he doesn’t remember what happened, where he is, and he can’t move his arms, it hurts when he tries, and his brain is swirling with a million far-away thoughts when she walks in and–

He swallows thickly, mouth dry as a desert. It should be nice, to be back, but all he can feel is a creeping sense of trepidation. He’s safe here, he has to be. Paul’s being irrational. He clutches his coat– he has a coat, of course he does, it’s cold and he’s a person so he wears clothes. He wants to eat something, but feels queasy at the very thought.

She watches him while he eats, her presence a looming force that demands he comply, and Paul’s never been one to blindly obey but he doesn’t have a choice, the outline of that taser follows him in her shadow and he has to eat, his stomach is simultaneously twisting in hunger and squeezing at the thought of eating this mulch–

He goes to the fridge. It would be silly not to. After all, he’s hungry, so it makes sense that he should get himself food. He recoils at how out-of-date some of his food is, reminding himself to clear it all out later. Right now, he needs to eat. He focuses on that, on the task at hand, rather than the anxiety suffocating his lungs. There’s a yoghurt pot in there that hasn’t expired yet, so Paul takes it out, the tub feeling like ice against his fingers. He gets a spoon, sits at the table like a person , opens the yoghurt and tries to eat it. His hand won’t move, frozen above the pot as he weakly wills it to move , but he can’t, he’s shaking and tears are forming in his eyes and he’s pathetic , but he can’t get the spoon to budge an inch.

He’s kneeling, the kitchen tiles below him hard and cold, and he’s reaching apprehensively out towards the disgusting food offered to him when sizzling, white-hot agony pierces through him, it’s not as high a voltage as it could be but it hurts , and she’s reprimanding him and reminding him of his place, and his arms feel like jelly beneath him as he lowers his burning face to the bowl, he’s never been as humiliated as he is right now as the sickening, slimy substance brushes against his lips–

Paul gives up eventually, gives in as he always does, and makes his way upstairs. Paul’s not particularly brave, or particularly confident, or particularly stubborn, or particularly anything , really. Not like Emma is, with her unkillable fire and mischievous smile. He’s just… Some guy, who works at an office and happens to have been the unfortunate object of affection of his deranged colleague. He’s nothing special.

He can still feel her hands in his hair, gently stroking his head as she hums absentmindedly to herself, it’s a song from some musical or the other and he hates it but there’s nothing he can do about it, nothing he can do but sit there docilely, glancing over at Ted’s jealous glare and thick metal bars, and he’s lucky, really, that his plan worked, that he still has his fingers, that she– she likes him, but some days he can’t help but wish he was in Ted’s place instead because there’s something inside of him, something disgusting and wrong and inhuman , that almost likes the attention, and he’s so, so scared that he’s going to actually end up as a–

Lamenting his lack of a phone once again, Paul makes a mental note to buy a watch at some point, but knows he’ll probably forget. Even so, it’s nice knowing that he could buy a watch if he wanted to, he has the option to go to the store and buy anything he likes. He can leave the house whenever he pleases, dressed in whatever he pleases, and spend however long at Beanie’s as he pleases. He’s a person, he has control over what he does. He is Paul Matthews, and he is a person.

She calls him a silly kitty when he tries to leave, giggling lightheartedly like she isn’t pressing tens of thousands of volts of electricity into him, it must only last a few seconds but to him it feels like an eternity, he writhes behind the barrier to the world he’s been taken away from, and it’s torture knowing that he’s so, so close to people who could help him but he has no way to contact them, he’s powerless to do anything but quiver and lie down and submit like a–

Bones aching and body cold, Paul decides he wants to lie down. He opens the bedroom door and shivers, a sort of detached numbness washing over him as he lays eyes on his bed. The sheets are pristine as always, he likes to keep a tidy home. Everything’s familiar, exactly how he left it. It should have been comforting. Instead, it makes Paul think about just how easy it was for her to make him disappear. Nobody would’ve even guessed he was gone, but Paul’s hazy gaze stays focused on the bed, mouth still dry as a desert as his heart flutters in his chest.

Her bed is pink, and he finds himself surprised that there isn’t some sort of cat print across it as he crawls on, bowing his head and tensely curling up at the edge of the bed, arms encircling himself in a pitiful attempt at comforting himself, and she’s climbing in the bed and smiling that awful, wicked, happy smile of hers and she tells him to lie at the foot of the bed like a– like– and Paul’s left waiting, petrified, because she’s still got the taser and he’s got no escape, he’s still reeling from the aftershocks earlier on, and she truly believes he’s a–

Paul shakes his head and slams his door shut a little too loudly, backing away as the numbness spreads out from his chest until he’s sliding to the floor. His body shakes, there’s something hot running down his cheeks that he can’t stop. He’s supposed to be safe , everything’s supposed to be okay now that he’s escaped. But his lungs burn and his head spins, and he can’t breathe as he thinks about that bed, that house, about her , and his pupils dart around frantically, fruitlessly, in search of something to concentrate on.

He has to get away, he has to leave but Ted didn’t let him and now they’re both stuck and Ted doesn’t regret a thing, Paul’s locked in a cage as she shakes her head disappointedly, trapped behind silver bars and forced to watch as they approach Ted, who eagerly awaits his ‘treat’, then suddenly there’s the glint of three razor-sharp knives and they’re slicing forward, plunging into Ted’s stomach, mutilating the flesh as Ted screams , and Paul can’t do anything, he’s locked away in a cage meant for an–

His name is Paul Matthews, and he’s in his house. He’s not there. His name is Paul Matthews, and he’s in his house. He is a person. His name is Paul Matthews, and he’s in his house. He works in the CRRP Office Building. His name is Paul Matthews, and he’s in his house. He has control over what he does.

Blood splatters everywhere and Paul suddenly realises why she has a wooden floor, the scarlet stains gleaming against its shiny surface, his head’s spinning and his eyes wide and horrified as he watches, he can’t look away as the knives keep stabbing into Ted’s already lifeless corpse, the girls grinning sadistically, madly as Paul shrinks away, terrified, because that’s Ted lying there, a bloodied heap, Ted who he’s known for years and just got killed , oh God, if he hadn’t tried to leave then Ted would still be alive, what has he done –?

He’ll have to go back there, to the office, Paul knows. Nothing will ever be the same, not when Ted’s dead and Freddie’s gone back to the FBI and she’s gone. He doesn’t know how he’ll be able to look any of them in the eye with the knowledge of what he’s done. He’s a monster. He submitted. He tried to escape. He got Ted killed. He nearly got Bill killed. He might have killed one of those girls, he doesn’t know. He feels sick.

He retches into the toilet after the first time he eats the cat food, his stomach churning in protest as bile stings the back of his throat and Ted laughs behind him, a barking, humourless, bitter thing that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and she’s gone out and Ted hates him, hates him for not opening the cage again because he’s a coward, he can still feel the shock running through every one of his nerves, he’s helpless like this–

How’s he going to face Emma again? She’ll be disgusted with him, Paul knows. He blew off their date and ignored her calls, went home with her without telling Emma a thing and hasn’t spoken to her since. He needs to fix things. Paul trudges over to his landline, slowly tapping in Emma’s number. It rings for a long while, then goes through to voicemail. That’s– that’s fair. He ignored her, after all, and hates himself at the reminder. He hesitates, then dials again, waiting.

He’s at her feet again, kneeling silently as she threads her fingers through his hair for what feels like the millionth time, it’s an almost domestic image if he ignores the collar around his neck or the taser in her pocket or the whole situation, really, and he stares ahead vacantly as he tries to delude himself into thinking this isn’t so bad, she likes to have him by her side when she’s working or playing on her phone, though he’s below her, of course, and she’s nattering away to someone but he knows what will happen if he speaks, knows he’ll be cut off by that blackening pain if he so much as opens his mouth because she knows, she always knows, she’s always watching–

“Hello?”

…Emma answers.

Paul freezes, cold sweat prickling the back of his neck as he opens his mouth and gapes, soundlessly, like a fish. This is stupid. He’s stupid. He needs to respond , but it’s like he’s been turned to stone, stricken and speechless.

It echoes through his brain, sinister and horrifying, and she knows this is his fault, and he's to make not a sound, Puss because he doesn’t want to get another dog killed, does he?, of course he doesn’t, he remembers the squelch of metal in flesh and the screech of a car slamming to a halt, he remembers the screams and the whimpers and the cries and the smiles and the pain, and he’s not allowed to talk, no, he’s not a person , is he?

“I swear to God, if this is some sort of prank call–” Emma’s voice breaks through his frantic thoughts. She sounds more ticked off than ever, and Paul isn’t quite sure how to discern his emotions at having heard her again.

“Hi, Emma,” he says, voice cracked and quiet. And she hangs up faster than he can blink.

He’s in the hospital, alone for the first time in what feels like months but can’t have been that long, surely, but he doesn’t wear a watch and his phone is gone for good and the only thing around him is white walls, new walls, and there’s a throbbing in his skull but it’s far more preferable to the turmoil of her taser, he’s lying in a bed and that initially makes him panic, he remembers what she did to him, what she made him do and he panics, and he’s alone again and he doesn’t quite remember what happened and he might actually be free but he doesn’t dare to hope, waiting with shallow breaths and the potential to be human again–

He calls her again. And again. And again.

“You just don’t know when to give up, do you, Puss?” She asks teasingly but she doesn’t want an answer, it’s hardly like Paul could offer one where he is now and he refuses to accept that he’s lost, refuses to accept Ted’s claims of having tried every escape, refuses to give up his humanity in this place because he’s only pretending, he’s not really a cat, he’s a person and he’s going to prove it, he needs to prove it–

Emma finally picks up again, a torrent of insults and cusses pouring out of her lips, and Paul can tell that she’s hurt. His heart aches.

“Emma, I’m sorry ,” he finally manages to get in when she pauses for breath, and there’s silence for a moment. He hardly dares continue, clenching and unclenching his white-knuckled left fist rapidly. “For– for not calling you. Please, I promise , I can explain.”

He’s back there, trying to justify himself to a woman who thinks he’s a monster, there’s wire wrapped taut around his fingers and it hurts like hell, pins and needles run through his hand and metal digs painfully into his skin, he only has one option left before five of his limbs are permanently severed off, so he opens his mouth and hates himself and lets out a pitiful, choked–

“I know exactly where you were,” Emma tells him sourly, throwing in another cuss for good measure afterwards. “With your new girlfriend, huh? You could’ve at least answered one of my texts to tell me you were busy.”

“What?” Paul breathes, shocked. He feels the blood drain from his face, his hands are shaking again as he tries to wrap his head around what she’s said. “Emma, she kidnapped me.”

Rope, chains, cage, collar, door, there’s always something confining him there, keeping him trapped and helpless to her whims, he’s just a pet within these walls, there’s no way out because he let her bring him here, he offered to drive her here and he told her about the worst thing he’s ever done, but not even his experience with Spot as a kid haunted him as much as this does, as much at the constant degradation and dehumanisation does because now he’s nothing, he’s just a pet –

“She– we were– Freddie–...” Paul trails off miserably. “It’s a long story.”

“Try me,” Emma says harshly on the other side, and maybe she isn’t so angry at him anymore but he finds himself flinching anyway.

“Freddie’s an FBI agent,” he begins slowly, voice shaking. “Freddie from my work. And M– she’s part of some sort of… Serial killer group? So Freddie was tracking her. But then he attacked me and she showed up and fought him off, and he attacked her back but he’s always been a sleazeball and what he was saying really didn’t paint him in a good light and oh God, I’m rambling, I’m sorry, but I sort of… Choked him. Until he passed out. And we may have… Um… Tied him up.”

Freddie’s there at the hospital telling him everything, showing off a shiny blue badge and shiny white teeth, no longer looking like Ted 2.0– oh God, Ted – in the slightest as he talks, and Paul is finally safe but he sure doesn’t feel like it, he’s a hero but his mind says he’s a monster, Freddie wants to shake his paw but Paul doesn’t– he’s not– he isn’t a pet , he can’t still be a pet even now he’s free, he just can’t and he can’t leave again, his body doesn’t cooperate when he tries to move and he sinks down in defeat, shoulders hunched as he feels a sharp jolt of pain ricochet through his skull and he’s hit with a million memories at once, of darkness and burning and screams and the slam of a bus against his body as he races out, he doesn’t care if he dies at this point, he can’t stay there anymore–

“I wanted to see if M– M… She was okay, so I took her home,” Paul recounts, grimacing at the memory. He can’t even say her name. “I– I told her some stuff, she was furious with me and I found Ted in her closet, and he didn’t have any fingers , Emma. He’d been in there for days. And she knocked me out and tied me to a coffee table and when I woke up, she tried to cut off mine as well.”

He feels the wire be pulled taut, this is really happening, and he tries to plead with her but he scolds and shouts at him, calling him a bad dog and he’s so, so confused and scared and he never expected this to happen, he was just worried about her after Freddie attacked her, he doesn’t want to be here and she’s shouting, raising her voice in a way that she’s never done before and how is it that he’s known her for years but has never once heard her shout, she’s glaring at him with the sort of despisal that runs bone-deep, she wants to hurt him and it’s working, oh God is it working–

“She… She had a whole thing about dogs. She hated them. So I, um…” Paul feels his face flush red in embarrassment because it’s stupid , Emma’s going to laugh at him and he’s going to remember it all over again, he already knows it’s all his fault. “Pretended to be a cat. So I've- I've still got all my fingers, and I'm still... Alive.”

“Wait, wait, slow down,” Emma tells him, sounding thoroughly overwhelmed with the new onslaught of information. Paul can’t help the apology that slips through his lips. He hasn’t been allowed to talk in so long, now he can hardly stop himself. “She told me you two were dating. She said you were moving to Clivesdale! And yeah, I probably should've guessed something was up because it’s Clivesdale, but I figured you’d just sort of… Gotten sick of us, I guess.” Emma sighs through the phone line, sounding a mixture of remorseful and bitter. “Of me. So I believed her. She said you were in her… Bed…” Emma’s voice comes to a stop. The silence is heavy. Paul can’t breathe. They wait, neither one of them wanting to shatter the fragile quiet that’s washed over them. Finally, Emma says, tone frantic, almost pleading , and isn’t that an unfamiliar sound? “Paul. Please tell me she didn’t…”

And he’s there all over again, there are hands in his hair, on his skin, and he isn’t allowed to wear clothes because clothes are for people and he’s not a person, he’s a pet , she makes sure to remind him of that every single day, and he tries to behave, really, he does, but he can’t do anything but obey when she commands him, it’s his job to make her happy and this is better than the taser, it has to be, it’s not every night, after all, and he can’t handle the shouts and the disappointment right now, he’s far too hot and something inside of him’s about to snap but he doesn’t do anything about it, he can’t, and she’s pleased as she smiles lovingly at him but he doesn’t smile back, he can’t, there are tears in his eyes but she doesn’t care as she just keeps–

Paul’s silence is enough of an answer. On the other side of the line, Emma curses lowly. Emma knows about the crush she had on him, and Paul feels compelled to apologise again because he really, really does want something with Emma but now he’s ruined it. He could’ve been hate-watching Workin’ Guys or whatever it was called with her that night, maybe he would’ve finally asked her out then. Instead, he came across Ted in a wardrobe, faced a taser to the back and a week of torment. But he’s a person. Emma cares about him. Emma cares.

“Look, Paul, you– you don’t have to explain everything now, okay?” Emma says, breaking the pause once again. “I… I get the gist of it, and I get that it's not your fault. Is it okay if I come over to your place?”

Paul jolts out of his spiralling thoughts, something blooming in his chest again. Emma’s not mad at him. Emma’s asking for his opinion. Emma’s treating him like a person. “Okay,” Paul agrees softly, because he does want that, and even if the thought of answering the door makes his stomach swirl, he hates the idea of being alone when he could be with Emma just then even more. “...I missed you.”

“I’m on my way,” Emma informs him, and there’s a jangle of keys in a lock that instinctively sends blood pumping rapidly through Paul’s veins once again. “...I missed you too.”

She finishes the call, and Paul sits down for a while by the landline, staring ahead. His name is Paul Matthews. He is a person. He works at CRRP Office Building. He has control over his decisions. And right now, he’s decided that he wants to see Emma again. In the silence of his house, a sob finally managed to escape his throat, simultaneously freeing and terrifying all at once. Once he’s started, he can’t stop, feeling like a weight’s been lifted from his shoulders.

His name is Paul Matthews. He is a person. He’s home.

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