#school whump

[scrimblobimblowhump]

For the whump ask game:

A stuffed animal or a book :>

Stuffed animal: whumpee having a comfort stuffie that brings them joy and comfort amid the darkness of their abuse, but whumper one day deciding to punish them by taking it from them and throwing it in the fireplace in front of them (bonus points if whumpee is a kid and whumper is their abusive parent/caregives, and this experience haunts whumpee down the line, contributing to compulsive hoarding as an adult and having nightmares about losing their belongings

Book:

Same for the "comfort item getting taken and destroyed as punishment"!

Whumper beating whumpee with a heavy book

Whumper making whumpee write/rewrite a massive tome as punishment (or what if it's an admiration obsession like in Stephen King's Misery)

One we can all relate to: student whumpee sobbing over piles and piles of textbooks because tests are coming but they're burnt out and oh so unprepared and have zero idea what will they do

Related to previous: Whumpee's batshit insane parents tying them to a chair till they complete their homework/study enough for a straight A on the test

:33333

[silly-scroimblo-whump]

Anti-Bullying

augusnippets day 22: captivity/recapture/tearful goodbye

cw: child whumpee, animal cruelty, fighting, bullying, implied child abuse :( URGF marcie and teddy make me so emotional bro…. (note that teddy is ftm! he’s just… not aware that being trans is a thing yet. this is when he was like eight years old. i just feel awful misgendering him or deadnaming him EVER. the bullies here aren’t transphobic or anything dw i don’t like writing that stuff😭) masterlist! ————————— “Let it go! Hey—-” Teddy cries out, tears streaming down his face as the kids on the playground continue to giggle and tap on the lunchbox. In its transparent interior is a small lizard. Its tail has long since dropped off, and the children are squealing as they each try to pick it up, only for it to squirm out of their hands. “Let it—”

Another student — the eldest of the group — grins, pushing Teddy towards the lunchbox and into the circle of gleeful kids. “Look, look! It’s like her! Its tail is gone,” He points, “And.. and her eye is too!”

Teddy sniffles, batting his classmates’ hands away from the lunchbox as he hugs it close to his chest. “My sis’s gonna get really mad. She’s strong. She’s really strong, and she’s gonna… um..”

The boy who pushed him snickers, shaking his head. “Boys are stronger. Marcie smells yucky and looks ugly, and so do you. Us boys are betterer.” He beams, sticking his tongue out at Teddy.

… The boy then goes flying. Teddy watches as the bully shrieks shrilly, a blur of brown, black, and white sending him to the ground. Teddy checks that the lizard is still secure before frantically scooting away from the fight.

The teachers finally seem to notice the commotion, rushing over and pulling the feral creature off of Teddy’s nemesis. “Let me at him! I’ll fucking rip his throat out!” Marcie yells, swinging her fists rapidly at the teachers and ignoring their pleas to keep her language appropriate. “I’ll kill him if he ever says that shit again!” Teddy watches in mortified admiration, eventually being guided away by another teacher. ————————— taglist! let me know if u wanna be added! :3

[witchy-shortcake]

Im kind of surprised that no one has asked me what characters was the fanart of yet

Are you alright back there, kiddo?

The child didn't say say a word. They were curled up at the back of the car, looking through the window.

Every time A drove through a bump in the road they would hear a small pained sound coming from the kid's mouth. They had never been the type of person to panic when one of their studients got sick, after all B wasn't their child but something about the sight of B resting their head on the car Window, pale as a ghost and switching between slurred feverish mumbling and barely audible cries made A's heart shatter.

We're almost there, okay? You Will be resting in bed in no time.

The kid nods their head, exhausted and shivering.

The rest of the trip was spent in total silence, apart from the noises the car made. Every few minutes A would look at the back of the car, hoping that the poor child had already fallen asleep. Insead, A's glances would meet B's tired eyes, still looking around at the complete darkness that surrounded the road.

Only a few minutes more...

(Did i write this based off a single piece of fanart i found on Pinterest? The answer is yes)

[tsubaki94]

Counseling Session

Here's my half of the ectoimplosion2023.

[liketwoswansinbalance]

TLEA likely could've been darker in at least one way, if it had been more accurate to our real-world science:

If SGE’s magic didn’t work how it did, I bet Sophie’s ears could have popped, and maybe burst her eardrums. Plus, Rafal could have inadvertently killed her (and doomed himself!) once he’d reached some terminal velocity of mortals while flying with her.

Probably, he could stop her from bleeding out though (or would it be internal bleeding?), and the ring would save her, too, I think, as the immortality went "both ways."

Aside from some "recovery" or the potential ring fail-safe, just think of the angst and hurt/comfort potential!

[justkidneying]

Why the Spleen Sucks

The spleen is a really shittily placed organ, making it prone to injury. This injury is usually severe and can lead to death if not properly managed. We're going to look at the function of the spleen, what happens when it is damaged, and how to write about.

Where is the spleen? It's in the upper left quadrant of the abdominal cavity, nestled right against the ribs (typically 9-11) at the midaxillary line. It's behind the stomach and is considered intraperitoneal. The main thing is that the spleen is very vulnerable. It is literally right up against the ribs without much protecting it. It's shaped like a little bean and is purple in humans. It is fed by the splenic artery, which comes off of the celiac trunk (which sticks off of the abdominal aorta).

What does the spleen do? Its main job is to filter out old and malformed red blood cells. It also holds immune cells. Certain diseases can cause the spleen to enlarge, including cirrhosis of the liver (it's connected to the hepatic portal system), sickle cell anemia (RBCs are stuck in it), and autoimmune disorders. The spleen also holds about 250 mL of RBCs in reserve in case you need them.

What happens when it is injured? The spleen can be ruptured and lacerated kinda easily. Blunt trauma to the ribs can cause it to rupture, and this is seen in contact sports and car accidents mostly. Because of those giant gaps between the ribs, it's also prone to injury from knife attacks. Gunshot wounds are another common cause, as well as broken ribs penetrating it (broken ribs are very sharp, like way sharper than you imagine). Rupture is more likely when someone has splenomegaly.

When the spleen is damaged, you're going to get a lot of intraperitoneal hemorrhaging. The spleen filters a lot of blood and has blood in it, so there's going to be a lot of blood in the abdomen (obviously). This will lead to distention, guarding (abs are tense), and hypovolemia. The left upper quadrant will be painful, and there can also be referred pain to the left shoulder (Kehr's sign).

If the patient has a small laceration, the symptoms aren't always as dramatic. Sometimes they'll just have low hemoglobin (which is on RBCs), maybe some thrombocytopenia (lots of platelets in the blood).

How do you fix this? If the injury is small and the patient is hemodynamically stable, they can usually be given a blood transfusion and the spleen can heal itself. Sometimes surgery is also performed to clamp a vessel or repair the outer layer of the spleen.

If the injury is major, then surgery will be performed. If the patient is less critical, they may go in and try to fix the problem. If it can't be fixed, they may do a splenectomy (remove the spleen). In a critical patient, they might forgo the nice pretty incision on the left side, and instead just split the patient down the middle. In these situations (in my experience), there isn't a lot of time to waste. One thing that we aren't going to waste time on is anesthesia, for example. This is with a lot of very critical surgeries, at least from what I have seen. Like the surgeon will start cutting as they are working on knocking out the patient, but usually they are in so much pain that they don't even register it.

If you remove the spleen, the patient is more at risk for infections, but with modern medicine and vaccinations, it's not as much of a big deal as it used to be. The patient will probably be fine.

Writing tips: (new section idea, hope you guys like it, lol) As with any injury, you have to make sure that you are giving them an acceptable mechanism of injury. With the spleen, this is either blunt trauma or penetration/laceration. Getting tackled, getting stabbed, getting shot, all great MOIs.

Second thing, present the appropriate signs and symptoms. A sign would be like bruising, hypotension, tachycardia, etc. A symptom would be LUQ pain, Kehr's sign, etc.

Next, figure out what you're going to do and where you're going to do it. In the field, there probably isn't much you can do. The most would probably be a laparotomy and clamping the splenic artery, but I mean, when I was an EMT, we were not doing this. There's a lot of stuff you can theoretically do, but never gets done. But I mean you can write it. If the patient makes it to the hospital, I think it would be more fun to do emergency surgery and just split them right down the middle. There's going to be a lot of blood in the greater omentum, very high stakes and exciting.

Anyways, hope you guys liked this, please let me know if I got anything wrong. I wrote this off of my personal experience and a few good textbooks, but there can always been mistakes in things.

[wellthisissomething]

AI-Less Whumptober Day 5 - Migraine/Overstimulation

Moorim School - Ep. 2

The Gifted Graduation - Ep. 4

He is Psychometric - Ep. 6

The Gifted Hands/Psychometry

Previous 5/31 Next

[fuupan]

i had this in mind a few days ago while running on 2 hrs of sleep

decided to finally draw it lol

i have some more ideas in mind of them that i will hopefully get to get around drawing

[allyriadayne]

In a world where alicent is a nun and larys the priest confessor for the convent, he would 100% enjoy torturing her by making her feel like her petty sins are worse than they are just to make her even more dependant on his absolution. He tells her to flagellate herself ten times just for thinking she would be a better mother superior than sister rhaenyra (he makes her show him her back) and another time he tells her she must pray on her knees all night because she didn't confess the day before (so now she will confess in his rooms where he can truly see her). she's wrecked with guilt and anxiety and thinks she's going to hell if she doesn't beg for father larys' forgiveness every day at 4 pm sharp. all this because lyonel pledged larys' life to the church if god saved his wife but when she died, he sent larys anyway

[whumpderella]

High School Return of a Gangster (Episode 06)

[scrimblobimblowhump]

Got the ask game - a pen

~ @snaillamp :) 🐌

Ohhooooo *rubs hands together*

Whumper stabbing whumpee with a pen (school bullies??)

Hospitalised whumpee having doctors make markings on their body for medical purposes with a pen (surgery? allergy test? x-ray for Broken Bones?? the world is your oyster)

Overwhelmed whumpee clicking a pen to calm themselves

Student whumpee absolutely overwhelmed and furious with schoolwork aggressivelly stabbing their notebooks and textbooks with a pen in rage (I have done that on multiple occasions, I'm afraid

Whumper heating up a metal pen and pressing it against whumpee's skin

[whumperer-86]

Fainted

Highschool return of Gangster ep4

[letitbehurt]

Evidently, there are drugs in production that attack the proteins in the brain responsible for storing memories. Short-term memory is essentially destroyed; long-term memory becomes malleable, subject to intense manipulation.

With this in mind, I propose: Whumper subjecting Whumpee to such a drug—repetitively.

[just-whump-and-suffering]

Billion x School Ep 02

[liketwoswansinbalance]

Insane thought about dismemberment incoming—

"Removing the pinion joint of a bird stops the growth of the primary feathers, preventing the acceleration required for flight and is analogous to amputating a human hand at the wrist" (Source).

If Rafal's hands were cut off, would he be able to fly? Or rather, would he be able to balance properly whilst in flight? I know his flight relies on magic, but logistically, this could be interesting...

[whumble-beeee]

Just Relax (It's Not That Serious)

The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping | Cont'd from Part 13

Content: drugging, noncon undressing, dissociation, (fear of) needles, disabled whumpee, trans whumpee, flashbacks (ptsd), tied up/handcuffs, past captivity references, begging, fear, light unreality? (related to the ptsd)

* * * * * * * *

Excerpt from: The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping; a self-help guide for villains and bounty-hunters

[The first 72 hours after a hero’s capture is also massively critical to you, villain, as your hero’s keeper! When planning on long-term hero-keeping, use this time to lie low, keep your hero firmly in your grasp, and really set the mood for the rest of their stay. Set non-negotiable expectations. Show your patience. For as much as your hero may fight you, curse and jeer and scorn and defy you, they will still be only human (with select power exceptions, of course). They will still need food, water, shelter. All of which must be obtained from you, their captor! You are the one ultimately in control, no matter how much the hero may scream otherwise. 

So why are these first 72 hours so important? Well, how long do experts generally agree that a person can survive without food or water? How long can they ignore you? How long before they have to rely on you for their every need?

72 hours.

Be patient.

Make them count.]

* * * * * * * *

“Finally, Christ,” Deeby muttered under his breath as Stan finished forcing the bar down his throat. It had taken him longer than he'd meant, what with the dehydration and the not wanting to be drugged and the weary pain that seeped into his every bone and the spinning of the room and the not wanting to be drugged. It was a surprisingly difficult task to knowingly poison himself. Who’d've thunk?

“Happy?” Stan finally spat with a heaving breath. There was the slightest taste of salt and battery acid twinging the back of his mouth. It made him nauseous.

Deeby absent-mindedly grabbed the used protein bar wrapper and tossed it into his plastic bag. “Yeah. Not done yet, though.”

 Stan whined. It was all he could do to not start crying on the spot. “Why can't you just let me fall into unconsciousness in peace? I ate your stupid protein bar! It's-it's never-ending with you!”

“Well, it feels less gross to have you undress now than when you're high off your ass.”

Stan blinked. It was like the world had been overlaid with TV static for a moment. But he was back. Violently. Because what? “Ah– Co-come again?” 

“Your uh– fuckin’... What's it called, your tank top? The transgender tank top, the one that squishes your ribs. Your… ‘tranksgender’ top.”

“My binder?”

Deeby snapped his fingers in triumph. “That's the bitch! We're taking that off now.”

“WHAT?!”

“I can help if you want. I don’t know how long it's gonna take the drug to start affecting you, considering you haven’t eaten in two days, so it might not–”

“I’m not taking my binder off!” Stan yelled, startling back from yet another all-consuming dip into the static. The worst part was, it wasn't even unpleasant. He almost would have enjoyed it, save for the predator six feet away stalking at him as if he were a wounded antelope, one hand resting on the ornate knife holstered right next to his gun. His eyes sparkled with that ever-dangerous red excitement that Stan had become painfully acquainted with again and again and again over the past two days, though there was something more serious underneath the child-like sadism. Tired eyes, deep breaths... 

“I know you're not supposed to wear it for this long, runt.” The mercenary brushed the still bright-red gash on his cheek from where Stan had whacked him with the handcuffs. “And besides, I still need to get you back for this. Please make me do it the hard way.”

Stan’s breath caught between a groan and a cry and his vision swam around him, only grounded by the sudden noxious pit in his stomach. “Dee-deeby…” he panted. “Stay away from me.”

Deeby continued to stalk closer, voice taking that dangerous low twang, the light bass growl snaking through the room and slithering around Stan’s throat, suffocating him more than a literal yank by his damn collar would. “Aw…” he tutted. “That's no fun, is it chiquito? I think you just need–”

“OKAY, OKAY!” Stan skittered back, pressing himself into the wall with racing heart and rabbit-fast breath. “I'll-I'll do it, I'll do it! You don't– You–... I'll take off my binder…”

That did, in fact, stop Deeby dead in his tracks. Stan swayed. Deeby looked at him expectantly. Stan stared into the distance. Deeby raised an eyebrow and made an impatient circular motion at Stan with his hands: get moving.

The static.

“Runt, if you don’t–”

“I– jus– ju-just-just don't touch me–”

“Stan–” Deeby warned, taking a single step toward him. All the air sucked out of the room. “I'm done giving you chances. Off. Now, or I'll do it.”

Stan grit his teeth with an almost mewling whine. His cheeks burned a bright red embarrassment under near-invisible blue freckles, and his very lungs stuttered as they tried to figure out if he wanted to scream or just cry. He started to pulled the shirt over his head, slowly, as if he could go slow enough that the bounty hunter would just get bored and give up entirely.

Ha.

Then he lost his way. He searched. More fabric. Where did the holes go? Where was he? He was lost! He tangled his arms around, searching, growling with frustration as he unsuccessfully tried to free himself, genuinely trapped as time simultaneously moved way too fast and excruciatingly slow. Then a whoosh, and his cotton-polyester prison disappeared, pulled off over his head to reveal a very amused Deeby glinting back at him, eyes sparkling as always. 

It was so cold in here.

Stan shoved him away, thankfully braced against the wall or else he might have fallen over himself. The world was so… tilted.

“Turn-turn around,” Stan ordered, blinking hard to keep himself present.

“What, no ‘thank you?’”

“Turn around!”

“Not turning around, bud.”

“Please, I don-don’t– don’t want you to-to see– to–...Turn around!”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Please! Deeby, I’m begging!”

“Not happenin’,” he sang, deadpan as ever.

“I thought you-you-you-ou said you weren't gugh-guh-gon-gonna–...” Stan shivered and took a deep breath. This stutter was driving him insane. “Tha-at you weren't a perv!”

“I'm not. I'm not gonna do anything except make sure you're not trying to pull some shit.”

“I won’t! I'm drugged! I-I can’t even take my shirt off!”

“All the more reason–”

“Declan!” Stan pleaded, pupils blown out and wide, tension at the top of his mouth so tight he was sure he was about to start bawling. “I care. I care-are-re. I don’t wan-want you���... Please…”

His voice turned high and quiet, tears burning to fall, pressure building up behind his eyes and ready to burst.

“Plea-ease…”

Declan closed his eyes and pinched at the bridge of his nose. Another tired deep breath.

“Turn yourself around if you care so much,” he muttered. The knife appeared in his hands, point pressed into the taut fabric on Stan's chest. “I'm done playing games. Stop stalling. Now.”

“I’m no-ot–”

The mercenary grabbed the strap of Stan’s binder and yanked him forward, barely pulling the knife out of the way in time for Stan to not fall on top of it and instead sending him hurtling into the man’s chest with a blood-curdling screech, then flailing and shoving off of the captor as hard as humanly possible. The push mixed with a sudden heavy fog bank engulfing his mind mixed with a painful misstep on his bad leg caused him to all but crumble to the freezing concrete floor in a heap, chin banged and bleeding and dripping and staining on the ground as his face pressing into scratchy dirt particles, as he laid there confused and scared and scrambling, just trying to figure out how to silence the roaring confusion of his mind as it blindly panicked in the pressing, buzzing fog that surrounded it. Threatened to swallow him whole.

Then a force grasped him by the back of his neck. Then a knee planted into the base of his spine. The full body weight of a man at least twice his size ground into his lower vertebrates, seemingly trying to press them straight through the soft flesh of his stomach into the unforgiving floor.

Stan screamed.

Was Deeby going back on his promise not to–

GET OFF!!

His binder, he couldn't let Declan take it off.

OWOWOWOWOW– NO NONONO–

The fog the fog the fog the fog the fog the fog buzzing buzzing buzzing buzzing BZZZZZZZZZZ–

A gloved hand pressed him into the floor by the back of his neck. Others in scratchy black tactical gear held his flailing limbs down. He strained. He cried. He screamed. He screamed so loud. So loud his throat was sore. They didn’t let up.

He wanted his mom. His dad. His sister. COME HELP!! Where were they? He cried out for them, heaving sobs. Unheeded.

“DEEBY!” He screeched, feet kicking out as if they could somehow free himself if he just kicked hard enough. “Get off! GET OFF! You're not taking my binder off–!”

“Mhm, yeah, sure bud,” Deeby mumbled as Stan continued his tantrum. His fingers squeezed slightly at either side of Stan’s neck. Warning. Patient. Waiting. He was waiting him out. Stan's head spun as if filled with angry bees, cries becoming weaker, fighting more and more sluggish as Deeby just sat on top of him.

Where was his sister? Where was Chloe?! CHLOE!! He needed to protect her! That was his only task! Protect her! He’d failed, he’d failed, he needed to save her, save them, get away. Every time he raged and strained and screamed another hand just came to pin him to the dusty ground. He was an animal thrashing around in a cage, a trap that only tightened around his throat the more he struggled.

“DEEBY– Deeby… Declan, Deeb– please get off, please, I need to save her, I don't– I just– can't–... ple-ee-ea-ease…” 

Deeby didn't say anything. Was it the drug that made him feel like he was floating on air as a pressure chamber simultaneously caged in his skull, teasing it to shatter? Or maybe the hyperventilating as he realized there was no escape. Or maybe the gutting hunger, or the throat squeezing thirst, or the burning panic, or the bone-deep exhaustion, or the pain, the pain, make it stop, all-encompassing, never-ending, or the violent shaking from lack of oxygen, or any number of the many other things that were wrong with him. Maybe all of them. His limbs lay stiff, as if held down by lead weights. His protests devolved into barely a whimpering whisper. He couldn't breathe. Not with the bounty hunter on top of him pressing his stomach into the floor, not with the probably broken ribs, not with the binder pressing into the swelling of his ribs and making every intake of air a monumentally agonizing feat achieved less and less each time…

“God, shut her up, I’m not dealing with this in the transport.”

“Really? It’s just a kid.”

“Unless you’d rather I shut her up myself.”

NO NO NO ESCAPE ESCAPE HE NEEDED TO FIND HIS FAMILY–

A tiny little prick on his upper arm. He screamed. Screamed until he couldn’t anymore, screamed because he couldn’t do anything else, screamed until one of the gloved hands slapped over his mouth and stayed there until he quieted, and then he couldn’t even scream. It stayed there until tears soaked through the course fabric. The edges of his vision started to go dark. 

“That’s it kid, shut up, go to sleep. Don’t struggle. It’ll be easier if you just relax.”

His head fell limp against the dirty ground.

He was gonna die here, wasn't he?

Yeah.

Made sense. 

He let his head lie down on the floor.

He lurched with silent sobs.

He couldn't do this anymore.

He couldn't.

This was all pointless.

He was done.

And he went limp.

“There ya go. Attaboy.”

Deeby's voice came from above him. Slow, comforting, praising, as if he were speaking from a thousand miles away.

“Attagirl…” The last voice he heard. The last time he saw his childhood home. The last time he saw his parents. The end of his first fight for his life. Failed. 

The black consumed him. 

Stan let out something between a whine and a sob. The mercenary took just a moment to readjust, legs now caging him in and pushing inward on either side of Stan's hips. “Yeah okay, whatever runt. Let’s just get this done.” 

Deeby's fingers probed under the binder for a moment, causing Stan to squirm anew purely on instinct. Until he hit a particularly nasty bruise. An electrical storm webbed through his ribcage. A flash of white. Stan yelped a cut-off, strangled squeal, a sound he prayed he’d never have to hear again.

“Sorry…” muttered above him. His binder flipped upward and over itself, a brief squeeze, the fabric pulling lightly at his skin, his arms, his hair, then pressure relieved.

Breathe in…

Holy fuck, he was alive!

Stan gulped in the first deep breath he'd taken in what felt like years, gasping and desperate and a full, deep breath. His senses sharpened. Kinda. He still sat pinned within a sea of cotton, the static that blanketed the clouds, limbs heavy, mind slow. But he could breathe! He almost remembered that he only felt like this because Deeby forcibly stripped him. That bitch.

“Holy shit,” the bounty hunter whispered quietly, amazed, almost inaudible. A moment of breath-taking clarity as adrenaline shot through Stan’s system for one last, final hurrah. Holy shit?

“Wh-what, what–?” He tried unsuccessfully to turn around and see. He even managed to convince himself that he didn't care that his tits were basically out, right before he flopped face-first into the ground again. This drug worked miracles.

Declan paused for a moment. Then: “Ah… Nothing, nothing, just, your ribs are much worse off than I thought. Bruised to shit…”

Stan laughed. Really? Bruised to shit? Who could have guessed? The burning anger and hatred and desperation he expected to feel, that he'd been fighting nonstop for two or three or however-the-hell many days straight? It was now buried under layers of static and sand and that lovely familiar darkness which pressed everything that made him himself to somewhere deep in the darkest recesses of his brain, unnoticed in the rolling fog. Though the knot in his throat that made him want to burst out crying still persisted. That was weird. What did he have to cry about? “Yeah… maybe you should… not… Aheh, uh, throw me… to–... walls anymore…” he giggled. He was pretty sure at least. That’s what his voice sounded like, right?

His limbs were so heavy. He might not be able to move them if he tried. Not that he wanted to. What if he just went to sleep right here?

Ah shit, he didn't have a shirt on still.

But like, who even cared anymore? The mercenary would take what he wanted, including Stan’s shirt, including his binder. He could take everything from him. Take his freedom, take his personhood, take any slight chance at happiness or have a normal family that wasn’t shattered to pieces. Shoot him with that pretty old gun, take his life entirely. Come back again and again just to make sure Stan never saw the light of day again. Who even cared if he saw Stan’s chest? Who even cared if this was one of the most humiliating things to ever happen to him? He shouldn’t fight so hard. He wouldn't be pinned face down to the floor and chained up and drugged if he just stopped fighting. This was fine. He felt fine. He liked this.

Keep fighting, rage, rage, escape.

Oh, shut up.

He felt the white overly large shirt being pulled back on over his head a million miles away, something with Eeby-Deeby getting frustrated again and his arms getting roughly shoved through the armholes before Stan could even try to lift his leaden limbs.

Chill out, man. It's fine. It's not that serious.

The way the world swirled around him was almost a comfort now. He was drugged. He knew it, it was just a fact now. The fog and the static and the way he could barely think and the way it was kinda hard to move and the way it took a second to move even if he did actually want to move… That wasn’t really Stan. That was some other guy. He was just drugged. Drugged Stan.

It was nice. Normal Stan was always so wound up about everything. Normal Stan fought so hard to change what couldn’t be changed, made everything so much worse for himself. And for what? He’d always be captured again, always chained up, always poked and prodded and beholden to the will of others, always treated like a petulant, whiny animal that needs to be tamed. Normal Stan couldn’t seem to get that. Normal Stan was those bad thoughts at the edges of his mind, the ones that kept him screaming, running, fighting even when Deeby got up off of him and gave him water which he desperately needed, sweet, sweet, water that relieved the pain and carried all his troubles away like a gently rushing river, cooled his insides of the burning heat and anger. GOD, he forgot how nice water tasted.

It was weird. Eeber-Deeber was almost thoughtful, in his own special way. When you looked past the violence. Stan should be nicer to him, make him not have to violence so much. Maybe then Stan go home! No fight, just go home and see his family… he didn’t really have a home, did he? No… But that was okay, because he still had Marcus and Chloe! He could see them again! That would be nice. Marcus, Chloe. He loved them so much. He needed to protect them. Why was he still here? His Mom and Dad couldn’t protect them, it was his job because they were…

Dead?

Dead.

It was for the best that they were.

It was fine though. It wasn’t that serious. 

…

He missed them.

* * * * * * * *

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