Whumpee is breathing heavily, clutching an iron poker in their hands with white knuckles. Helps to hide the trembling.
The fluff swirls around them in large flakes, slowly settling on the floor, like a picture of their slowly crumbling innocence, the fall of their mind. It seems like their whole life is now flowing into their hands, through their fingers into the poker, until it becomes a part of them, their new limb, their new mind.
No, it's not a fall. It's an acquisition. They gain strength, they gain intelligence, power. Their new limb, new mind. They become something more than a human, something much more perfect and free — a being that shouldn't obey its weaknesses, but act above them.
A mannequin, mutilated beyond recognition, covered with a thin cloth and stuffed with down, once looking impersonally into the face of its enemy, now smashed to smithereens, presents a complete picture of defeat, becomes a symbol of losses that Whumpee will no longer have to experience. They are no longer the frail, pathetic scum of society that the world thought they were. And they're going to prove it to them.
"Well done, little one."
A voice purrs somewhere behind Whumpee, and they clutch the poker a little tighter, looking away from their soulless torn enemy to look at Whumper through the wet strands of their hair. Their eyes are empty, like two holes into infinity.
Whumper smiles.
"You're improving every day, kid." Whumper says sweetly, slowly coming closer and brushing off a piece of fluff from their shoulder, looking at the work done by their student. "Maybe we'll even do without punishments this week, what do you think?"
Whumpee tilts their head to the side, their eyes are still empty, while their hands slightly loosen their grip on the poker — their mind gradually begins to clear.
Maybe it wasn't an acquisition after all. Perhaps it was all just a big illusion, created by their teacher, their master, to keep them close with this fragile shell of visible control of theirs.
Every time, every lesson they failed and won, when they became stronger and believed that the fateful day was approaching, when they would finally be able to prove Whumper that they was worthy, that they had become perfect, that they had become more than a human being — every time they fed on this thought and believed that they were getting closer to freedom and disclosure. It was their perverted religion, their creed, which consisted of a circulating cycle of suffering and breakdowns.
Whumper's smile softens and they come closer, putting their heavy hand on Whumpee's head and patting it in a deliberately gentle gesture, expressing pride.
Whumpee practically melts under the gesture, their fingers on the poker relax, as does their entire body, as if a whole weight had been lifted from their shoulders with that one gesture of approval. They close their eyes.
They handled it. They're getting better. Whumper is proud of them.
This degradation... They believed that they were becoming more than a human—whereas they were becoming less and less every day—that they knocked out so many 'flaws' until their mind became just a shell, descending to primitive animal needs. So far, they has just lived from punishment to punishment, from reward to reward, barely realizing how far they are from what they think they are.
In the end, Whumper became their everything. Whumper fed them, provided them with a bed for the night, rewarded them with a kind word whenever they thought they were losing more and more pieces of their personality, slowly surrendering to the mercy of their master, becoming their fighting tin soldier.
And yet...
Yet, at times they felt echoes of their past self in their head, the slowly rotting remnants of their humanity—fear when they once had less rationality. The fear not of punishment, but of what they will become after it.
Whumpee's fingers slowly and smoothly wrap around the poker again, squeezing it in their hands again as the remnants of their buried personality begin to stir.
And what about joy? They had almost forgotten what had pleased them in the past—now it was just getting through the day without additional bruises and broken ribs, but then it had once been something more. Maybe getting better at themselves? Taking care? Of themselves, of others?
Whumpee slowly blinks and their dark, empty eyes dart up to Whumper, watching the approval, such a rare eruption on their face that distorts their mouth and the corners of their eyes.
The one who destroyed Whumpee from the inside. Who put a poker in their hands and watched them eviscerate their innocence while eating popcorn from their seat and occasionally making remarks, maybe breaking a couple of bones.
Is it really their 'right' now?
Whumpee's fingers tighten on the poker again, and it's just a single fraction of a moment — Whumper's eyes rush down to their hands, their face doesn't even have time to lose this soft, feigned pride when Whumpee raises the poker in the air.
Smash!
A terrible sound is heard in the small room, echoing for several seconds from the four walls, though it seems much longer. It seems as if the walls will take away and absorb this sound forever, not allowing anyone else to enter this room without the terrifying ringing of someone's ruined life.
Whumpee breathes heavily, their chest rising and falling. A few strands of hair fell over their eyes where Whumper's hand slipped off their head, swaying slightly with their labored breathing.
Red. Dark red, terrifyingly red. They had imagined red so often when Whumper said they would bring them live mannequins. They had seen it so many times, whining as they clutched a wounded limb to their chest.
Now Whumper has turned red, has become their great downfall.
Once again.