Snippet #14
Cw: implied past abuse/torture/neglect, injured whumpee, kinda clueless caretaker who did not sign up for any of this, mild panic attack, whumpee refusing actual professional help, whumpee thinking that they’re going to be returned to whumper, implied prolonged captivity
Caretaker didn’t look up as the little bell jingled, the door to their small diner opening.
“I’m sorry, we’re closed-“ Caretaker began automatically, from where they stood with their back turned, wiping down the counter with a disinfectant wipe.
“Is… is there food?” A small voice asked, scratchy and broken. Caretaker glanced over their shoulders, eyebrows scrunching together.
A figure stood in the doorway, small and dirty. At first Caretaker assumed it was a homeless person, they usually came by after hours, when they would give away the food they didn’t sell, but then they started to notice the finer details of their persona.
The person’s hair was tangled and matted, looking like it hadn’t been washed in a while. They wore an oversized jacket that was torn and stained over what Diana assumed used to be a plain white shirt and regular jeans. It wasn’t just dirt that covered their body. Blood, both dry and fresh dotted their clothes, and streaked their face. They didn’t have on shoes or socks.
“It s- says ‘dinner’ on the sign, and- and dinner means food… is there?”
“Do you mean ‘diner’?” Caretaker dropped the dirtied wipe into the trash, and turned to face the person. They looked back with wide eyes, trembling in place.
“Ye-yes. Diner.” They repeated, nodding their head, looking dazed and confused. “Is there food?”
“Yeah, I’ll get you some food. Why don’t you sit down,” Caretaker motioned towards one of the many booths lining the walls. As the person cautiously sat down, Caretaker made their way back into the kitchens, quickly heating up a large serving of the leftover chicken tenders from that day.
Only once they had placed the food in front of the person, along with a tall glass of water, and sat down across from them, did Caretaker begin to question them.
“Can you tell me your name? Where did you come from?”
“My name… is… Whumpee,” They answered, in between scarfing down bites of food.
“Where did you come from, Whumpee? Did someone hurt you?” Caretaker gently prodded, pulling their phone from their pocket. They needed to call the police, and an ambulance. Whumpee’s eyes widened as what Caretaker was doing registered in their mind, and they froze.
“No, please don’t-“ Whumpee dropped the chicken tender they were holding, clasping their shaking hands together. “Don’t call them, please,”
“I’m not calling them,” Caretaker assured, wondering exactly who ‘them’ was. “I’m calling an ambulance.”
“No, no that’s worse!” Whumpee cried. “Please, don’t, please!”
“There’s people there that can help you, Whumpee,” Caretaker tried to reason, but their finger hovered over the call button, the sheer amount of desperation in Whumpee’s voice enough to throw them off.
“No, please, I can’t go there! I can’t go back!” Whumpee’s hands moved to their hair, yanking at the matted locks, their breathing beginning to speed up.
“Okay, okay, I won’t call, calm down,” Caretaker set their phone down, and held their hands out for Whumpee to see. “See? I’m not calling them,”
Whumpee looked up, a tear cutting through the grime covering their bruised cheeks. Caretaker knew then that they were in for a long night.
