The just-rescued cradle- the rescued character is injured/weak/overcome and is protectively clutched to their rescuer's chest in a half-sitting position, head lolling against their chest/crook of their supporting elbow, perhaps one feeble hand clutching a sleeve or hem, other characters gathering around and the rest of the conversation flowing over their head apart from the supporting character's reassurances.
Someone searching for Whumpee. They can hear them calling their name just beyond the door. But Whumper has a hand to their mouth and a knife to their throat.
Recovery doesn’t have to just be healing injuries, it can also be:
Rescued Whumpee breaking down because they're so frustrated with themselves. They're out, they're save, they shouldn't be like this anymore.
And yet, that sound, that word, that situation, that name, whatever it is, it sends them right back to the start, like they haven't made any progress at all.
They can feel it, the panic creeping up on them, their mind slowly going back there. They can't stop the tremors in their hands, or their breath coming too fast, their heartbeat picking up. They know they're out, but they can't stop this.
The frustration and anger turning into exhaustion. After screaming and throwing something at the wall, they just collapse and start sobbing. They shouldn't be like this anymore.
Why won't it just go away?
aftermath… whumpee looking in the mirror and just silently staring. running a hand over their buzzed hair, maybe, or tracing the bruises or bandages or stitches on their face.
thinking about a whumpee who wants to talk about what happened to them. who feels like they’re drowning alone in their head with what was done to them and how badly it hurt, how much it still haunts them. who desperately wants to tell someone but doesn’t want to burden anyone with details or admit to not being past it, who feels like they’re not supposed to want to tell anyone about what happened.
It’s always nice to imagine the whumpee’s first shower after being freed. Warm water pouring down their scars, maybe after only having freezing water thrown on them. Scented body wash that pushes the memories of their cell far away. Maybe even the caretaker sitting just beside the tub, helping wash through knots and mats in their hair.
i love u characters who are victims who don't show things in a way that's appealing i love u characters whos trauma leaves them with anger issues, with violence issues, with issues with connection and trust and being truthful i love you characters who don't get "better" in a way that's palatable, who don't find growth and meaning in their trauma
i don’t know what i’m talking about but i think my favorite type of injured!character is the cornered animal, and there’s two types
there’s the stray cornered animal, who watches warily, just out of arms reach. a sudden movement and they’ll flee. soft voices, kind smiles, gently coaxing them to come out, it’s okay, i won’t hurt you, i only want to help. they want to let you help them, but it hurts and they’re scared. gentle persistence will have them slowly creep toward you, carefully extending their injured limb or hesitantly laying back for you to examine them.
then there’s the abused cornered animal. they know better than to let someone get so close when they’re so weak. they’ll patch themselves up, thank you very much, and growl when you get too close. they have no desire to trust you, because they’re in pain and believe you’ll only hurt them further. they don’t want help. in fact, get too close and they’ll bite and scratch and kick until you back away again. the only thing you can do is watch from the sidelines until they can’t reach that one cut on their back to stitch it up, or their hands are shaking too much to wrap their ankle properly.
Whumpee is back, and it's time to celebrate. There's cake, and music, the whole nine yards.
Members of the team keep talking to them, telling them how glad they are that it's "over."
Over.
Whumpee has to escape the party and go hyperventilate in the bathroom.
Things are so far from "over."
the hard part is over.
maybe whumpee’s fever has finally broken. they’re soaked through with sweat, blinking wearily back to lucidity, and caretaker rocks them in their arms. “there you are,” caretaker cries. “welcome back. it’s okay. you’re okay.”
maybe whumpee is out of surgery and waking up in a hospital. caretaker sits by their bedside, holding their hand and pressing kisses to their forehead. “you’re safe, whumpee, you’re in the hospital. it’s all okay. you’re safe now.”
maybe whumpee’s bleeding has finally stopped. caretaker leans back on their haunches, exhausted, hands bloodstained. “i think it’s over,” they tell whumpee with a soft smile, tucking whumpee’s hair behind their ear. “look at that, i think you’re gonna be just fine.”
maybe whumpee has just been removed from a perilous situation. caretaker refuses to leave their side— hugging them close, rubbing their back. “i’m here, i’m here, whumpee. i won’t let anything hurt you again. you can rest now. you’re safe.”
thinking about the finding. oh yes the bruise-littered skin and rubbed-raw wrists and red-rimmed eyes, oh yes the shallow, pained breaths and semi-consciousness, in and out for the pain, but more acutely: the finding. the 'you are safe now' as well as the 'how do i touch you without hurting you'. the 'i'm here, and i'm sorry that i'm late'. you know
When whumpee was rescued, they were mentally and physically spent. They had no energy to cry and sob, no voice to speak to the police, or to tell the doctors what hurt.
They slept for nearly 24 hours, only waking because caretaker shook them to make sure they were still alive.
Recovering whumpee laying in bed and staring at the ceiling.
Recovering whumpee trying to find something to do to occupy their attention, but everything turns to static in their head.
Recovering whumpee who can’t stop thinking about the things that happened, but doesn’t connect to the feelings.
Recovering whumpee who dissociates through whole conversations, or whole hours of time before snapping back to sync with reality.
Recovering whumpee who notices they were crying without realizing it.
Recovering whumpee who is trying to get better but making no progress.
the hospital felt like a second round of imprisonment for whumpee.
they were safe from whumper, yes, but they weren't free. IVs and tubes kept them tethered to the hospital bed. bracelets with warnings were tied around their bandaged wrists. nurses checked on them every hour, noting their vitals, adjusting settings on the frightening machines that surrounded the bed, and worst of all, giving whumpee medications that felt far too similar to the drugs whumper had given them to keep whumpee under their control.
at first, whumpee was too weak to protest. they could barely keep their eyes open. but day after day, their strength slowly returned, and with it came the nagging thought that whumpee needed to escape.
pov: your future husband comes to your rescue
