CW: Sadistic whumper, dissoci@ted whumpee/reluctant whumper sidekick, blood
“Nah, ah, ah,” Ashley sings more than speaks as she circles the chair, running fingers caked in blood up to the knuckles over the torn, stained tank top of the woman tied to it. “You’re bleeding too much, pretty-pretty, and you die on my terms, not yours.”
The woman coughs, and shudders as fresh blood wells from the marks over her abdomen, trickling down to soak into her blue jeans and drip onto the floor. “I’m n-not-… not trying to die, I sw-swear, you f-fucking-… cut me-”
“Sssshhhh, I know.” Ashley pats her on the head, and the woman tries to flinch away from her touch. Ashley leaves streaks of drying brown-red on the woman’s scalp. “I know. But it’s your fault for bleeding so much. I guess i’m going to have to do medical care on you.” She looks back at the woman, cocks her head to the side, and smiles. “I need you to live a few more hours, I haven’t eaten in weeks.”
The woman’s eyes widen. Her face is shiny with sweat. “Wh-what?”
Ashley turns and looks to the corner, where Ora stands staring fixedly off to the side, to a point in space that no one else can see. “Ora,” She singsongs. “Wake up, honeybear.”
Ora jerks into motion, blinking rapidly as if they had forgotten how to do it until Ashley spoke their name. “Yes?”
“Bandage up all of…” Ashley waves her hand in a vague gesture at the woman on the chair. “That. I want to go drink a Coke. I’ll be back to kill her.”
She walks out the front door and down the steps, and Ora watches her go with the same blank stare, then turns to look back at the woman.
“Please,” The woman pleads, coughs again, cries out in pain. Ora watches as bloodstains along her tank top widen, darken, go from drying to fresh again. “Please, please help me-”
Ora is silent as they step across the room. They give the woman nothing - no hint of compassion in their eyes, no look of sympathy on their face. They are green hair and a black shirt and black pants and nothing else.
It’s all burned out.
There’s nothing left.
When they pull the first aid kit out to bandage the woman, they use the scissors to carefully, so carefully, wear away at the ropes, loosening the tightly wound threads.
“She doesn’t like dead blood so much,” Ora murmurs.
“What?” The woman’s face is pale, gray around the edges. Ora doesn’t meet her eyes.
“When she gets you next, pretend to die. Maybe-… maybe we’ll leave while you’re still breathing.”
“You could-… call someone, the cops-”
Ora looks up, then. The woman’s words dry up in her throat at the empty, desolate world that lives in Ora Collins now. “No. I can’t. All I can give you is a chance.”
The woman hesitates, then slowly nods. “I-I understand.”
“No,” Ora says flatly, laying a bandage over a place the blade went in deep. “No… you don’t.”