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#prompt: whumpshaped’s write me a novel challenge
strawberry-whump · 10 months
Text
Betrayal
[Plain text: Betrayal]
Content warnings: betrayal, captivity, (implied) neurodivergent whumpee, second person POV
Word Count: 335
Fulfilling day 1 of @whumpshaped’s “write me a novel” challenge. Prompt used is friends.
———
“Look,” Aaron says. “If I weren’t here, you’d be in way worse of a situation, okay?”
You don’t look at him, just keep on staring at the wall of the room you’re in. God, you’re an idiot. Why the fuck did you think that anyone— that any of them— To think that you thought you could be friends.
You don’t say any of this out loud, just swallow and ask, not letting your voice betray your anger, your grief, anything. “Were the others in on this?”
They shake their head. “No, no, but it was going to happen whether I helped them or—“
“Just shut up and fuck off, okay.” Your voice cracks at the end of your sentence. “I don’t need your protection, whatever that means. Just go away and lie to someone, and stop pretending to be my friend.”
You’re not going to cry. You’re not. You’re not.
“I’m trying to help you,” they say, as they leave. You don’t validate that with a response.
You’ve moved around a lot, it’s been like that since you were a kid, and never really stopped when you were an adult. Never really good at forming bridges, all too good at burning them, so getting in your car and driving and driving and driving, like that woman from Gravity… it was never all that hard.
Something about this town, though, was different. One of your clients, Aaron, it’s funny how he’s the first you met, invites you to grab a drink with him and his friends, and it’s unlike you, to say yes, but there’s something about this town, and something about the mood you’re in, and something about how he did pay you a good amount of money… so you say yes.
His friends are nice. Quieter than you expected, and for some reason you can’t figure out — maybe it’s something in the air, maybe it’s your mood, maybe it’s the way they’re all so excited when you talk about art, or photography, or playing the violin — you really like them. Is this why everyone finds it so hard to leave?
So, you stay.
Idiot.
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