Prepare to feel even worse, here's the ~3300 words short novel haha...
Short Novel; Fade Out
Garvin, age N/A (23)
Andi, age N/A (41)
Rover (Portuguese Sheepdog), age N/A (3)
Strong TW for this one. We got quite a bit going on… Andi should be a whole TW on his own, honestly. An actual list? Uh… Torture, mental abuse, emotional abuse, suicidal ideation (both implied and direct), dehumanization (kind of?), forced kiss, implied physical abuse, drowning, near death experience (kind of?), implied sexual assault, and implied drug consumption. As I said, Andi is a whole TW on his own. Buckle up, stay safe, and proceed with caution.
*~*~*~*
With a stuttering breath, fumbling and hoarse, was how Garvin woke up. Which, really, had become normal for him. So he barely paid it any mind as he huffed out another breath, eyes trying to cling to whatever remained of sleep by staying closed. That wishful thinking was stopped by him breathing a bit too sharply on accident that quickly turned to coughing.
-
He forced his eyes open when it passed, giving up on the idea of sleep with the renewed ache at his wrists. And he’d just gotten used to it again too. He blinked at how absurd that thought was, and he might would’ve laughed too, if he wasn’t so aware of the fact that it’d just cause him another coughing fit. Instead, he breathed a sigh. A small breath of air, as if that could take the place of a laugh where he really shouldn’t be laughing anyways. But, well, what else was there to do? Scream?
-
Pointedly ignoring that idea, he focused on trying to shift without making himself even more sore. That was just about the last thing he needed right now. Well, other than the door opening, that is. That’d probably be worse for him… Unless that prick was going to give him food. He couldn’t actually remember what happened the last time he’d been awake. Everything was starting to blur together in his mind. Which was probably good. Right? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t really care either. It didn’t make much of a difference anyways.
-
He managed to shift enough that the pipes digging into his back were a bit easier to ignore. The idea of getting out of the cuffs at least made its way through his mind before he decided against it. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out, or how long he had until whatever his fucking name was came back down. There wasn’t much to do while waiting though. He wanted to sleep some more. He didn’t feel sore while he was sleeping. Or hungry. Or anything else for that matter. He didn’t feel anything that happened while sleeping, either. Not really. Nothing real, at least…
-
The silence was really starting to get to him too. Well. The annoying background noise of the basement was starting to get to him. It wasn’t really silent, anyways. There was a slight buzz or hum or something, and he was pretty sure there was some other noise too. He couldn’t actually tell. He didn’t actually care, if he were being honest. He was just tired of the silence down here. At this point he might actually just talk to himself. He’d done that before, on cold nights where he’d been sure that he was going to freeze to death and talking had helped keep his mind off it. Those nights seemed rather far now. Or, at least, they would if the cold wasn’t still nipping at his fingers.
-
“Ugh…” He groaned, mostly just trying to see if his voice even worked still. It did. Kind of. The air got caught in his throat after a second though, and he ended up coughing again. Who knew that stale basement air could be so shitty? This time he did laugh, and it was a dry, hoarse sound that did exactly what he knew it’d do… Which was that it just caused him to cough more.
-
The fit passed by the time he heard the telling sounds of locks being messed with. He was out of time then. Great. That was great. Fucking awesome. He could really go for a cigarette right about now. Or something that’d give him some sort of smoke to mess with… He stamped down the quickening of his breathing before it caused him to cough again. Could he just act like he was still asleep? He doubted it’d stop anything but— He huffed out a breath at himself. He was tired. But he was fine. He was alive. That was good enough, wasn’t it? It had always been good enough before.
-
The door opened and— And fuck it. He was going to die down here, wasn’t he? No one was going to come get him. But he could at least waste the time of this piece of shit before he died. He could at least see how much he could get onto the asshole’s nerves before he died.
-
He shoved past the shrinking back as he made out one of the pricks’ shoes and forced his grin up. Wide. He forced his voice to work, as hoarse as it was, “Damn, an’ right when I was startin’ ta hope I’d never see ya again.”
-
The sour look he got in return was worth the sore throat as the guy that he had forgotten the name of, which wasn’t that a win in and of itself, reached the bottom of the stairs. Which meant he had to look up now, the asshole. “Oh please, you can always count on me to come see you, Garvin.”
-
He tried not to bristle. He was really starting to miss people forgetting his name. He was also really starting to miss when he could go days without remembering his own name too. The nature of those thoughts almost had him laughing. Still, he didn’t let himself miss a beat and forced out, “Hmm, I think I’d rather no one, actually.”
-
A beat of silence, where nothing happened. Something that always seemed to happen, just a moment before everything where there was silence. At first, Garvin liked the chance to prepare. At this point, he just wanted it all to be over sooner rather than later. Still, just as soon as the pause came, it went and footsteps coming closer replaced it. “Well, it’s a good thing that dirt doesn’t get to choose then, isn’t it?”
-
Ignoring the way each step seemed in time with his heart, shoving down the panic that wouldn’t do anything, he forced a huff. He didn’t need any reminders as to what he was. So, honestly, “Fuck you.”
-
The footsteps stopped beside him, crouching with a small hum. No matter how much he hated the look in the eyes staring right back at him, no matter how much it made him want to squirm or shrink or just get away from it, he wasn’t about to look away. He wasn’t about to start breaking now. He couldn’t. The humming stopped, and whatever his name was smiled.
-
“On the contrary, Garvin,” a hand reached over and he tried to keep from trying to get away, and the hand grabbed his chin. He tried not to react, tried not to tense or shudder. “You’re the one that’s going to get fucked.”
-
Something about that made him want to laugh, though he was fairly certain that he shouldn’t. He almost did, and he probably would’ve laughed, if there weren’t suddenly lips on his that he didn’t want there. He tried to shift away this time, the need to get away just a bit stronger than his understanding that showing any kind of fear here would only bring him to death faster. The hand at his chin only tightened. He tried to push himself further into the wall and pipes behind him, trying to put distance between him and the still getting closer piece of shit. The hand that wasn’t holding his chin was moving, and he needed to get away. He didn’t— He didn’t want this—
-
He kicked. With panic at the front of his mind, lungs heaving and just wanting away from what was happening, he kicked. It was a pretty good one too, and for a moment he just watched as the man he’d just kicked stumbled back, away from him. He took the chance to force his panic down, to force his breathing to steady, to force his grin back up and his voice to work again. “Yer’a bitch, ya know that?”
-
The angry grimace he got in return was totally worth it, he decided. So he huffed a laugh as he was approached again, and kept his panic shoved down. Somehow, the man looked even angrier at his huff of laughter and bit out a quick remark. “As if you deserve any better.”
-
And, really? Garvin really didn’t need any more reminders. He knew what his worth was. He knew just how little anyone cared. He didn’t need some creep to remind him. So, choosing to forget how bad of an idea it was, as soon as the prick was right in front of his face again— He spat.
-
The quick recoiling in disgust was fucking greatness, and he laughed at the pure rage and disgust painted on the man’s face as a string of curses fell. Followed quickly by, “You fucking rat!”
-
And, well, the whole thing of being stuck in some fucking creepy asshole’s basement must’ve been getting to him a bit. Because he laughed a bit harder at that, even as it got caught in his throat as a hand grabbed at his hair and it turned to pained coughing. He really shouldn’t be laughing, even if his lungs weren’t shit, he just shouldn’t be laughing right now. For some reason though, it all just seemed… Hilarious, in that way that nothing should ever be. The way that he tended to get left with anyways.
-
The man he’d forgotten the name of looked really tired of him and his shit. Which, quite honestly, was funny too. Because he still hadn’t screamed or begged, so he still couldn’t be killed yet. The coughing died down and he almost considered laughing again, if not for the sudden pain that seemed to come from nowhere. Then he almost laughed again anyways, settling instead for a pained but oh-so-amused, “Really? Ya cheatin’ now?”
-
He was glared at, “You just spit in my face.”
-
He almost laughed again at hearing it said out loud, instead focusing on raising an eyebrow. “Jeez, an’ I wonder why I did that.”
-
The glare stayed, flashing with even more anger, and Garvin had half a mind to wish that he’d just snap and kill him now. Instead, the pain hiked up and he tried to ignore the hands messing with the cuffs around his wrists. Wait— The cuffs at his wrists? Why was— Oh. Shit.
-
The moment of confusion must have shown on his face before he’d realized what was happening, because there was an evil grin across from him. “Well, guess we’ll just have to see if you still want to be difficult after a good soak.”
-
Again, shit. Fucking shit. The pain hitched his breath for a second, and he tried not to react to it. Instead, he tried to focus on the feeling of the cuffs falling off one of his wrists and pulled away. The door at the top of the stairs was probably locked, just like every other time. He caught himself trying to shift away anyways, a half thought out motion at best. His wrist was caught about as quickly as he’d expected.
-
He might’ve done something else, like throw a punch or something, if he hadn’t gotten distracted by the growing pain and quick pulling on his arm. As it was, he ended up trying to steady himself as the hand not tightly gripping his wrist grabbed at his hair again. He’d really rather be asleep right now. The movement was starting to make his throat scratchy, or it could’ve been his breathing doing that. He wasn’t too sure. He blinked.
-
His back hit something solid. Something cold. Something metal. He groaned at the pain, the sound hoarse and barely even there in his ears. He could’ve sworn someone was speaking. He couldn’t be sure though, as he started to try and pick himself back up. He got to his elbows before he found himself back on the ground, a new ache at his ribs and struggling to breathe. The floor seemed better. At least compared to the pipes.
-
The sound of rushing water caught his attention enough to have him trying to push himself back up even with shaky arms, reminding him that what his back had hit was something he had no desire to be anywhere near. At all. Ever. And that, screw it, he was at least going to try and get away from it. He just had to move, had to get away, had to— A hand was in his hair as he fumbled to get up and move, and his heart lurched. Another hand grabbed one of his arms, pulling him up as he struggled to get his breathing under control. (He thought, somewhere, that he shouldn’t be panicking this much. That it’d only make it worse. He knew that it’d only make it worse. He’d almost drowned enough times by now in his life to know that. But he couldn’t shove his nerves down despite knowing that, and he wasn’t sure why he couldn’t.)
-
Standing was painful, difficult, his legs not wanting to hold him up, and somewhere in his mind he decided that he’d rather be on the ground where he could better ignore every ache. But, honestly, he was a bit more concerned about the large tub filling with water and the way he already couldn’t get his lungs to work. He couldn’t look away from the ripples, barely noticing as the cuff was fixed around both of his wrists again, his lungs unable to work. He thought he heard something, somewhere, behind the sound of water and lungs that wouldn’t work right. He wasn’t sure what it was.
-
He fell in. Or he was pushed. He was more concerned about the quickly approaching water, and the fact that he still didn’t know how to swim, that his lungs still weren’t listening to him. (He somehow forgot, in that one moment, that even if he did know how to swim, it wouldn’t have helped him.) He didn’t last long, his mouth already having been open when he met the water. He needed out, he knew he needed out.
-
On impulse, he tried to cough out the water burning his throat. It only helped more water to get in. Panic gripped him, he tried to push his head up, tried to get out, get away. Something met the back of his head and kept him under. Not for the first time, the urge to scream caught him, he couldn’t get past the impulse of coughing though, even as it just brought more water into his lungs. He couldn’t hear anything, and each droplet of water in his throat felt like glass, or heated shards of metal. (People that said drowning was peaceful were dead wrong. It’d never been peaceful, not once during the many, many times it’d happened to him.)
-
Was he further down? He couldn’t tell— It was dark. He couldn’t move his hands, his arms just as useless. There was still something holding his head down too. He needed out— He couldn’t— He tried to cough again, trying to get rid of the water in his lungs and being unable to do so, only getting more in as he tried— He couldn’t— His fingers scraped against the bottom of the tub, trying to find a hold, trying to push him back up. He almost thought he saw something over the chain of the cuffs keeping him from being able to move, he was too busy not being able to breathe to be sure though. Black spots were quickly filling up his vision, after all. Yet it wasn’t happening fast enough, with each passing moment tearing apart his lungs, burning his throat, splitting everything the water touched as it went down. His eyes drooped and—
-
And he was being pulled out, eyes blurring everything around him. The only thing he managed to notice before he landed on the ground was that the water didn’t look clear anymore. But then he was on the ground, and thoughts about how clear the water was didn’t matter as he spluttered and coughed past the black still at the edges of his vision. His arms barely held him as he coughed, and then heaved, trying to get all of the water out of him. His lungs wheezed, straining against him, and he tried to breathe. He coughed some more instead, and heaved again, his hands curling on the ground for some sort of hold here, to keep him up. He heaved, still coughing, still trying to get all of the water out.
-
He tried to push himself up, his limbs fighting against the idea as he still struggled to breathe without dry heaving and coughing. He barely made any progress before something pushed him back down, and it stayed planted on his back. The motion made him cough again, a whine caught behind it in his throat, black spots returning full force to dance in his vision. Whatever was on his back keeping him down moved away, quickly replaced with what almost felt like hands, if he could manage to get himself to focus. He couldn’t— He didn’t— Something rested near his hip, pulling at him. The holes in his vision weren’t helping. The hold seemed wrong, painful if he weren’t still trying to catch his breath. He couldn’t focus. He groaned in protest of— Of something, though he wasn’t sure what. He was tired. He’d rather not wake up again. Everything faded out.
*~*~*
When he woke up again, only one wrist was cuffed to the pipes and he felt even more sore than he had the last time. His lungs ached against each breath he took. He coughed, trying to get rid of some of the pain in his lungs. It turned into a coughing fit instead, hoarse and scratchy and strained in the way he was better off just getting used to by now. Blearily, he tried to look around, tried to get his attention away from the way his, well, everything throbbed in protest of being awake.
-
Something shifted against his free hand where it was sitting on the ground. He glanced over, slow and trying to convince himself that he should. He blinked at the sight once he did, unsure of how he hadn’t noticed as soon as he’d woken up. Because there sat Rove, curled against his side and right on top of his free hand, staring up at him as if worried by the cough. He wanted to laugh again.
-
He didn’t. Instead, he shifted his free hand and rested it in Rove’s knotted fur, offering the small dog a smile. As if he could convince anyone that anything was fine right now. He looked away, trying to see if he’d missed anything else.
-
He had. He’d missed a glass, whatever in it would’ve been clear if not for the fine powder making it seem fogged. It wasn’t water either, he knew that. He also didn’t care. Anything was better than nothing, water or not. Drugged or not. He’d rather be drugged than fully alert anyways. Whatever was closest to sleep. Still, he didn’t need to drink it just yet. He could give himself some time to ignore the way his hand was wound in Rove’s fur as if that was enough to keep himself sane here. It was better than nothing.
Fall 
Day Weather: 
