Work Text:
Journal / solitary confinement / “make it stop.”
“Hello?”
Donnie called out into the darkness, not sure where exactly he was.
It was dark when he opened his eyes, and his body seemed to be shaking off the numbing effects of whatever had been used to knock him out.
He briefly ran through a mental list of readily available drugs and their effects. Anesthesia seemed the most in-line, possibly morphine, but he wasn’t sure if those counted as ‘readily available’.
Once he’d gained more feeling in his body, he came to a disturbing realization.
He was immobilized, tied to a chair, the back of it tilted backward almost like a dentist's chair.
That and he was most likely blindfolded, which caused a spike of anxiety to pierce his chest. A blindfold meant he couldn’t assess past four very limited senses. He couldn’t move at all, his head held in place by the blindfold, keeping his head looking up. The rest of his binds seemed to hold him as immobile as possible. There were restraints around his upper torso, both parts of his arms, his wrists, thighs, calves, and ankles. At most he could twist his hips.
He couldn’t smell much, mainly wet concrete, and possibly fabric. There was no sound around him aside from his own heart and breathing as the rate of both increased.
He was panicking, probably not good, but he wasn’t sure what else to do. He had no idea where he was, who had him, or anything else important for that matter.
Then he heard a muttering, muffled from the other side of a wall (maybe, he still couldn’t see) and the noise grew closer, more familiar.
Then he heard a door open behind him and the sound of footsteps wandered closer. He could hear where his captor was by the tapping feet walking slowly around him.
“Othello.”
His breathing caught in his throat by a growl. “Kendra.”
“Quite the look on you.” he flinched when her fingers brushed over his shoulder. “I think it may help us come to an understanding.”
“Sure, let me just comply with whatever demands you have after you kidnap me and tie me up.” he deadpanned. “Not to burst your bubble, but that result is highly unlikely.”
“Is it?” she mused.
There was a pause, as if she was going to say something else, but she didn’t, and he was about to start his own monologue when a startling, cold, wet drop of liquid landed on his forehead. “Ack, hey! What are you doing?”
“I did nothing.” he could almost hear her snide smile. “Just a busted pipe.”
He growled, hating when the chilly drop slid down the side of his head, making him realize he was maskless. Great.
“What do you even want?” he huffed. “I haven’t messed with you and your inferior little club in months.”
“I want you to join us.” she said. “But your word isn’t good enough, so we’ll wait for your honest word of resignation.”
“Again, highly unlikely.” He stated.
She hummed. “Very well. If you change your mind, we’ll be listening.”
He paused, hearing her move back toward the door. “What? You’re just going to leave me here?”
She laughed, venom lacing the sound. “Correction: I’m going to leave you here with a busted pipe.”
When she closed the door, another drop landed on his forehead, and he flinched again, shivering at the sensation.
What the actual fuck?
He tried to wiggle around, loosen his restraints or find any weak spots, with no give.
Another drop.
That was getting annoying.
He paused, waiting silently for the water again, and when it came (definitely not startling him again) he began to count, keeping tabs on how long it took to the next drop.
If he knew, then it couldn’t phase him. Perhaps he could even try to use it as a method of keeping track of the time.
28… 29… 30… 31… 32
Plop .
He took a deep breath, starting over. 32 seconds, he could handle that.
15… 16… 17… 18… 19
Plop.
He jumped. That wasn’t 32 seconds. Had he counted wrong?
The one after was only 7 seconds, then 24, and the anticipation of that one was getting to him, compressing his lungs with anxiety.
Jeez, he hated this.
He couldn’t see the drops, couldn’t anticipate when they would come.
Plop .
He unwillingly whined. The feeling as it slid down the side of his head seemed to seep all the way to his bones. He couldn’t wipe away the crusty feeling of the dried trail, or even move his head away from the drops altogether.
After several more drops, he began thrashing again, trying more desperately to get away, but only succeeding in irritating his skin where it was bound.
Plop.
He shouted in frustration, having thrown aside the notion of counting for the drops without realizing it. When had he stopped counting?
Didn’t matter, it wouldn’t do much. He’d lost count of how many drops there had been, and how long he’d been sitting there.
Plop.
“Damnit!” he growled. It was so cold and wet and uncomfortable! He hated it so much!
He wanted it to stop.
How badly? His brain supplied. Because there is one way.
“No!” he stated aloud. He refused to give in just from a little water.
Plop .
He bit down on his bottom lip, the stress building in his throat and being dragged out of him in a ragged cry.
Oh, he was positive that Kendra was loving every second of this, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.
Plop.
He sobbed, trying his hardest to contain his breathing. Why was this so hard? It was just water! It wasn’t physically hurting him or anything.
But at the same time, it felt like it was internally tearing him apart.
Plop.
He cried out, as if the drop was a knife digging into him.
He didn’t care anymore, either way, any way to make it stop.
Plop.
“Stop!” he shouted. “Please! I give!!!”
Silence except for his own breathing.
Nothing, as a long, dragged out peace settled, just long enough to let him catch his breath and hope for relief.
Plop.