Work Text:
Evil comes with medicine in hand. It’s not the medicine the doctor prescribed for you, far from it. Instead it’s “what’s best for you”, and you’re not getting better. You’re not going to get better.
Bangs are brushed from your forehead, soothing noises are made. You must play along with the ruse; it gets much worse for you when you don’t. Why there’s any pretense now, you don’t know. Perhaps it is just to humiliate you, or perhaps your captor has some twisted need to feel righteous about all this. Perhaps that is why there is so much anger when you shatter the illusion.
You are growing too tired to do so.
So you accept the false gestures of affection and the false medicine that is either useless or worse, swallowing it down. It’s not going to kill you. Just prolong your suffering.
“There now, good job. That wasn’t so bad now, was it?”
“Thank you,” you say. The words taste worse than the medicine on your tongue, but it’s the only one of a limited list of acceptable responses that you can bring yourself to say.
A frown. Evidently, “acceptable” isn’t enough today.
“You could stand to sound a little more grateful. It’s not easy taking care of you when you’re so unwell. Do you know how much I’ve had to sacrifice for you?”
You don’t answer, holding back the words, it can’t be more than you’ve taken away from me.
It would be the wrong response. There isn’t a right response.
“Not everyone would be willing to give up so much to do such thankless work, you know. Anyone else would have left you to rot by now, or smothered you in your sleep. And still you take me for granted, and try to fight not to take your medicine, like a spoiled child.”
You wish you would be left to rot. Because you know what’s coming next.
“Perhaps you need to be reminded how much worse you could have it.”