#electric shock tw

[kyanako5972]

Inktober Day 15 / Whumptober Day 4

Shock

Sonia Cadenza from "Behind Closed Doors. There was a segment about her getting injured in the First Trial (renamed the "Preview") in the reboot, but I haven't decided if this drawing is the incident or a much earlier one. It was speculated that the injury she showed was an earlier one that wasn't a result of the trial, but I haven't decided what the ground truth is.

Oh, and it was supposed to be her left hand (I even checked before I drew), but I messed that up. (See below for the original image I drew; tw electric burns?)

[nade2308]

I was thinking long and hard about what to do for today's theme. Ultimately I decided on the parallels between Julia and Ilsa bringing Ethan back to life by having to shock him with electricity. These two moments give me feels.

@thethistlegirl

@whumptober

AO3 link here

[thecorvidforest]

I need you all to know about the Judge Rotenberg Center in Massachusetts.

(Content warning for below the cut: ableism, electroshock torture of developmentally & intellectually disabled people, mention of death)

Two days ago (Sep. 7th, 2023), the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court ruled that a residential school called the Judge Rotenberg Center can continue to use electric shock devices called GEDs (graduated electronic decelerator) that are worn 24/7 to attempt to control the actions of developmentally & intellectually disabled people.

JRC calls itself an education & treatment school for “emotionally disturbed students with conduct, behavior, emotional, and/or psychiatric problems, as well as those with intellectual disabilities or on the autism spectrum” (according to their website). They have around 50 residences throughout Massachusetts. Their strategies center around restraint and punishment for unwanted behaviors. At least five deaths are attributed directly and indirectly to their treatments.

They say these electric shock devices, which are stronger than a police grade taser and are irrefutably shown to cause permanent mental & physical damage, are “life saving” and that they’re used on people “for whom all other treatment options have been tried and failed”.

Here’s a short list of things their “students” (who are placed there by their families and very likely have no choice in the matter, and are disproportionately Black/Brown/Indigenous) are shocked for:

hand flapping/stimming

standing up

sitting down

swearing

speaking

not fulfilling a simple task

any perceived disobedience

making noises because of their disability

making noises while being shocked (such as screaming or crying)

sitting in the "wrong" way

acting without permission

incontinence

More info on JRC here and on their history here (content warning: graphic & disturbing descriptions of ableism & torture in both links, death & suicide in the 2nd link).

This is just the latest piece of an ongoing battle to stop electric shock treatment on disabled people. In 2023 we are still not seen as human enough to be the victims of human rights violations.

Info on how you can help here. Disabled people have been trying to get eyes on this fight for decades. Please talk about it. Please don’t let this go unseen like it always does.

[sneakydraws]

I realised today the funniest burn scar i can give jacobi is one that perfectly follows the contours of his safety goggles

[constantineshots]

man. this makes me so sad. there’s something about the fact that technically he didn’t even kill her but everyone blamed him for it, and he took all that pain and suffering because he thought he deserved it.

[dresden-syndrome]

16/VI-1963. Class 4 detention unit, State Security department No. 98, Středočeský region, People's Union Republic of Czechoslovakia, EESU

-…On May 25, you, comrade Štušek and comrade Trnka were out on the [redacted] street in Pardubice all day long. Just right where the mass armed sabotage took place. A bizarre coincidence, isn't it?

Václav hadn't been given even a second to react as another shot of electricity filled every corner of his body with even more pain. Tears dropped down his bruised face, legs started to shake from the spasms, as if trying desperately to fight the pain within. The previous shocks were horrible enough but now, as the voltage was increased one more time, it was unbearable.

-Please!… - Václav cried helplessly, unable to even think of anything else from the agony - Make it stop!….

"Stop it, comrade Páleníček." - the careless croaky voice commanded across the room. Just a moment after, it stopped. It finally stopped. The shock was gone, leaving the prisoner with nothing but pain from the recent beating and fear before the next one.

The scrawny middle-aged officer who was the one to ask questions while walking up and down the interrogation room with a cheap cigarette in hand, stopped around the table, smiling condescendingly at Václav's face.

-Too much to take, eh? Come on, Vacek. No need to play an innocent lamb. If you want it to stop so badly, why don't you tell us the truth?

The officer leaned further, blowing a bitter cloud of smoke to the prisoner's face.

-You will answer, or we will keep going. It's one or the other. You choose.

Day 3 of Whumptober

Prompt: "Make it stop"

Art taglist: @painful-pooch @prismpanic @generic-whumperz @suspicious-whumping-egg @onlywhump

[randomlifeunit]

Hold on…

Hold on…

Just a little while longer

[running-in-the-dark]

it's 9:30, I'm awake, I've had a shower, and I'm about to leave the house! wow, crazy how early it is, I'm doing such a good job.

(no one needs to know that I woke up at 23:00 🙃)

[aprocessionofthoughts]

Shock therapy

whumptober 2023 day 4-cattle prod/shock fandom-batman TW-torture summary- Jason's plan doesn't go how he thought it would, and he faces the consequences

ao3 whumptober masterlist

part 1 of WDKY

He laughs. It’s much better than screaming, though it annoys his kidnapper more and the cattle prod jabs into his side again. He clenches his teeth.

“That’s enough.” the cattle prod leaves and Jaon pants wishing he still had his helmet on so he could hide his expressions. 

As it is, Black Mask walks up and grabs his chin tilting it up so that Jason has to look at him. He wants to jerk his head away but his whole body is shaking so much from the aftershocks that he can only bare his teeth.

“So, you’re the big bad Red Hood who’s been trying to take over my territory? I must admit, I’m a bit impressed. Not everyone has the gall to drop a bunch of heads off for the police.” Black Mask lets Jason’s head fall and turns away. “Though, if you think you could muscle into my territory you’re also quite stupid.” 

He motions to the man sanding by Jason, and he barely has a second to tense before the cattle prod is jammed into his side again. His vision is starting to go black before Roman motions for his man to remove the cattle prod.

Jason gasps and his eyes sting, but he’d rather die again than let any tears fall.

Which was looking more and more likely if he couldn’t find a way to escape.

“I admit I was surprised,” Roman starts as he approaches Jason again, this time with a pair of brass knuckles, “Granted, it’s not the first time someone’s tried to challenge me, but then this person,” Roman grits his teeth, “starts being a pain in my side. I’m losing shipments and finding my loyal soldiers dead.” He gives a nod and another shock runs through Jason, he doesn’t have time to feel relief when the goon pulls the prod away because there’s a fist hitting his cheek and he’s tasting blood from where he bit his tongue. 

Roman steps forward and yanks his head up by his hair. Jason can’t stop trembling, his muscles randomly seizing from all the shocks.

“And then,” Roman whispers in his ear, “imagine my surprise, I hear that this isn’t just some wannabe crime lord, but the second Robin.”

Jason flinches and Roman chuckles as he backs up, taking the cattle prod from the goon.

“I’m not–” Jason starts but cuts off when the cattle prod is jabbed into his stomach.

He doesn’t realize he’s screamed until after it’s taken away and he sees Roman smirking. He steps forward again, grabbing Jason’s chin from where it had fallen against his chest.

“I am curious as to what brought you back. Everyone says the Joker killed you. Would you care to enlighten me?”

Jason gathers himself as much as he can and spits in Roman’s face.

The man steps back, sighing and taking a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe the spit.

“I thought so, but I wanted to give you a chance to cooperate. But I guess this was inevitable.” Faster than Jason can see through his blurry vision Roman steps forward and lands several punches to his face, his stomach, his chest, his ribs, before jabbing the cattle prod into his aching ribs.  

Jason screams again.

Roman doesn’t ease up and Jason loses track of how many hits he takes before Roman is stepping back, hardly even out of breath. “I have to ask, why you’re here instead of with daddy Bats? Maybe I should call him, let him know what his Robin’s been up to.”

“Nngg…” Jason coughs and leans over to spit blood onto the floor. He can’t let Batman see him. Not like this. Not now. He has a plan. A plan which is looking more and more likely to fail. He always had been the failed Robin. 

“Or maybe,” Roman continues, “I should tell the Joker and let him finish the job he started.”

Jazon freezes. No. No no no no no. He can’t… That was… His breathing picks up and if he hadn’t been shaking so much he would have probably been begging.

Standing above him, Roman chuckles.

“Don’t like that idea? Well then,” he steps forward, wrapping his hand around Jason’s throat and squeezing, “maybe I’ll just finish the job myself.”

Jason’s vision has gone nearly black when another goon runs into the room.

“Boss!”

Roman snarls, hand tightening around Jason’s throat before he lets go and steps back.

“What is it?” he growls.

The goon tenses but continues, “The Bat’s here.”

Roman goes still, then smirks. “I guess the Bat decided to make the decision for us.”

Jason’s breathing starts to pick up again. No. He can’t see Batman. Can’t see Bruce. Not right now. His dad Batman will hate him.

“I wish I could see how the Bat reacts to his murderous Robin. Will he throw you in Arkham with all the rest of the crazies? Maybe he’ll even put you next to your friend the Joker. But I suppose I’ll just have to imagine it.” Roman jabs the cattle prod under Jason’s chin and turns it on.

His jaw clenches and his body shakes uncontrollably. When Roman finally pulls away, Jason collapses in his restraints, his vision starting to dim and his breathing becoming difficult.

He can barely make out Roman walking away, turning back just as he’s about to leave to call out, “See you next time little Robin.”

Just as Jason’s vision goes dark he sees a shadow burst into the room.

[inkblot22]

I Need A Little Sympathy.

Hi, hello. The formatting and possibly masterlist link for this one is going to be absolute garbage. I'm working from mobile, so uh. Please forgive me, I'll fix it as soon as I have time and resources. This is part 3 of Pants On Fire.

Anyway, TW for yandere, abuse, use of a shock collar, kidnapping, captivity, use of the nickname "kitten," and a general misunderstanding of how electronics work.

It’s very easy to forget that Idia is pretty tall and a tad intimidating. You find yourself forgetting on a near regular basis.

Perhaps it’s just the way he feels, the way that, despite his looming presence, he just feels that much more small and timid. Perhaps it’s all just the way he slouches. And then he stands up and you remember. You remember how he really is that looming presence in the corner, lanky and watching your every move.

Besides that, ever since he kissed you, he’s been a lot more… clingy? If you can call a grown man constantly begging you to sit with him as he games or watches anime or whatever the hell else, if you can call that “clingy,” then yes. Idia is clingy. And you’ve given in, a few times, although it should be noted that the content of the anime he watches with you is usually somewhat… Risque. The gaming is innocent enough, some sort of MOBA or MMO usually, something like League or FFXIV. you can live through some questionable design choices and jiggle physics in his games without thinking it was on purpose, but if you had to watch one more episode of whatever long title he rattled off last time where the heroine mysteriously both loses her clothing every episode and has a temperament similar to yours, you’d lose it.

Unfortunately for you, the devil affords you no rest, and seeing as Ortho was out today, you can’t hide behind his presence like a shield. 

Idia spins in his seat, face and the tips of his hair taking on a pink peachy tone as he watches you laying on the floor. Idia’s room had a few places to sit, but since he has you crowd into the bed with him, you prefer to not sit there or be anywhere near it until bedtime comes and that steady roll of electricity hits your neck until you crawl in next to him. Besides, the only other place was the chair he is sitting in. 

“Hey…” He begins.

“No thanks.” Honestly, you are bored, but not bored enough to constitute plopping yourself in his lap so he can watch creepy anime and place his hands on your knees awkwardly. You had been enjoying your little contemplation of your current predicament. 

Usually by now, Idia would have sighed, mumbled something about normies never wanting to interact with him anyway because they were just so much better than a shut-in like him, and turned back to do whatever it was without you. That is not what happened. This time, he stands up and walks over to where you are sprawled out.

You sit up a touch, not expecting that in the least. You’re even less prepared for him to pick you up and toss you butt first onto the bed. You yelp and look up, through your arms.

Idia has never struck you but with him looming over you like this, you feel scared. Idia is so tall, and you are being given an intense reminder. 

"What are you doing?" Your voice comes out shaky, soft and confused.

Idia just shrugs, "Spending time with my partner."

"Idia, I don't-"

"Yeah, I know. You don't even want to be here." He lays down over you, arms encasing you, keeping you stuck on the bed, "You don't exactly have a say."

"Of course I do." You retort. 

Idia looks down at you, eyes devoid of any type of care. He grabs your wrist and presses your pulse against the one in his throat.

The shock collar worked a little funny. You have a sneaking suspicion that Idia messes around with it while you're sleeping, because it works differently than it did before. Before, it would just zap you, no warning. Now it gives you a quick, three tap warning.

Zap zap zap!

Then it stops and you have three seconds to stop doing whatever it was. Depending on the severity of what you're doing, the incoming jolt of rolling electricity is either so intense that you have to fight to stay conscious, or low enough for you to know it left a mark. 

Idia knows his machines. When he placed the collar on you, you saw a bunch of exposed wires and circuits. It looked like an amateur's work, but now that you've been around Idia for a long while, you can't help but notice that literally nothing else he makes has exposed parts. The collar was made to shock, so it shocks. 

You grit your teeth and let out a noise as the shock begins to work. It ramps up in intensity, not too slowly, but not too quickly either. By the time it reaches its peak, you're screaming, howling as you thrash and writhe. 

"You know, I read something about focusing on one point when you're in pain," Idia says, somewhat boredly. "I think if you just focused on me, kitten, you'd be a bit better off. Don't you think?"

Despite being actively liquefied, your brain manages to focus for a second on the spot where your wrist is pressed against Idia's neck. You feel his pulse throb once, then twice. 

It's your standard heartbeat. You can't focus any more than you already have, though, since Idia's grip on your arm is keeping your hand in the one place you're never allowed to touch on Idia.

As you pass out, you hear him say, "I'll tell you the plot of this episode when you wake up, okay, kitten?"

[razzle-zazzle]

Whumptober Day 04: I see the danger, it's written there in your eyes

Shock + "You in there?"

3220 Words; Rewired AU

TW for isolation, memory loss, experimentation, electrical torture

AO3 ver

This sucks.

Dion glared at the locked door, arms crossed. All of his attempts to force it open had proven futile, leaving him nothing to do but lean against the wall and glare at it.

The room he was in—if it could even be called a room, when there was just barely enough space to lie down—was small, four plain stone walls with a single metal door. There was a single… cot was too generous a word, honestly. It was a slab of metal just barely big enough to lie on, held up by two diagonal metal struts braced against the wall underneath it. There was a drain in the center of the floor; Dion refused to touch it if he could help it. By bracing himself against the walls of the corner, he could climb up high enough to get at the ceiling. But the panel over the single small light refused to budge, no matter how hard Dion tried to pry it off. Spots still danced across his eyes from his efforts.

The only ventilation came in the form of four small slits in the door. There was a slot at the bottom of the door, as well, but the panel covering it wouldn’t budge. If Dion were more resourceful, if he had a better idea of what was going on—

But he wasn’t, and he had no idea. He’d been handling groceries out in town, on his way back to camp—

And then he was in here, in this barren room, with no way out. The jacket he’d gotten for his seventeenth birthday was missing, as was his wallet, pocket knife, and compact. Whoever had taken him and put him here had gone through his pockets, and the knowledge left Dion feeling violated.

But there was nothing he could do about it, and that, more than anything, crawled under his skin like so many wriggly spiders. The inaction grated against him, his leg bouncing in agitation. He needed to move, to get up and do something—

But he couldn’t do anything. Not yet. Not until the door opened, or he found out what the hell was going on, or—something, he didn’t know.

This sucked. Dion glared at the door from where he was sitting on the slab.

The door had no response for him.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

Bright light danced in front of his eyes, and his vision swam worse than it already was.. He didn’t recognize the voice speaking to him, the words spinning through his head uselessly. He swallowed, but the nausea remained.

Still, he spoke. “Dion Aquato.” Son of Donatella and Augustus Aquato. Eldest of five siblings. Dion Aquato. I’m Dion Aquato—

“No, you’re not.”

+=+=+=+=+

Meals came in through the slot at the bottom of the door—gross. Even if it was on a tray, it was still being slid along a floor that had been exposed to god knew what. Dion didn’t eat, the first few times, fear of poison and disdain for invisible concrete floor grime holding him back.

But the hunger pricked at his stomach. It was impossible to sleep well on the slab or the floor. He needed to keep his strength up however he could, if he ever wanted out of here.

The meals were simple. A plastic spork came on the equally plastic tray. Neither the utensil nor the tray could be used to escape, as far as Dion could tell, so he left them by the slot when he finished. The food was…

He didn’t know how long he’d been in here, but he was already homesick. Truth be told, he’d been homesick the moment he’d finished inspecting the room, but the feeling had only built over time. He missed his mother’s cooking. He missed cooking. He missed food that wasn’t bland unseasoned drivel. He’d had his fill of dry chicken and plain mashed potatoes and sad greens. He wanted to eat food, real food with actual flavor that he wasn’t shoving down his throat just for the nutritional value.

How many days had it been? Three? Four? Dion wondered if his birthday had passed already, if he had turned 18 in this cell, away from his friends and family. It had only been a week off, when he’d found himself in this tiny stone hell.

Ugh. This sucked. The food was awful. He had no idea what he was even here for, or where here even was. He wanted to go home. He wasn’t smart enough or strong enough to figure a way out of this cell.

Dion was clean, at least, his hair hanging loose around his face and on his shoulders. He couldn’t remember when the grease had been rinsed out—but he really didn’t want to think about that. So he didn’t.

“An explanation would be nice.” He grumbled. “Wouldn’t mind some fucking answers.”

The door had no answer for him.

+=+=+=+=+

Dion woke up to a bright light right in his eyes. Where—

He was lying back on a hard surface, at an angle. There was pressure across his legs and chest. Attempts to move were thwarted—oh. He was strapped down.

Dion turned his head to the side to avoid the light shining down on him, cool metal pressing against his cheek. He scrunched his eyes shut, spots dancing across his vision. His head was pounding—probably because of the light.

He heard footsteps to his left. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

There was a woman standing there with a clipboard in hand, her hair pulled back into a tight bun. Dion blinked.

Nope, she was still there, still regarding the clipboard in her hand through cat eye glasses. A pen floated over the clipboard.

Dion turned his head to look to the right. The room he was in had… six walls? No, wait, it was eight, wasn’t it? Yeah. Eight. Eight plain white walls that went up to… he couldn’t tell, with the bright light looming above him. He scrunched his eyes shut and turned his head back to his left, opening them as the woman walked over to a shelf taking up three of the walls.

The room gave him an uneasy feeling. The bright light reminded him of dentists; the lady’s labcoat and the sanitized room reminded him of hospitals. There was even a counter back to his right that took up three of the walls, with a sink and cabinets.

A binder floated off the shelf and opened in front of the woman. She flipped through the pages inside for a moment before the binder returned to the shelf.

Dion opened his mouth. He was so done with his stupid little cell, with this bright light searing down into his eyes—but most of all, he was so done with not knowing what the hell was going on. He wanted answers, dammit, so he opened his mouth and spoke.

“What do you want from me?”

The woman’s head snapped around so fast that Dion almost thought it might fall off. She was regarding him, now, and Dion snapped his mouth shut. He felt like a bug under her gaze, like a number on her clipboard that wasn’t what she expected.

She walked over to him, lips pursed.

“At least say something!” His mouth moved before his brain could process what he was saying. Her brow furrowed, and Dion tensed.

“You,” she loomed over him, close enough that he could see the gold of her eyes, “should not be up.” She held something small in her hands, and Dion strained to make out what was surely going to be used to hurt him—

One click. Two clicks.

Dion never heard the third.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

His head swam. His mouth opened, then closed. He tried again. “Dion Aquato.” Dion I’m Dion I’m Dion Aquato I’m an acrobat I’m a brother I’m Dion Dion Aquato—

“No, you’re not.”

+=+=+=+=+

There were holes in his memory.

Dion almost didn’t notice them, at first. Day and night blurred together in his cell, with nothing to mark the passage of time. How long had he been here? How many days? Had he turned 18, here in this cell, away from his friends and family?

All of his street clothes had been missing when he’d woken up here—he was dressed in a simple shirt and pants made of a rough fabric he couldn’t identify, the light gray seeming to melt into the stone around him.

(But hadn’t he searched his pockets when he’d first woken up here? He remembered them being empty of his things—)

That was the first clue. The second was the collection of plastic sporks in the corner of his room—he was sure he’d put them there, but he couldn’t remember eating that many meals. The third clue was that he still didn’t know how he was clean, despite being in his cell long enough to start to smell.

There were holes in his memory. Once he finally realized this, he realized the danger he was in. Panic spiraled in his brain. What if he forgot everything? What if he forgot his family? His home?

But what could he do? He’d never even left this cell.

(Had he?)

Still, he needed to remember. He thought back to his life outside, to home—

He could remember his mother’s face, at least. Could still remember every member of his family, from his parents to his Nona to his siblings. Mom. Dad. Nona. Frazie. Raz. Tala. Queepie. Could remember the circus, the blue and green stripes of the Aquatodome.

He glared reproachfully at the door of his cell. His name was Dionysus Aquato. He was the eldest of five. He was 17—no, he was probably 18 already—and he refused to forget his home and family. He’d die before he let that happen.

“You’re not keeping me here forever.” He whispered. “I’ll get out eventually.”

The door had no response for him.

+=+=+=+=+

Dion woke up strapped to a table.

There was a bright light overhead. His head swam, a pounding headache behind his eyes. His mouth had that awful taste that it always got when he overslept.

This wasn’t his tent or the caravan, though. This was an octagonal room, the ceiling obscured by the light bearing down on him. There was something familiar about the room, but he couldn’t fathom why.

He turned his head to his left. There was a woman standing there, regarding a binder floating in front of her through cat eye glasses, hair pulled back into a bun. There was someone next to her in… a pantsuit? The woman was wearing a lab coat, which some part of Dion felt was far more appropriate for the sterile setting.

Dion didn’t recognize her, though. But hadn’t he seen her before?

And the guy standing next to her—Dion had never seen them before. But he knew their face. Didn’t he? He didn’t know.

“Why is it conscious?” They asked. It took Dion a moment to realize that they were talking about him. That… that didn’t bode well.

Her lips pursed. “Because I’m investigating a problem.” She pressed something—

Pain! Dion yelped, his body jerking against the straps. It arced up his legs and arms, through his chest, into his head—

Just as quick as it came, it was gone. His shoulders heaved.

A problem. She’d called him a problem. That couldn’t be good.

Remember. He needed to remember. His name was Dion, Dion—

Dion Something. He tried to remember, searching his mind—

Another scream was ripped from his throat as a fresh wave of electricity burst through him. He spasmed, the straps pinning him down. His wrists and ankles were starting to ache—were they going to bruise?

The pain left again. Dion’s thoughts chased each other in circles. His head spun. He needed to—he needed to—

Remember. His name was Dion, Dion—

Dion Aquato!

His name was Dion Aquato. He was the eldest of four—no, five. He came from the Aquato family circus.

Mom Dad Nona Frazie Raz Tala Queepie Mom Dad Nona Frazie Raz Tala Queepie Mom Dad Nona—

He screamed as another wave of pain rushed through him. The electricity didn’t stop, even as his voice cut out, even as he continued to spasm. His head swam, pain pounding his brain to bits—

All at once, the pain stopped. He shook, and turned towards the pair.

The woman’s binder had fallen to the ground. Her nose had bled, a red smear on her upper lip.

“Well.” She said, “That’s… interesting.”

Dion didn’t have the energy to question it. He needed to remember, anyway. Mom Dad Nona Frazie—

Something clicked. Once, twice—

He never heard the third.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

It sounded disappointed in him. He couldn’t fathom why.

“Dion Aquato.” He was answering the question, right? He was Dion Aquato. It was his name, his identity—he was Dion Aquato eldest son acrobat 17 years old Dion Dion I’m Dion I’m Dion I’m Dion Aquato—

“No, you’re not.”

+=+=+=+=+

The pile of sporks in the corner was gone. If it had ever been there at all—he had probably just imagined it.

He didn’t know when he’d gotten here. Didn’t know how long he’d been here. Had a week passed? Was he 18, now, had he missed his birthday in this stupid little cell?

His old clothes were gone, replaced with a dull blue shirt and pants the same gray as the stone around him. It was weird, to look down at his legs and see nothing but gray, gray like the walls, gray like he was just another fixture in the room, just another setpiece—

(Hadn’t his shirt been gray? Hadn’t he been wearing his street clothes when he first woke up in this cell?)

His head swam. Lights danced behind his vision.

His name was Dion Aquato. He had a family and a home. His name was Dion Aquato.

(Was it?)

He looked at the door. Metal, like the—well, cot was too generous. More like a slab, really—slab sticking out from the wall, held up by diagonal metal struts. Metal, like the ring around his neck.

(He couldn’t remember when it was put on. He couldn’t get it off. Maybe it had always been there.)

“How much longer?” He asked. How much longer would he be stuck in here? He wanted to go home. He wasn’t even sure where home was.

The door had no response for him.

+=+=+=+=+

He came to strapped to a chair. The room he was in was familiar, octagonal-shape tickling some corner of his brain. But every attempt to recall if he had been here before resulted in fog filling his head. But he needed to remember, right?

There was a woman standing at a control panel-like structure to his left, her mouth moving. He couldn’t hear what she was saying through the panel of glass between him and her. 

Remember. He needed to remember. His name was Dion Aquato. He was 17 (18? 16?). He didn’t know where he was. Home was Mom Dad Nona Frazie Pooter Tala Queepie, it was blue and green tents and a towering caravan. He needed to remember.

He muttered their names under his breath, pushing at the straps wrapped around his arms and chest. As usual, they refused to yield.

Mom Dad Nona Frazie Raz Tala Queepie

Dion Dion Dion my name is Dion my name is Dion

Mom Dad Nona Frazie Raz Tala Queepie—

Pain shot through him, electricity coursing through his body until his head spun. Even when it stopped, the room continued to spin, the bright light above him leaving spots in his vision.

He needed—he needed—

Remember!

His name was Dion Aquato. Home was green and blue and Mom and Dad and Nona and Raz and Queepie—

He was missing something. He needed to remember it.

“Shut up.”

Another bolt of electricity. Another scream that left his throat raw.

He didn’t even realize he’d been muttering. But he needed to remember, he couldn’t shut up, he needed to hold onto everything that he had for as long as he could, needed to hold himself together no matter what. He mumbled their names, his brain struggling through the haze of pain and light dancing behind his eyes. Mom. Dad. Nona. Frazie. Tala. Queepie. Mom. Dad. Raz. Tala. Mom. Dad. Nona. Frazie. Mom. Dad. Nona—

“I said shut up.” Something clicked—

Dion’s body convulsed against the straps again. His throat hurt too much to scream, the electricity seizing through him.

The electricity stopped. He twitched. The taste of copper filled his mouth.

Remember. He needed to remember. Mom. Dad. Frazie. Queepie. Mom. Nona. Raz. Queepie. Dad. Nona. Tala. Mom. Dad. Mom—

“Fine, then. If you can’t shut up, then you won’t speak at all.”

Something clicked. Once. Twice—

He never heard the third.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

He wasn’t sure. “Dion.” That… sounded right.

“Who are you?”

They sounded frustrated. He wasn’t sure why.

“Dion.” He was Dion, wasn’t he?

“No, you’re not.”

+=+=+=+=+

Gray walls stared back at him. He tried to remember any place other than this, tried to remember being anywhere but these walls—

Nothing. Just gray.

He knew he had come from somewhere, though. He had a mother and a father out there, somewhere—somewhere that wasn’t here.

But what did his mother’s face even look like? How did her voice sound? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember, and she seemed all the less real because of it.

How many siblings did he have? Did he even have siblings at all?

His head hurt. Lights danced behind his eyes. He clutched his face in his hands, massaging his temples. Nausea threatened to spill out of his mouth and onto the floor below. He choked it down.

His name was Dion. He had a mother and a father. He couldn’t remember their faces. He needed to remember.

Did he? He couldn’t remember. His head swam.

He pitched forward, his hands hitting the concrete floor as he fell off the slab. His name was—he was—

He retched.

Shoulders shaking, he leaned back. He rubbed his mouth, not caring about the bile and spit on his arm. He looked at the door.

“I’m—” He needed to remember. His head was swimming. “Where am I?” Who am I?

The door had no answers for him.

+=+=+=+=+

Bright light loomed above him, searing his eyes.

Exhaustion weighed him down more than the straps holding him still. A bitter taste lingered in the back of his throat.

A woman’s voice floated over to him. “Shutdown, Test 24-2.” The light was blinding, he couldn’t see where the voice was coming from—

Pain arced through his limbs. Something in him clicked. His head pounded, pressure like a vice—

Something clattered on the floor.

“Stop now.” The pressure receded at the woman’s voice. He couldn’t fathom why. He was too exhausted to care, his eyes slipping closed. Light danced behind them.

Click.

Click.

Click.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

He had no answer.

“Who are you?”

Why were they asking? He wasn’t anybody.

“Who are you?”

The voice was starting to grate against his head. Nausea danced in his throat.

“Who are you?”

“I—” Who was he? Was he anything?

“Who are you?”

Bright light danced in front of his eyes. At once, the answer came to him.

“Who are you?”

“Nobody.”

“Yes, you are.”

[slugass]

what if... amputee watt and borocca each with a prosthetic leg... and the prosthetic legs are made up of bones

[kodiescove]

ECT is so beautiful. I'm in near tears of joy thinking about how fun it will be to work on my scarves today, and how full of life I am after yesterday's treatment. It's been nearly two years and I'm still surprised at the results everytime I go in, and they always deliver for me. I'm always afraid this will be the treatment that will stop working but everytime it gives me exactly what I need. I am so grateful that I have access to this resource. It has truly saved my life and kept me alive.

[babyspacebatclone]

@bdkdkens , I happened to see your reply to a comic from @autball asking about what ABA is, and it doesn’t look like you have had an answer yet.

I studied ABA as part of my Community Psychology degree, and am happy to give you a rundown.

ABA = Applied Behavioral Analysis

It is a specific school of psychology with an emphasis on changing the behaviors of people - “Applied” means the focus on change (and not just accumulation of data), Behavior is obvious, and “Analysis” is an indication of the intention to be “scientific.”

On it’s own, everything in ABA is neutral to good: understanding the situations in which people do behaviors, and the forces that can either cause them to do behaviors more (reinforce) or less (punish in a very scientific sense of ‘make less desirable’).

The issue is two fold:

ABA focuses only on the observable, as part of their “scientific” obsession. I phrase it that way because the choice of “observable” means that internal thoughts, memories, etc….. If the Analysis themselves can’t prove they exist? They are literally ignored as irrelevant. If they happen to interfere with the Analyst’s work? They are actively suppressed - punished out until they stop being a “problem.” Instead of, you know, addressed as part of the individual.

This is because the most important person in the equation of ABA is the Analyst. Not the client, and not even the patient - which may be two different people, in the case of working with children. The Analyst is the be all, end all expert, and everyone else needs to acknowledge that or, well, be punished for interfering with the Analyst’s work.

Point 1 is baked into ABA; if you want to include beliefs, memories of past experiences, and even intrusive thoughts as things that influence behavior and are important, you’re going to go into Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. I, myself, align strongly with CBT as a therapy philosophy.

Point 2 is technically avoidable, but having studied under old-school supporters of ABA it’s almost impossible to avoid in practice.

One of my courses in college was taught by an adjunct - that is, someone who works in the field and teacher part time as a service for people entering into the field.

He was humane, reasonable, and respectful of the clients (adults with moderate to severe mental or intellectual disabilities) and teaching them life skills.

He convinced me behavioral principles worked, even in situations where explaining necessary things to people was not possible.

My other classes????

The most recent textbook actively told the students to prevent Autistic patients from stimming because it would interfere with teaching them.

The core issue with using ABA to “correct” Autistic children is the culture of ABA is that you have to force the child to act Neurotypical/Allistic, no matter the cost to the child.

(I use both NT and Allistic because an ABA will use the same principles on trauma symptoms, depression symptoms, etc.)

The goal is to either make the child act NT - explicitly to conform to the societal majority - or else at least not act Autistic and therefore bother the Allistics.

Because conforming to society - as defined by the Analyst - is the end goal of the majority of ABA

Not learning life skills - life skills are a means towards conformity - not mental health - because remember the internal mind doesn’t matter - and definitely not what the patient wants.

The patient is a problem to be fixed. To be cured, or hidden.

And that is why ABA needs to be stopped, burned to ashes, and a new field of applied behavior technicians put in its place for situations where straight CBT is not able to be applied (because I admit there are levels of mental and intellectual disability that prevent CBT from being as effective as pure Behavioralism).

Unfortunately…..

Guess what’s easiest for parents for parents of Autistic children to find, and get insurance to cover????

😣 😣 😣

[whump-queen]

I will say, they are very eager aren’t they, a little pathetic in their eagerness to please maybe? Cute though, makes me want to hurt them myself if they’re going to be so easy for it. Maybe you’ll have me as an assistant, a henchman. I’ll follow your orders if you let me have my fill, and maybe you can even get me on my knees for you, though you’ll have to do more than ask nicely -S

Oh, an assistant? A henchman, huh?

I will say I’m impressed with your resume… Fine, sounds fun. Welcome aboard.

I’m still shock collaring you though. Can’t have you getting any… wrong ideas about where you stand here.

[ask-researcher-yuu]

He is holding a sword.

How did this get here?

It doesn’t matter. He’s training with someone with pointed ears and fangs.

“Now Silver, your stance is off.” The fae says. “Let’s try that again.”

“Yes, father.” He says. It feels so wrong, but right at the same time.

What even is this person’s name?

Something rang at the back of his mind, but before he could figure it out, he woke up.

~~~

Silver awoke with a jerk. Someone was prodding him.

For a wild moment, he thought it was the strange person from his dream. But it was just Yuu, as always.

“Wake up, sleepyhead.” They said with an amused smile. “It’s time for a little test.”

Inwardly, Silver felt a sense of dread. These were never fun.

He stretched his limbs. He was wearing a very oversized white shirt and shorts. Several scars were visible where his long, breezy sleeves weren’t covering his arms.

“This time, I want you to try something on for me.” Yuu said as they brought him to the testing room. The place reeked of dried blood and other things Silver didn’t want to think about. An operating table was in the middle, with sturdy leather restraints that could hold almost anyone.

Smiling, Yuu pulled out an object from a nearby drawer. At first, he couldn’t tell what it was.

“Stay very still.” The prefect ordered. Silver obeyed instinctively. He’d discovered the hard way that defiance would lead to him getting severely hurt, or worse.

Something cold was strapped around his neck. He beat back the urge to flinch. Why was he getting collared like a dog? Did he do something wrong?

Yuu stood back. Without warning, they took out a small device and pressed a button.

Instantly, pain struck Silver like lightning. He let out a yell of shock and agony as his nerves felt as though they were on fire.

He clawed at the collar around his neck, screaming as the pain got more intense. What had he done to deserve this?

Then, just as quickly as it’d happened, it stopped. He collapsed to the floor, the remaining pain ebbing away. Yuu looked very pleased.

“The electric collar works just as intended.” They said with a satisfied nod. “I’ll have to thank Rook later.”

Breathing heavily, Silver didn’t move.

“That’s all I wanted. You’ll be keeping that collar until I know for sure I can trust you without it. So probably never.” Yuu added in a mutter, but he heard it. They walked away, leaving Silver lying on the floor.

Silver was still processing what had happened. Experiments were never pleasant, but that was pain beyond anything he’d imagined.

He put a shaking hand against his new electric collar, with only one thought on his mind, underneath the threads of betrayal he felt.

What’s going to happen to me now?