Snyder - Tumblr Posts

Day 7 of @ailesswhumptober

Field medicine/running out of supplies- “hold on. We’re going to have to improvise.”

apologies this one is not good

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It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

He didn’t know how it went all wrong this quickly, he had planned it for weeks, he’d thought it out, he’d be good. Had stayed off Snyder’s radar and out of the way.

He never thought anything could happen that could make him wish he stayed in the refuge.

The building was haunted, Jack would swear it, infected; infested with every bad thing that had ever happened in there, with every lashing and every missed meal and the sleep shirts and sheets vandalised by mice and rats, spiders making home in every corner. The constant smell of must, and dust and vomit and Snyder’s cologne, and Christ Jack remembered barely making it through last winter, remembered how his lungs rattled as he pulled the thin, stained sheet tighter around his younger brothers body, willing him to sleep, hoping the shivers would exhaust him enough that he could get some rest.

It was why he needed to get Michael out now, before the cold could hit again worse than it already had this month. Michael’s lungs were already weak.

But there was more blood than Jack had ever seen, the puddle of red growing larger and filling the cracks in the cobblestones.

He slammed against the fence, skin sticking to the icy metal as he rattled it, freezing despite the fact it only late October. It was a desperate cry, voice scratching and raw in his throat as he yelled, something visceral and animalistic as Snyder leant down over the body of Jack’s little brother, eyes closed, head haloed in blood-

“Michael!” The name was ripped from him, he didn’t recognise his own voice, stripped down to pure grief. “Don’ touch him! Snyder don’ touch him-“

Snyder didn’t even look over at him, as collected as he always was, brows furrowed in thought as he reached out with a polished black shoe to gently nudge Michael’s head to the side, frowning to himself at whatever he was seeing.

From behind the gate Jack could only make out his little brothers curls matted with blood, the back of his head a mess of dark red, and concave-

Jack threw himself against the locked fence again. The carriage he had jumped on had already left the courtyard, was already out the gate, when he realised his little brother was no longer next to him. The euphoria had been immediately killed by the pit opening up in the base of his stomach.

Michael’s scream that was still echoing in his ears and the sickening crack as his head hit the cobbles had Jack scrambling off seconds too late, trapping him on the outside of the refuge courtyard.

The skin of his palms sticking to the fence. He never thought he’d be begging to be let back in.

Snyder had a key for it, for the padlock that held the gate shut, Jack knew he did.

“Sny- Mr Snyder please-“ his voice was raw, choked up with tears, face wet and burning hot, the back of his throat aching and a pounding headache just behind his eyes. “Open the gate, please, lemme see him-“

“Oh you poor boy.” But the statement wasn’t directed at Jack. His tone was softer than he had ever heard it, but still so cold, sharp at all the edges. He was quiet enough that Jack had to strain to hear.

Snyder tutted, hunkered down next to Michael. “Just what has your brother done to you?”

Jack was going to throw up. He didn’t let go off the gate as he wretched, trying to fight through the urge to vomit while trying to work out some way of getting Snyder’s attention.

He could feel boys staring out The Refuge windows, watching. He had bragged to them all that they were getting out.

(He pictured an orange sun, low hanging dusk, warmth and food and somewhere so far from here. His brother at his side.)

“I’ll do whatever you wan’- I’ll stay- just lemme in- please.” His voice broke to a crack, a sob he could barely understand as his own.

Snyder didn’t even look at him

“Mr Corey.” Snyder’s tone was sharper this time, and directed at one of the guards stood in the refuge doorway, the one who had alerted Snyder to the child’s body bleeding out in his cobblestone court yard. Who had told him it seemed like an escape attempt gone wrong.

“Get me some antiseptic will you, and some bandages. We’re going to have to improvise.” Jack swore Snyder’s gaze flicked to him for a moment, “I doubt he’ll survive. But we may as well try, it’s not the boys fault, after all.”

It was difficult to make out what Snyder was saying with the way it felt like Jack’s head had been dunked under water, each movement slow and pointless and muffled, black fuzz slowly growing round the edges of his vision.

He slammed his hand against the metal again, “Snyder! You’re sick- lemme see him- he’s my brother-“

“The antiseptic you wanted, sir.” Jack was interrupted, ignored.

He was watching his brother bleed out while Snyder took the bottle and cloth bandages handed to him, pleasant handsome smile on his face as if there wasn’t a child in his care who was- who-

Jack couldn’t say it. Couldn’t admit it.

Then Snyder tipped the bottle of antiseptic upside down and let it mix will the blood on the cobblestones.

Jack’s chest felt hollow.

When the bottle was empty, Snyder shook it, just to make sure.

Then he looked up at Jack and smiled. All faux sympathy, something cruel flashing behind his eyes.

“There’s nothing I can do for your brother, I’m afraid Mr Kelly.”

A sob ripped through Jack.

“You wanted to escape, so go.” It felt like his ribs were cracking, being stepped on and splitting into shards. He couldn’t breathe.

Snyder’s smile was shark like, all sharp teeth in a row, vying for blood.

“Oh don’t feel too bad Jack, you promised him freedom didn’t you? He got it.”

i’m gagging. excellent work.

ai-less whumptober; day eleven

@ailesswhumptober 11 — hallucinations, truth serum, “Why would you even say that?” ↳ the refuge, circa 1896 word count; 1.8k

cw; drugging, mental health issues, caning, abuse, catholicism

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Morris honest to God doesn't know what Oscar had done. He hadn't been involved, not remotely, hadn't even been told about the plan — whatever it was, whether it was planned at all. Whatever had been done, he hadn't seen. Hadn't heard. He doesn't know.

But Snyder doesn't believe him.

He'd watched, just a while earlier, as Oscar had been dragged from the bunk room — kicking and screaming the way he does when he's guilty — and sat and waited for him to be returned. He had no idea what his brother was in trouble for, but he was sure he'd find out when Oscar was tossed back black and blue, suitably (to the Refuge's standards) punished for whatever slight he'd commited against Snyder.

But Oscar hadn't come back. And then they'd come for Morris.

He kneels in Snyder's office now, blood dripping from his nose and mouth, back lit up in bright agony from his neck down to his tailbone, torn open with what was surely a hundred thousand strokes from one of Snyder's rattan canes, each one — and each strike from Snyder's bare hand, his polished shoes — intended to draw a confession from Morris. Honesty, Snyder says. But Morris can't be honest about what he doesn't know, can't confess sins he isn't privy to — and he wails that sentiment again, face inches from the rich maroon rug that spreads across Snyder's office floor, as Snyder's cane cracks down on him again.

It only earns him another kick to his ribs.

"Give it up," Snyder spits, voice cold and vicious in a manner Morris rarely hears, usually reserved for Oscar or Jack. Snyder is gentler with him. Snyder likes him. But right now he is looking at Morris like he despises him, like Morris has spat in his face. A traitor. "You could bring an end to this, Morris. Immediately. All you have to do is confess." Another hit, and Morris howls. He doesn't even really remember what the question was anymore. Perhaps Snyder had never really asked one. Perhaps there isn't one.

"'m'sorry," Morris sobs, just in case it was him. Just in case Snyder, like Da, had just felt the need to hit him, an irresistible target for violence. A lamb for the slaughter. "'m'sorry, 'm'sorry, Sir, p'ease, le'mme…le'mme…"

Let me make it better. Let me atone. Whatever I did to deserve this.

"Have—have mercy on me, O Lord, for I have sinned. Have mercy on me, O God, according to your love; according to your abu—bundant mercy, blot out my tra'sg'essions—"

The cane is tossed down sharply beside his head, and Morris flinches hard but continues his prayers, reciting the atonements and verses that Da and Snyder each have made him memorise. Even as Snyder walks away, shoes a sharp rhythm against the floor, his figure so imposing that Morris can feel him without needing to see him. Over his own voice, Morris hears a cabinet open, hears things being moved against rich wood.

He assumes another cane is being fetched. Or something worse. A knife, a whip, a flame—

"My Lord, forgive me, forgive me, I will withdraw the thorns from my way of life henceforth, my wickedness kept the crown of thorns on your head—"

"Quiet," Snyder says.

Morris goes silent.

He keeps his bleary gaze on the rug beneath him, the dizzying twists of patterns and swirls that seem to suck him in like he's drowning. It's just as hard to breathe. But then Snyder's shoes step into his vision — immaculate polished black leather — and Snyder is crouching, seizing Morris by the chin and lifting his head.

He's holding a handkerchief. One of his own, neatly embroidered, monogrammed.

"If you are so reluctant," Snyder tells him quietly, "To enlighten me, even as I carve you open. Then I have other methods to procure the truth."

The handkerchief is held suddenly to Morris' face, over his nose and mouth, and the air he breathes turns sweet and cold, like mint. He meets Snyder's eyes over the handkerchief in his vision, and Snyder only stares back, eyes dark, expression severe — until Morris' vision blurs only moments later. The world tilts and his brain seems to start to spin in an instant, faster and faster and faster, an endless whirlpool that vies to pull consciousness away from him.

And then Snyder pulls the handkerchief away, sharply.

Morris is left spinning, nauseous, tethered to reality only by Snyder's hand gripping his jaw. It's a feeling he can only liken to waking up after being beaten unconscious, a dazed battle for consciousness that he's losing. The chill of menthol sticks to his nostrils, the back of his throat.

"Morris," Snyder says lowly. "Where did your brother get the clothes? The food, the blankets?"

Morris can't find his tongue. It feels like an impossible task to locate it, to make it do the correct movements to say words — but Snyder slaps him across the face then, so Morris tries.

"I don'…" he slurs. "Wha'…clo's…"

"Morris. Your brother, through methods unknown, brought contraband into my facility. Clothes and food. How did he get them."

Morris wants his mamaí. His head is still spinning, eyes unable to focus on anything, and it doesn't…hurt, nothing hurts, pain feels as if it's a distant memory. But it's scary. He's scared. He wants his mamaí. Doesn't want this man touching him anymore, that awful grip on his jaw that means he can't move at all, can't turn to focus on the blurring figure over the man's shoulder.

That awful piece of cloth, stuffed over his face again to make the slowly fading dizziness reignite like a flame. As his eyes blur once again into oblivion, for a moment he is able to see the figure. A smear of pale skin, dark curls, a long dress.

"Morris," Snyder says. It echoes in Morris' head. The handkerchief is pulled away again, and in its place a hand begins to stroke his matted curls. Brushes them carefully out of his face. It's nice.

In his mind, through Snyder's words — whatever they are this time — washing through him, he finds a memory.

"Cowboy," he mumbles. And Snyder seems, for a moment, to light up. His touch gets gentler. A reward. "Kelly," he breathes. "What did he do?"

"Was…was talkin' to Os. When. Before," it's hard to remember, but Morris wants to be good. His gaze keeps sliding like he's being spun around, but he fights to find his mother again, focus on her. He wants to be good. He doesn't want to be hit again. "'Fore he left last. Cowboy said. Told 'im that…that he'd. Bring. Give…"

"Kelly brought them here," Snyder says. "He got them to Oscar."

It sounds right, maybe. Morris can't do much else but nod, eyelids heavy, mind still swirling like a bathtub filled with water that he's drowning in.

He wants his mamaí. Swears he can see her above the water, staring down at him, not moving as it all falls away.

He wakes up in a bed.

"Mamaí," he mumbles immediately, as soon as he's found his tongue again. "M..mm…m'mmy…?"

"What?" Oscar says, from beside him in bed. His voice sounds strange, deep. It's dark, and Morris can't see. His eyes will barely open. It's freezing cold, like it always is in the farmhouse.

"Mamaí," Morris repeats.

Oscar releases a breath that seems to shake. "Christ," he breathes. In the narrow bed they share, he shuffles closer. "She ain't here, Mo."

That doesn't make any sense. Not only because Ma is always here, but because Morris had only just seen her. She wouldn't have left. She never leaves Morris.

"Jus'," Morris slurs. He scrunches his eyes shut hard and opens them again, but all he can see is a muddle of a room that's much too crowded for their bedroom. "Jus'…mamaí was jus'…"

She was just here. Morris fights to sit up — doesn't understand why Oscar seems instantly so panicked at him doing so, hands hovering around him — and looks around the room. Doesn't recognise an inch of it, but he immediately recognises his mother again, as vague a figure as she is, all the way on the other side of the room. She's wearing her long cardigan, has her hair up in an untidy pile of dark curls. Morris tries to go to her, but his legs don't seem to work, and Oscar keeps a firm hold on his wrist, tight enough that Morris is sure it should hurt. But it doesn't. Nothing does.

"I wan' mamaí," he urges. Oscar's grip gets tighter.

"She ain't here, Mo."

Morris can feel his eyes start to burn, fighting to keep them on his mother, but his vision twists and then she's gone — moved somewhere else, a figure in the corner of his vision that he can't seem to catch. "Can see her—"

"No, you can't—"

"I can—"

"Mo, she's dead. She ain't here. She's dead."

The world seems to stop.

And then it starts tilting again — in the other way this time. Like Morris had reached the apex of a leap and began to fall.

"No," he whispers. His stomach is turning, vision blurring more, but this time it's with tears. "No, she…why…why would you even—say that?"

"Fuckin'—'cause it's true, Mo. Ma's dead. You know that. You—" he stops himself suddenly, like he'd been about to say something that he thinks it's best Morris doesn't hear. He swallows. Morris starts to cry. "Jesus. Fuck. What the fuck did Snyder do to you?"

It's a rhetorical question, asked to the air, but Morris' chest still aches because he doesn't know. He can only sob, feeling as if everything is suddenly crumbling around him, and as it crumbles, his back begins to burn like a fire catching. His jaw begins to ache, fingerprints bruised into it. He weeps as Oscar pulls him carefully back into the bed and lays beside him, pulling a blanket around them both, just like he did when they were really on the farm. When Ma was really alive.

"'m'sorry," Morris sobs. He still doesn't really know where he is, but he knows Oscar is here. Knows Ma isn't. Oscar pulls him closer like they're kids and wraps an arm around Morris as tightly as he dares when Morris' back is an open wound.

"'s'okay," he whispers back, voice scratchy and soft. Deep like he's more a man than a boy. "I got you, Mo. 'm'here."

Morris falls back into oblivion and dreams of nothing.

ai-less whumptober; day thirteen

@ailesswhumptober 13 — using themself as bait, defiance, “Take me instead.” ↳ the refuge, 1896 word count; 1.3k

cw; mentions of death, panic attacks, dissociation

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Oscar only finds out it's his birthday when Snyder tells him.

He's brought into Snyder's office by a guard with a hand tight on his bicep, and he's expecting any of the usual reasons. Most likely that he's in trouble for some reason or another, almost equally likely that Snyder's just a lonely bastard who wanted someone to smoke with and talk to again.

But instead, Snyder smiles. Tight and utterly false.

"Happy birthday, Oscar."

Oh.

Oscar doesn't know what day it is, and had only half-guessed at it being October. But apparently he'd been right.

Not that him knowing what day it is would've helped him much. He doesn't know what day his birthday is. And Snyder must know that, or see it in his face, because he says.

"October 28th. A mere three days before All Hallow's Eve. How fitting for your birth."

Perhaps that should be another sign for Oscar. The fact that Snyder just told him, rather than keeping another gleeful secret, yet another thing he knows that Oscar doesn't. But there must be another secret somewhere, because Snyder is just looking at him then, expectant.

Oscar doesn't know what's being expected. He takes a guess.

"Uh. Thank you, Sir."

Swing and a miss. Snyder looks irritated, as if Oscar is the one fucking with him. He turns his attention to his desk and flips through some papers, not even bothering to look at Oscar when he speaks next.

"Well, your uncle will be here to pick you up soon."

And Oscar's world grinds suddenly to a halt.

For a moment, he's sure he'd imagined the words, or utterly misinterpreted them somehow. Maybe Snyder is just fucking with him still, a part of whatever weird joke this is. Snyder's always had a backwards, sick sense of humour — a consistent reminder he's hardly older than Oscar, when it comes down to it.

Well, less older now.

"Uh," Oscar sort of croaks. "What?"

Snyder glances up from his papers. "Are you stupid?" he asks calmly.

Oscar swallows. Hesitates.

"Your uncle," Snyder repeats. "He'll be here to retrieve you. I would recommend getting yourself organised."

"My—uncle."

"Yes, your uncle. Do you know what an uncle is, Oscar?"

"I—Weasel? Wiesel? My—my da's brother?"

"Correct."

"Why. Why—"

"It's your eighteen birthday, Oscar."

Oh. Oh.

"In fact, he first contacted me weeks ago concerning your release, but I informed him he would incur a fee for your release at that point in time. Bail, to be curt."

Oscar's head is swimming.

"But. But I'm eighteen now," he says, hardly above a whisper.

"Eighteen indeed. Your sentence is over."

Oscar feels. Dazed. Feels like the world has been pulled out from under him and he's floating, falling, spinning. He has to fight down some insane urge to start laughing, almost the same feeling as when Ma died. A tangled mixture of terror and relief and utter overwhelm.

But just as quickly as it had all started, it grinds to a halt.

"What," he says, breathless, "What about Mo?"

And suddenly all of his worst fears are lighting up like a fire when Snyder doesn't respond.

"What about Mo?" he repeats, more urgently this time.

"Your brother isn't even sixteen yet," Snyder answers calmly, gaze on his papers again. "He has a while to go."

"No," Oscar says. His stomach is on the floor, cold terror washing over him even as his gut burns. "No, no, no—"

"Go and gather your things. Eight o' clock, Mr. Wiesel said. He'll be here any minute."

"No! No, no, I don't wanna go, I wanna stay. I want—You can't make me leave Mo—"

Oscar has to be dragged out of Snyder's office. By the same guard who'd dragged him in, hold considerably more brutal now as Oscar kicks and fights and pleads. He can't stomach it. He doesn't want to go, he can't go — but as much as Snyder won't let anyone go if he can help it, he won't let anyone stay once he's no longer being paid to keep them. Oscar is worthless to him now. And won't be kept.

He feels the attention of the bunk room shift to him as he's tossed in, lands on the floor in a brutal skid that has his arm and hip grazed to shit by the filthy floors. He's still shouting.

"Os," Morris says immediately, running to him. Taking his hand. "Os, what happened?"

Oscar's eyes are burning. His chest is tight, lungs won't expand. He can't bring himself to look at his brother, but a larger part of him desperately wants to look at him, to stare at him, to commit every inch of his face to memory lest it be forgotten in two years.

Two years.

Oscar chokes a sob.

He knows everyone is staring. He knows he's much too old to cry. He's eighteen. He's eighteen now.

"Os," Morris repeats, real gentle. "Hey. Hey, it's okay."

"Get your shit," the guard at the door barks.

Morris looks up at him, and without his eyes on Oscar, Oscar finally dares to look at him. Sees the earnest confusion in his little brother's face, the crease in his brow, not understanding what's going on. Even when he does turn to Oscar then, that familiar dependency on his older brother for explanations. Oscar doesn't know how to explain this.

He chokes out another empty, breathless sound.

"Os, you ain't breathin'," Mo tells him quietly. "You gotta breathe. C'mon. Breathe—breathe."

"You don't get your shit, you're leavin' without it," the guard spits, and Morris. Pauses.

"Leavin'," he echoes. "Who's leavin'?"

Oscar wants to die. His stomach is rolling, throat so tight he can't breathe at all anymore. He squeezes Morris' hand so desperately he can feel every bone and tendon, will surely leave bruises behind — but then there's a distant shout and then the guard is moving, coming for him again. Heaves him up with that familiar grasp on his upper arms.

"We ain't got time for this," the guard grits out. "Got your new boss waitin' for you."

"No," Morris protests immediately, rising up to his feet as if to chase his brother as he's dragged away. He doesn't even know what's happening, and it makes Oscar feel sicker to know that it's Morris' instinct to protect him regardless. "No. No! Os ain't do nothin', let him go. Let him go!"

But if Oscar's protests had been utterly ignored, it goes without saying that Morris' will be too. He doesn't cut much of an imposing figure, even as he rises on bare tiptoes in a desperate bid to seem bigger. He trails the guard to the door, shouting all the while, and when the guard only keeps going, Morris starts to hit him. Insubordination that would usually always earn attention, earn the ire being turned to him.

But this time, it doesn't work.

"No!" Morris screams. "No, this ain't fair, where are you sendin' him? He ain't done nothin'! Take me instead! Take me!"

Oscar doesn't see the hit. He just hears the deafening crack and then the familiar thud of his little brother's body hitting the ground. Hears his screaming go quiet as the door is slammed and locked behind them. And Oscar is just forced to keep walking, coughing and retching, down the hall and the stairs to the entrance hall where his uncle is waiting for him.

He's largely unrecognisable. A bigger man than Oscar remembers. Better dressed. He's got a cigar in his mouth and a rough look on his face, one that almost twists to pity when he sees Oscar.

"Lord above," Wiesel mutters. "What they been doin' to you?"

Oscar doesn't speak. Can't. Feels utterly numb, the voices and sensations all washing over him as Snyder speaks to his uncle. Papers are signed. And then he's being exchanged, the hands of the guard swapping for the bigger, careless hands of his father's younger brother, taking that same grip of his upper arm to lead him once again.

"Right. C'mon."

Oscar doesn't have a choice. He never has.

He goes.