2019 Voltron Whumptober Collection

26 Abandoned

Word Count: 1,667

They left him.

They just- left him.

Keith was alone.

He didn't want to be alone.

Please.

He couldn't remember which foster home it was anymore (they were all the same to him), or how many he'd been through till now, all he could remember- all he could see was the empty house staring back at him, the silence droning on and on in his ears.

They left him.

They just- just left him.

And now he was alone.

Keith wasn't really sure if it'd been his fault (it probably was, it always was), but he woke up to the thudding of suitcases down the stairs and the shout of an angry foster father making him freeze, still half in sleep as the door to his room unbolted with a loud snap, creaking open to reveal the man already fully dressed.

He'd been dragged from his bed then, bare feet scraping down the stairs, his head still groggy from sleep, brain just barely registering that the man pulled him to the kitchen to zip-tie him to the piping under the kitchen sink, the plastic tightened to the point of cutting off circulation over his small wrist, jerking his arm to hang limply by the piping, and he gasped.

What the-

"See here, boy," someone grabbed him by the face, the sharp scent of unbrushed teeth hitting him square in the face and he gagged, large fingers tightening over his jaw to the point of lifting him off the floor, and he cried out, "we're leaving your pathetic ass here to have a good vacation, and you better be here when we get back, understand?"

Eyes wide, Keith nodded frantically, he understood, he understood, please, please just let go. Relief washed through him like a tidal wave when he finally let go of him, small body hitting the floor, his wrist tightening against the bond and he bit back a whimper, now fully awake, just in time to see them leave, his 'father' sending one final glare over his shoulder before the door slammed, bolting shut behind them.

The garage opened.

The car started.

It closed again.

And then-

Silence.

He- he was alone.

And he didn't want to.

Please.

Somebody help.

He'd tried, dammit, he tried for the first few hours of his wrist hanging to tight to the kitchen sink, straining against the tie to reach for the cabinet drawers, fingers blindly groping for something anything sharp that would get him out of here.

Please.

His hand was turning blue.

He couldn't find the scissors.

Keith choked back a sob.

He needed help.

He didn't want to be alone.

The longer he sat there Keith could feel the silence closing in, feel the near-silent ticking of the clock in the livingroom drone on in his ears, closing around his neck making it harder to breathe.

He couldn't breathe.

The silence was closing in, and Keith was finding it harder and harder to actually think.