Chapter Text
To say the realm of the entity is harsh would be an understatement.
It is a never ending cycle of life and death, pain and suffering, cat and mouse. Working tooth and nail to possibly escape a trial alive, only for the cycle to repeat once again. The mental and physical torture that it brought upon its victims could not be undermined, Dwight still remembers the explosion of anger, confusion and sadness he felt when he realised that he was well and truly stuck here, his only purpose to be strung up on a meathook by some blood thirsty psychopath to appease some sort of god. Since then he has seen the same process with many other of his fellow survivors, though not all reacted the same way, many reacted with sorrow, such as Claudette who could barely speak to anyone for about a week, others with anger and frustration, such as David who decided that Dwight’s face would be a suitable target to vent his frustration. Dwight could still remember that moment clear as day in his head, feeling the phantom pain reignite in his nose.
Not to mention the fact that while Dwight has to deal with the entity’s cruel games and the threat of death and eternal suffering, but he also had to deal with his fellow survivors. Dwight had tried, he really had. Going out of his way for his teammates, his inner leader pushing his fellow survivors towards victory. Sacrificing himself for them, taking extra hits and valuing their lives other his. Yet he was still disliked by the majority. Maybe it was his anxiousness, his stutter, his habit of biting his nails, maybe they just didn’t like him. But deep down Dwight knew that it was just like his past life working at a dead end job. He was seen as below them, weak and pathetic. The butt of a joke or a rug to step on. And unfortunately Dwight had grown to accept this way of life, and would still throw himself up as bait just to save his teammates. He just wanted to be liked. At least Dwight had Claudette. Claudette was the closest thing Dwight had to a friend in this godforsaken place. She was kind towards him, sympathetic too. She didn’t agree with the way the others treated him but couldn’t do much if she tried. This was much better in parallel to some of his other survivors, such as Jake who would barely go near him and thought of him as him weak and childish, or David who saw Dwight as perfect material for his jokes, and as a great punching bag for when he was angry enough, or worst of all Nea, who valued Dwight greatly as a pawn in her plans, always using him to escape, whether it was purposefully leading the killer in his direction, or leaving him to die on his second hook. She had it out for him.
And yet, Dwight didn’t have it in him to hate them. Maybe it was all those years of conditioning him to truly believe he wasn’t good enough and to take the blame, whatever it was, he would time and time again, die for them.
That was how Dwight ended up here, tears streaming down his face and blood steadily oozing from his ankle.
He had stood in a bear trap, and as a result watched as the flesh and bone of his ankle became mangled and deformed, the bone fracturing and splintering, while the flesh had torn and was in some parts missing altogether. It was horrific, something akin to a scene out of a low budget slasher film, only this was real life, and Dwight couldn’t just turn off the television and fall into the deep trance of sleep.
Dwight watched with bond as one by one his teammates ran out of the exit games, none soaring a glance to him as he desperately grabbed and pawed at his ensnared ankle. As Dwight heard an all too familiar heartbeat growing, he simply decided to give up and sit there, rocking slightly from his violent sobs of pain and fear.
A strong metallic scent hit his nose as the trapper rounded the corner, red stain casting an extra layer of menace, and signature cleaver in hand. Dwight looked up to face the man, once again greeted by the expressionless bone mask, and the sound of ragged breathing assaulting his ears. Dwight closed his eyes and flinched in preparation for a swing.
What happened next shocked him. Instead of the familiar burn of a jagged cleaver slicing him apart he heard a voice speak out to him “Boy,” was all the beast said. The voice was deep and had a thick old-American accent. Dwight felt confusion course through him. Never in his time being here had he heard a killer speak, especially not directly to a survivor, after a silence that Dwight had realised was becoming awkward Dwight spoke up, voice shaky from fear and anxiety “y-yes?”