I don't remember choosing the chair, positioning his body, securing the knots. I just remember looking down and seeing him there, bound and helpless, his eyes wide and wet and white with fear.
Gabriel's hands on my throat.
The memory surfaced as I reached for the knife.
Two versions.
One: gentle. His palm resting against my windpipe, his thumb tracing my jaw, his voice soft as velvet. "You're so beautiful when you trust me."
Two: cruel. His fingers pressing into the soft hollow of my throat, his grip just tight enough to make spots dance behind my eyes, his voice flat as a scalpel. "You don't get to say no. You don't get to decide. That's not how this works."
Both felt real.
Both felt like lies.
I didn't know which one had actually happened.
Maybe neither.
Maybe both.
Maybe I was inventing the gentleness to make the cruelty bearable, or inventing the cruelty to justify the hate I needed to survive.
I pressed the blade against the man's cheek, and he whimpered.
"Where is Gabriel Mire?"
"I don't know. I never knew. He kept to himself. He only came out for the sessions—"
"Where did he go after the Institute fell?"
"I heard—I heard he left voluntarily. Someone helped him disappear. Someone inside."
"Who?"
"I don't know. I wasn't important enough. They didn't tell me anything."
"You're lying."
"I'm not—please—I'm telling you everything—"
The knife moved lower. Tracing his collarbone. Pressing just hard enough to draw blood.
"Where is he?"
"I don't know. I swear. I don't know."
"Where?"
"I don't—"
The blade bit deeper, and he screamed.
I don't remember how many cuts I made.
I remember the blood. The way it welled up from his skin, dark and thick, tracking down his chest in paths that looked like rivers on a map. I remember the sounds he made—whimpers, sobs, pleas that blurred together until they were just noise, just background, just the static of a dying radio.
But I don't remember deciding to keep going.
