You have to start with a truth. The slightest cut, the kiss of a blade against tender skin. Hands around the throat, going past that moment of panic that flashes in your eye, a squeeze further than you wanted it to go. Another blow, another cane, another whip. A hard line that aims straight for the center of your head, right for the point where you need convincing. That you’re no longer in control. That, as much as I want you, care for you, as much as I’ll make sure you make it through this in one piece, I’ll spare you no quarter.
Even if everything beyond that is a lie, some elaborate facade to construct erect and embellish, filigree curling with beautiful fractals away from the center, even if every single action beyond this one is false, curtailed by control and care, kept just shy of damage and terror, even if all the fear is artificial and curated, it’ll be informed by that one powerful truth.
It’ll be the seed that grows. The doubt that gnaws. The one question that keeps your sense of self preservation completely aflame, alert and panicked, your entire train of thought a scattershot of worry and fear. You’re at the end of your tether, and you’re hovering there, on the brink. You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, and that tension is ecstasy.
But when all is said and done, it’s the truth I feel bad about. None of the deception leaves a sour taste in the mouth, just that one moment where I had to convince you I was serious. Because that was going too far, even if just for a second. And that flash of true fear that scorched across your eyeline at that moment made me blanche, if just for a second.