The chain drags across the floor as he pulls me closer.
The metal cold, his hands warm, his mouth filthy and I don’t know what’s real anymore.
I don’t know when he started caging me.
I don’t know if I’ve always been inside it.
I know I don’t want to leave.
I know I’d beg him to lock me tighter.
I know I’d choose the chain every time.
Even if he’s already stitched me into a story I don’t remember living.
His thumb brushes the corner of my mouth like he’s wiping something away that isn’t there.
His breathing’s gone strange again.
Slower.
Quieter.
Almost like he’s waiting to hear someone else’s footsteps behind him.
“You used to cry when you prayed,” he says again, like he’s stuck in a loop. My pulse skips. “You told me to count with you.”
His grip on my jaw tightens.
His eyes flick to mine—but I don’t think he’s really looking at me.
“You were always better at counting,” he murmurs.
“You never lost track.”
A cold knot forms in my chest.
His thumb taps the faint scar on my ribs.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“You kept me quiet when I was bad.”
His words don’t make sense.
I don’t remember this.
I don’t remember him but he says it like I was there.
Like I was with him.
“You told me I wasn’t allowed to scream,” he breathes, his voice fracturing, his grip trembling. “You said it would ruin the prayer.”
My stomach knots.
His smile is soft.
Off.
