His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his trousers.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. He just watches.
The silence hangs heavy again, punctuated only by the scrape of my body and my own ragged breathing.
I feel so small, so insignificant, moving along the floor like, like I’m less than nothing. But I don’t stop. I don’t look back. I just obey. When my nose reaches his boot I pause, my body trembling. Am I supposed to stop? Am I supposed to keep going? He doesn’t say. He just stands there, and I can feel his gaze fixed on me.
Should I stop? Should I keep going?
The uncertainty is a fresh wave of panic. I freeze, my fingernails digging into the floor, snapping one by one in my terror and desperate need to do only what is expected of me and nothing more.
He sighs, a long, drawn-out sound that vibrates in the small space. It’s not a happy sound. It’s… weary? Or annoyed? I don’t know. I don’t dare guess. “Stop,” he says finally, his voice flat.
Relief floods me, cold and sharp, but instantly followed by the fear of another mistake. I scramble to my feet, standing rigid, my legs still shaky. I don’t dare move.
He takes a step closer. I hold my breath, waiting. Waiting for the pain, for the reprimand, for the shock that never seems to truly leave this room.
But he doesn’t shock me. He just stops in front of me, looking down his nose. His eyes bore into me again. “You were good,” he says, the words slow and deliberate. “Very good.” He nods, almost imperceptibly. “You are learning.”
The words hang in the air.Good.Learning. They sound almost normal, but the context twists them into something else. Something hollow, something calculated. He’s acknowledging my performance, yes, but it’s purely transactional. I obeyed. Therefore, I am adequate? Useful? The thought is a bitter pill. I keep my head down, my eyes fixed on the floor just in front of my toes.
I don’t dare believe him. I don’t dare hope.
“Dog,” his voice is softer now, almost coaxing, but the underlying tone is still firm. It’s the tone of a trainer giving a final instruction before a test. “You are ready to move on with your training.”
The words echo in my head. Ready. Move on.
What does that mean? What comes next? Is it harder? Is it worse?
My heart starts to pound again, a frantic rhythm against the drum of fear. Ready? For what?
To do more fucking tricks? To prove myself further? Or is this the calm before the storm?
The thought of the unknown fills me with a deeper kind of terror than the shock. The shock is immediate, physical. This, this is the void. The darkness before the light.
I don’t understand. I press my lips together, my teeth grinding softly, and it’s the only sign of frustration I dare to show.
The door to the training room opens. I freeze, my body locking in place. My eyes snap up, instinct taking over, searching the doorway. Hope flickers, dim and desperate for a moment. Forhim, for Antonio.
For the sound of his voice, the warmth of his touch, the reassurance that this… this place…was what?
He put me here. He didthis. Allowedthis.
I hold my breath, my chest tight, waiting.
But the figure in the doorway is not Antonio. It’s a woman. Tall. Imposing. Her face is sharp-featured, her eyes cold and hard, like chips of ice. She’s holding something in one hand. Something small and sharp.
My breath catches in my throat.
I can’t breathe. My eyes widen, and fear seems to explode in my chest.
The man reaches out, his hand clamping down hard on my shoulder. The touch is rough and bruising. It’s meant to pin me, to stop me from… I don’t know… running? Disappearing? My eyes fly wide, my breath catching in a sharp intake.
He forces me to stay still, to face the doorway.
But my fear wars with obedience as she gets closer.
I am a dog. I am nothing.
