Kissed and beaten, loved and fucked — he had been dismantled, rearranged, and reassembled until he was less himself and more mine.
His eyes glassy and unfocused, he is both entirely present and a million miles away. He is here and he is gone, and what remains of him is mine.
Without weapons and stripped of armor, he has no defense against my incantations; I speak directly to his soul. I whisper sweet, sick words of adoration and possession, invoking love and violence, on what I’ve taken and what I want.
I want my words inside his head, not just for now, but for always. I want to write myself onto his heart.
In the middle of my murmuring, I hear my voice, not as I intend it, but as it is — pleading, anxious, and unsure. I’m not asserting ownership; I’m nearly begging, willing him to be mine.
When my voice trails off, he swallows hard and begins whispering his own words. They’re incoherent articulations, emotive utterances saying nothing in particular, but they mean the world to me.
I give him room to ramble, but I’m not sure what he’s saying.
Just before he’s silent, his cadence asks for a response.
Pushing breath past the tightness in my throat, I answer.
“I love you too, sweet boy.”