Stats: Written: 1/29/18; Prompt: The Modern Typewriter; Time: 30 min. max – N/A

Prompt: “I’ll take whatever punishment you see fit.” The lackey braced themselves, surrendering themselves over without hesitation. The guilt churned in his stomach nauseous in their stomach, clenched their throat. “I’m at your mercy.”

“You’re always at my mercy,” came the villain’s reply. “Fucking up doesn’t really change that.”

The lackey flinched at the reminder of their failure, however, resigned they were to their fate.

“I’ll take whatever punishment you see fit.” The teen braced himself, surrendering himself over without hesitation. The guilt churned in his stomach nauseously in his stomach, clenching his throat. “I’m at your mercy.”

“You’re always at my mercy,” came a gruff reply, dismissing the obvious statement. “Fucking up doesn’t really change that.”

The teen flinched at the reminder of his failure, however, resigned he was to his fate.

The man’s hand closed around his throat, just underneath his chin to keep his gaze up, but also to keep him silent. His hold on the younger male wasn’t per se constricting, but secure and firm.

“Look at me.” His tone wasn’t angry but commanding, something only partially reassuring. “Your life is mine, your mistakes are mine, you have sworn yourself to me.” A fact he’d never soon forget.

This man had taken him, offering a freedom he’d never known. The concrete alleyways of the city had encaged him, making him the poster boy of the results of human cruelty, stripping him of humanity and making him a savage circus animal. The crowd never knows when the whip just might break him.

He was seven the night he stepped into the Corvette and eleven the day he strode into his mentor’s office, declaring his life no longer his own and his complete loyalty to him. He hadn’t been belittled or questioned, but instead, his teacher reached out to shake his hand, reassuring him he’d treasure such a gift.

When he was thirteen, he left a small boy with golden cufflinks inside. He had been sure his receiver, who’d find it on his desk in the morning, had plenty, but he couldn’t think of anything better. He spent every second of his free time working two jobs to get them.

The thirteen-year-old had been sure he’d get in trouble for it, but to his surprise, the following day, his mentor had them on. They never spoke about it, but strangely enough, he received more free time that day and upon seeing each other, his teacher patted his head. The day had been Father’s Day.

Like now, as the man spoke, he did so with such a fatherly authority, never using his position of power to harm, but to teach.

Pulled back to reality, his mentor continued on, “don’t trouble yourself over this. If a weapon fails, it’s because the one who commands it didn’t do so well enough. It’s not your fault, so be at ease, and help me fix this. Alright?”

Later that night, the man stood before his bathroom mirror, flinching at the sight of himself.

Who calls a fifteen-year-old boy, a weapon?

While the analogy had supported his reasoning, he couldn’t help but sigh, laying his head down on the marble counter.

Somebody who doesn’t care, that’s who.

And that was the complete opposite of the truth.