Living in the fire brings you closer to it, a warmth so satisfying that you never notice that it's leaving burns. The scars mar your skin in such a fashion that you consider them your friends, the proof that another has been so close to you that they could touch you. Those touches leave blooming bruises that you treasure as a gift, because it means you're feeling something in this wretched existence. You treasure them because the discoloration holds promise for a caress, something kinder and simpler that you were sure the masked man held no capabilities of giving. He'd treat your wounds with words of praise, heal them with the reminder of your new control. You needed control. You needed to ensure that you'd never kill again, that no lives would ever be ruined in your name because the blood on your hands is far beyond dry and you can still smell the rotting flesh of the bodies you'd maimed even as they rested in their graves. So even as you feel him rip hairs from your head and his hand connect with your cheek, you smile with the happiness that you'll never be labeled a murderer again. You knew this man loved you, deep in your heart you believed it because he had said he was proud. When you could navigate his complex training courses with ease, he had said that he wasproud of you. He had said you were growing, and that you'd be even stronger than you'd ever imagined. His hand on your cheek, either a caress or a burning slap, felt like a warmth you couldn't get away from.