You're back, Legato. Please, come in. I have a present for you, for your latest accomplishment. I think you'll rather enjoy it, really, so please... come in.
Legato opens the door and enters, shutting it quietly when he is just beyond the frame. A light fragrance of flowers permeates the air, invading his mind with thoughts of kaleidoscopic colors turning back and forth, back and forth, complicated with its thirty-degree slice of shapes. He awaits further instructions.
Undress.
And he complies, almost too eager to obey the command. He then stands in the sweet-smelling room as naked as he came into this world, without the bawling of the infant he once was. He tries not to tense, but anticipation makes him as taunt as a string ready to be plucked.
Calm down. Wait.
He relaxes, and waits. And before waiting too long, he is tumbled to the ground, hands holding him down. He doesn't need to be held down, but Legato does not refuse the rough gesture.
Your PRESENT, Legato.
Then he feels that familiar jolt running through him as he's completed. He's rocked back hard, his shoulders digging into the floor, but he grits his teeth and stares into those wide, manic eyes. Those lovely eyes.
SMILE, Legato. Don't look so anguished.
He smiles, and he would follow those eyes into oblivion if need be. A particularly awful push causes his eyes to roll upwards; he groans and appreciates his present.
Look at me, Legato, LOOK AT ME. Did I tell you to look away? NO! THEN I'LL HURT YOU AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN UNTIL
he screams in utter pain, beautifully horrified as his voice becomes hoarse and no longer recognizable, compared to the silky smooth tones he once spoke.
SCREAM! SCREAM!
He screams.
LOUDER!
He screams louder, hurting his throat.
LOOK AT ME WHILE YOU SCREAM, LEGATO! LOOK AT ME!
Legato looks at him, screaming as the pain pierces him in a million different directions, like sharp knives pricking his skin. He almost feels worthy.
SCREAM, DAMN YOU! DO YOU THINK YOU'RE
worthy of his pain, his fleeting, momentary pain? He doesn't know, but if he is allowed to feel it now, feel it for as long as possible, then perhaps, maybe, he is worthy.
...
And then he feels that emptiness again. He longs to be one with his master again, but knows better than to ask for such a heavy favor. His master has been nice enough to grant him the privilege, and he has no right to take advantage of it. He lays on the floor, waiting. Tears begin to slip from Legato's eyes.
I hate you. You're nothing compared to him. Yet, I soil myself with you so that he may remain pure. Don't you love me for this?
He cries without sound, taking the words to heart. He is hated for what he is, and can therefore never be more than that nothing. Yet it angers him, deep within, that he should be below the creature so worshipped by the one he worships. But yet again, he believes the words.
Aren't I so kind? Don't you love me?
Legato loves his master for being so kind.
