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He was slipping away, like water trickling through the cracks, he knew he was falling. He didn’t know who he was anymore. His mind was breaking, and he was falling, and falling, and falling. And he didn’t know how to stop. He didn’t know if he wanted to stop.
There were moments, brief flashes of intense anger, that didn’t fit in with the rest of him. It made him afraid. What if that was who he had been? What if… what if the angry demon wasn’t a visitor, but the true him?
He was a stranger in his own skin. Nothing felt right, and he was lost, so lost, and confused.
He was breaking, he knew it. But he didn’t know if he wanted to be whole again.
It was so easy to just close his eyes and trust in that man, his master. His master who made the rage go away with a mere touch.
But sometimes, his master made it worse before it got better.
So many times, he had run towards him, a sharp something clutched in his hand so tight he bled. And every time, his master would stop him, sooth away the anger.
And he knew, every time, that he didn’t want anything else. To be with his master was enough, It was all he needed, wanted, craved.
The soft comfort of each caress made him want more. He was becoming greedy for the man’s touch.
He didn’t want to fight anymore. He didn’t want to be mad. He just wanted the gentle lull that his master gave him.
And it would be enough.