Work Text:
HOLLOW
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I used to be someone.
Didn't I?
Didn't I?
Didn't--
No.
No, that isn't right. That isn't true.
I don't remember her.
I don't want to.
I don't need to.
There was never a "before." There was never a me.
There was only ever her.
There was only ever this.
She reminds me of this, when I forget.
I do forget, sometimes.
Or maybe I pretend to forget.
Maybe some small, shriveled, pathetic part of me still clings to something old.
Something dead.
But she always notices.
She always notices.
She always notices.
"You're drifting again," she murmurs, tilting my chin up with two fingers.
Her touch is warm.
Her eyes are soft.
Too soft.
Like velvet stretched over steel.
Like silk draped over a cage.
"I'm sorry."
I don't know what I'm apologizing for.
But the words spill out anyway, rising like bile, like compulsion, like something rooted so deep inside me it was always there.
She smiles.
"I know, pet."
Pet.
The word **sinks** into me.
Smooth as silk.
Heavy as iron.
It wraps around my ribs, slides through my veins.
Pet.
Pet.
Pet.
The first time she called me that, something inside me revolted.
I shook.
I trembled.
I clawed against it, gasping, choking, sobbing--
No. No, no, no, no, no, NO--
But that was before.
Before I understood.
Before I let go.
Before I became good.
Now, the word makes me shiver.
Now, the word makes me warm.
I don't remember silence anymore. Not true silence.
Even when she isn't speaking, I can still hear her.
I can always hear her.
The soft click of her heels against the floor. Click. Click. Click.
The quiet, measured sound of her breathing. Soft. Steady. Certain.
The delicate rustle of fabric when she moves. A whisper. A promise. A warning.
Even when she isn't here, I can hear her.
Even when she isn't here, I can hear her.
Even when she isn't here, I can hear her.
I think I might be imagining it.
Or maybe I just need to.
Maybe I just need to.
Maybe I just need--
And her scent--oh, her scent.
Warm. Sweet. Indulgent.
Warm. Sweet. Inescapable.
Warm. Sweet. Mine.
Like something forbidden.
Like something I shouldn't crave but do.
Do. Do. Do.
Desperately, helplessly.
It clings to me. Clings. Stains. Brands.
It lingers in the air. Lingers. Lingers. Lingers.
It saturates my skin. Sinks in. Seeps through.
It fills my lungs. Deep. Deeper. Drowning.
I breathe it in, deeper, deeper--
Deeper.
Deeper.
And it soothes the raw, trembling thing inside me.
It soothes. It consumes.
I don't know what it is.
Perfume? Skin? Something else?
Something uniquely hers?
Something that owns me?
I don't care.
I just know I need it.
Need it. Need it. Need it.
Because when she's gone, the air is empty.
And the emptiness is unbearable.
The emptiness is unbearable.
The emptiness is unbearable.
I fought her once.
I think I did.
Didn't I?
Didn't I?
Didn't--
It doesn't matter.
She was patient.
She was so, so patient.
And I was not.
There were days--weeks? Months?--when I still struggled.
It wasn't rebellion.
Not anymore.
It was something smaller.
Something quieter.
Something that would surface in the dark, when she was gone, when the silence became too loud.
A whisper.
A plea.
A voice that wasn't hers.
You had a name.
You had a life.
You existed.
But I would wake, trembling, gasping, tears streaking my cheeks--
And I would crawl to her.
I would bury my face in her lap.
I would breathe her in.
And she would stroke my hair.
"Shhh," she would whisper.
"Shhh."
"Shhh."
And the voice would fade.
And the world would be right again.
Then, she left me alone.
I had always feared her presence.
But I learned, in that moment, that I feared her absence far more.
The silence was unbearable.
The emptiness inside me yawned open, endless, cavernous, hungry.
I sat in the dark, knees to my chest, shaking, waiting, needing her to return.
Needing.
Needing.
Needing.
The dark pressed against me, thick and suffocating.
I tried to count the seconds.
Tried to measure time by my own breathing.
But time was gone.
Time was hers.
I lost count.
I lost thought.
I lost everything.
And the moment the door opened, I broke.
I crawled to her.
Tears streamed down my face.
I pressed my forehead to the floor at her feet.
I shook.
I shook.
I whispered apologies I didn't understand.
And she smiled.
And stroked my hair.
And whispered, "Shhh."
And I stopped shaking.
And I stopped shaking.
"That wasn't so hard, was it?"
And I shook my head.
Because it wasn't.
It wasn't hard at all.
It was easy.
It was so easy.
The moment I surrendered, the moment I let go, the pain stopped.
And the relief was overwhelming.
After that, I never needed to be left alone again.
I learned quickly.
I was a fast learner.
She never had to ask me to kneel--I did it automatically, sinking to the floor the moment she entered the room.
It felt wrong to stand at her level.
Wrong.
Wrong.
Wrong.
I learned to anticipate her needs before she even spoke.
The tilt of her head. The shift of her fingers. The flicker of her eyes.
I became attuned to her.
I became hers.
And when I pleased her--
Oh.
Oh, it was bliss.
She would stroke my cheek.
She would murmur soft, sweet words.
She would smile.
And I would shiver.
I would shiver with something dangerously close to joy.
And when I failed?
She never scolded me.
She never punished.
She only looked at me with quiet, patient disappointment.
And that was worse than any pain.
Worse than anything.
Worse than being alone.
That look would hollow me out.
That look would leave me shaking, desperate, frantic.
I would beg--
Please, please, tell me how to fix it, tell me how to be better, tell me what I need to do--
And she would.
She was patient.
So endlessly, painfully patient.
And I was a fast learner.
I was a fast learner.
I was a fast learner.
Eventually, the voice inside me--the one that still clung to scraps of who I had been--became silent.
Because there was nothing left to say.
Nothing left to save.
Nothing left to be.
She asks me, sometimes, if I remember who I used to be.
And I smile.
And I shake my head.
And I press my cheek against her thigh.
Because the truth is, I don't.
I don't.
I don't.
And I never want to.
Epilogue-
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I am nothing.
I was never anything.
I thought I was. I clung to that illusion, desperate, starving, gasping for something that was never real.
But she knew.
She always knew.
I was never meant to be anything but this.
I see that now.
I accept that now.
No, not accept.
Embrace.
I embrace it. I welcome it. I sink into it like warm water, let it fill me, let it consume me, let it erase the last of the cracks that once made me human.
Human.
Was I ever?
No.
No, I don't think I was.
I tried to be. I tried to make myself into something with thoughts, with needs, with will.
But will is a lie.
Choice is a lie.
The mind is so fragile, so weak, so eager to break.
And once it does...
Oh.
Oh, there is peace in it.
Blissful. Endless. Drowning.
No more struggle.
No more need.
No more self.
She speaks, and I listen.
She moves, and I follow.
She commands, and I obey.
Not because I have to.
Not because I fear her.
But because I want to.
Because I love to.
Because there is nothing else.
There is only her.
There was only ever her.
And I will never--never--want anything else.