Page 37 of Discordant Cultivation

“Then this will be a very long afternoon.” Vale’s voice held no sympathy. “But you chose this, sweetheart. You said you’d do anything but the basement. So do it.”

Kieran looked down at his guitar—his one safe thing, the instrument he’d played since he was twelve. His fingers hovered over the strings, trembling.

“Begin.”

He pressed down on the first note. The string bit into his burning fingertip like a blade. But his muscle memory was stronger than the pain as his fingers found their positions and began the tremolo pattern that opened the piece.

He made it through the first phrase before his ring finger slipped. It was a single, barely audible wrong note.

“Start over.”

“Vale—”

“Start. Over.”

Kieran started over. He made it further this time—maybe thirty seconds—before the burning in his fingertips made his hand spasm, ruining a run.

“Again.”

“Pl-please—”

“Again.”

The third attempt lasted almost a minute. The fourth made it halfway through the first section before pain stole his precision. The fifth attempt—

“Your tremolo is sloppy. When you start over, focus on evenness.”

Kieran’s vision blurred with tears. His fingertips felt like they were being flayed with every string press. The pain kept building, layers of agony compounding until he couldn’t think or couldn’t breathe around it.

“I c-can’t do this—”

“You can. You’re just choosing comfort over dedication.” Vale leaned forward and wiped the tears from his cheeks. “Real artists play through injury, through illness, through pain that would stop amateurs. This is what commitment looks like.”

“This isn’t c-commitment, it’s t-torture—”

Vale gestured to the guitar like he didn’t hear him. “Again. And this time, remember that every mistake means starting over. Make your pain matter.”

Kieran started again. And again. And again.

Time blurred into endless cycles of beginning the piece, burning through however many measures his disintegrating technique could manage before being forced to start over. His fingers were leaving red streaks on the strings and fretboard—the capsaicin mixing with whatever fluid wept from his abraded fingertips, every press a fresh knife of pain.

Around the twentieth attempt, Kieran sobbed openly while trying to maintain the tremolo, tears and snot dripping down his face.

“Please—” His voice was wrecked. “Please, I’m s-sorry, I’ll go to the b-basement, I’ll be g-good, just please stop—”

“You chose this.” Vale’s voice held no mercy. “You said anything but the basement. So finish what you started.”

“I c-can’t—” Kieran’s hands were shaking so hard he couldn’t hold formation. “My f-fingers, they’re—”

“Try again.”

“Vale,please—”

“Try. Again.”

Somewhere around the thirtieth attempt—or maybe the fortieth, Kieran had lost count—his fingers simply stopped obeying. The pain had reached some threshold where his nervous system refused the commands. His hands hovered over the strings, trembling, unable to press down.

“I can’t.” The words came out flat, broken. “I physically c-can’t anymore.”