Page 44 of Discordant Cultivation

Kieran made a sound—high, broken, barely human. Not words. Not even trying for words. Just a whimper that meantplease, no, not again, I can’t.

Vale crossed to him and found the back of his neck. “I know. Come on.”

Another whimper. Kieran’s hands gripped the counter, but he didn’t fight when Vale gently pried his fingers loose.

“You’re alright. You’re going to be fine.”

I’m not. I’m not alright. I’m not fine.

But the words wouldn’t come. Just more of those broken sounds while his feet followed Vale to the basement.

He didn’t know how to get away anymore. He didn’t know how to refuse, how to fight, how to hold onto any piece of himself that wasn’t shaped by Vale’s hands and voice and careful, devastating lessons.

Vale kept telling him what he wanted.

You want to be healthier. You want to go to the basement. You want to become a better musician. You want me to help you.

And Kieran couldn’t remember anymore what he’d wanted before. He couldn’t access the person who used to make his own choices, who used to know his own mind.

That person felt like someone else entirely.

Someone who died on these stairs weeks ago.

The hood went on.

Kieran stopped whimpering.

He stopped making any sound at all.

12

I'm so fucking overgrown and wild; tangled in my own vines, call it self-denial...

Vale

Vale stood in the doorway of Kieran’s room at 3:47 AM, watching moonlight paint silver across the boy’s face while his left hand spasmed against the sheets. Myoclonic seizures—the small ones that made his limbs twitch like electrical shocks in the night.

Beautiful, broken thing. Even your neurons are learning new rhythms I’ve taught them.

The transformation had been exquisite to watch. Those first days when Kieran still fought—physically fought, leaving bruises on them both—had been necessary but exhausting. Vale had expected the medication resistance immediately, but when it came on day three, watching Kieran push away his pills…having to pin him down and force compliance...

That had been exciting in ways Vale hadn’t anticipated. The intimacy of the struggle. Bodies locked together on the kitchen floor, Vale controlling his breathing, his swallowing, everything. Kieran’s hatred sharp and immediate in his eyes even as his body learned to respond to Vale’s touch.

By day five, Kieran stopped fighting the medication. He looked like he was choosing his battles.

Vale had been prepared for an escape attempt around day seven or eight—that’s when most students cracked and made their desperate bid for freedom while they still had some fight left.

But Kieran surprised him. He waited until day sixteen.

When Vale heard the rolling pin slamming against reinforced glass, he’d felt something close to pride.There you are. I was wondering when you’d try.

The desperation in Kieran’s face when the glass wouldn’t break. The hyperventilating panic when he realized there was no way out. The way he’d crumpled to the floor sobbing while Vale calmly explained the futility of resistance.

It was perfect. Perfect in a way it never had been before.

After the first nine basement sessions, the pattern became routine. Morning breakfast where Vale asked questions designed to keep Kieran uncertain, then in the afternoon, they went down to the basement. The hood went on and music emerged between Kieran’s breathy sobs and pleading moans. Sometimes, in the evenings, Kieran wrote in the notepad Vale had provided, processing Vale’s lessons into lyrics.

Vale stopped pretending the sessions were purely pedagogical during the break while Kieran’s fingers healed. By the nineteenth, Kieran just whimpered. Each one pushed further than the last. Sometimes he made Kieran play for hours until his fingers bled. Sometimes the hood stayed on until his voice went hoarse begging for light. Often enough, Vale’s hands found places that had nothing to do with music and everything to do with the want he’d stopped trying to justify.