Page 57 of Discordant Cultivation

The words came thin and shaky, but they came.

Another strike, this one lower, across his shoulder blades. The impact sent a shockwave through his ribcage and made his chest seize. The heat was different this time—sharper, layering over the first strike, building into something that radiated outward like ripples in water.

“But the architect was never shown...“ Each line earned him another strike, leather finding new territory across his back, across his lower back where his shirt had ridden up and exposed bare skin. That one burned worse—immediate and intimate, the kind of sting that made his whole body jerk against the restraints.

This is insane. This is not music. This is not art.

But his voice was getting stronger somehow, finding the melody even as pain bloomed across his skin. The rhythm of the belt was becoming part of the song, creating percussion he never imagined but somehow felt right. His breath synchronized with it—inhale during the pause, exhale as he sang through the strike.

“Beautiful,” Vale muttered, and Kieran could hear something in his voice that hadn’t been there before—that breathlessness, the slight hitch it got before he usually.... “Keep going.”

But when Kieran continued with the second verse, something changed. The pain was still there—his back felt like it was on fire, each welt a separate source of heat that pulsed in time with his heartbeat—but it was feeding an anguished honesty in his voice that he only accessed in this same basement.

“I’ve got stained glass windows made of broken dreams;

And holy water that tastes like screams...“

The words came out raw, desperate, like a prayer offered to gods who specialized in structural collapse. His vision had started to blur at the edges, tears gathering but not yet falling.

The strike that followed was harder, deeper. Not enough to draw blood but enough to make his knees buckle slightly before the handcuffs caught his weight. The metal bit into his wrists, a different kind of pain—sharp where the belt’s impact was broad, grinding where the other was burning.

Kieran’s voice broke entirely on the next line, collapsing into a sound that was half-sob, half-note. The basement’s acoustics caught it and threw it back at him from the stone walls—his own anguish amplified until he was surrounded by the sound of his breaking.

Foster home. Belt. Crying in the bathroom afterward. “Discipline builds character, Kieran. Character builds men.”

The flashback hit with the force of the leather, and suddenly he was sixteen again, bent over a kitchen chair while Mrs. Patterson explained how crying only made things worse, how worthless boys like him didn’t deserve better, would never deserve better, should be grateful anyone wanted to deal with him at all.

The scent of cheap air freshener. Linoleum under his hands. The sound of a television in the next room, someone laughing at a sitcom while he bled into his own silence.

“I c-can’t,” Kieran sobbed, forehead pressed against cold stone. Sweat dripped down his temple, salting the corner of his mouth. “I can’t d-d-do this anymore. I’m not—I’m not worth this m-m-much effort. I’m n-not worth s-saving or f-f-fixing or…I’m just—I’m just b-broken.”

The belt stilled against his back. For a moment there was only the sound of his own sobs.

“I’m n-n-nothing…p-please…let me b-be nothing.”

Then footsteps—Vale moving around him. The sound of metal sliding against metal as the handcuffs were unhooked. Kieran’s arms dropped slightly, his tense muscles screaming at the change in position. His shoulders burned with the deep ache of strained joints.

Vale’s hands were on his wrists, turning him with surprising gentleness. The world spun as Kieran’s body rotated, his back to the wall he’d been facing. The first brush of stone against the welts made him gasp.

He heard the clink of chain being threaded through the handcuff links, then felt the slight tug as Vale secured him back to the hook. The adjustment allowed Kieran to slide down until he was sitting, his arms still elevated but no longer bearing his full weight.

The position pushed his back more firmly against the wall. Cold seeped through his shirt where the fabric hadn’t been displaced, but where skin met stone directly it was almost soothing—like ice on a burn.

Vale crouched in front of him, his eyes wide. “Oh, sweetheart. Look what beautiful honesty you’ve found.”

Hands touched his face, gentle fingers wiping tears Kieran didn’t fully realized were falling. They were warm against his skin.

“That’s exactly what the song is about, isn’t it? Not trusting your own value. Not believing you deserve the care someone wants to give you.” Vale’s thumb moved to his lower lip. “We’re going to work on that.”

Care. He calls this care.

But the touch was soothing after the violence, and Kieran found himself leaning into it despite every rational thoughtscreaming at him to pull away. His body was making decisions his mind couldn’t endorse again—seeking comfort from the source of pain.

Vale stood, and Kieran felt the loss of warmth immediately. He shivered—whether from temperature or aftermath, he couldn’t tell.

“I’m going to leave you here tonight,” Vale said, checking the chain one final time. “To think about what we’ve discovered. About what your voice sounds like when you stop protecting yourself from the truth. Don’t worry, I’ll monitor you through the security camera for seizure activity.”

He’s leaving me chained here. All night. In the basement.