Recollection

thirty-two | breath

song: Halsey - Gasoline (Official Instrumental)

Trigger warning: Torture, Gore

Lidia once left a note in my journal that I've never forgotten: Power is controlling yourself.

I read those words one night while I was sitting on the roof, staring at the sea of stars. The phrase sank deep, twisting in my thoughts like a blade. Power, I realized, didn't come from physical wealth or possessions, nor from status or privilege. Power didn't lie in brute strength or fear either. True power came from within—an unyielding grip over your emotions, thoughts, and actions. It was the mastery of self, the fortitude to remain steady when the world tried to unmake you.

The idea of controlling others to feel powerful only revealed the weakness of the person attempting it. Letting someone believe they held control, meanwhile—that was strength, that was power.

Flynn Miller, sitting frail and smug before me, had none of it. The power he thought he wielded was nothing but a shattered illusion, a reflection of his broken, desperate state. Vulnerable. Weak. He was a man of masks and lies, floundering in a shadow of his former self.

True power wasn't in terror or domination—it was in control. Of yourself, of the moment.

As I stood before Flynn now, I controlled my breathing, steadying the torrent within me. My gaze remained lowered, a calculated submission as I played along with his delusions.

"Master," I murmured, the vile word a knife in my throat.

Flynn smiled, his teeth bared like a predator too sick to chase its prey. "Hello, pet," he sneered, his voice brimming with false confidence. To him, I was a possession—a plaything to be retrieved, broken, and bent to his will again.

I stayed silent, watching the floor.

"Let me look at you," he demanded.

I rose slowly, my movements deliberate. I didn't meet his gaze. I didn't cross a step beyond the chair, but stood just beyond his reach, the weight of my mama's dagger pressing against my calf, an unspoken promise.

"Tell me, pet," Flynn rasped, his voice rough with a sickness he couldn't hide. "Is anyone outside that door?"

"No, Master. She came alone and dismissed the guards," I replied, my tone flat, stripped of humanity.

His lips curled into a smile. "Good. Weapons?"

"None but the dagger on her calf." The blade was my mama's legacy—a symbol of her strength, now mine.

"Prove to me your loyalty," he said, his demand sharp as the edge of a whip.

I met his gaze for the first time, unflinching, as I unsheathed the dagger. Without hesitation, I dragged its blade across my palm, blood welling in a crimson line. The scar that marred my hand now made sense—this wasn't the first time. I always wondered why I had that scar there. I remembered each and every mark left on my body except that one.