He could feel it sometimes, when they looked at him. The pull of the leash around his neck. The creak of leather. The clank of chains.
Good boy.
Good pet.
He danced at the end of their rope for their amusement, bending to their will, obeying their Commands, no matter how much he wished to wheel and snarl and feel the crunch of their fingers splintering between his teeth. He would follow their orders. Do as he was told.
Aim. Breathe. Fire. End.
Act now and feel later and later and later…
In the dark of night, when he felt more honest, he admitted to himself that he let them do it.
He had slipped willingly into this particular noose, held still as the loop tightened around his neck. Anything to appease them. Anything to keep their interest.
He couldn’t allow it to slip.
As long as he wore the hated yoke, she was safe. The little one. All laughter and mischief, trusting eyes and caring hands that pulled him back out from the darkness. He had seen their looks of poison, the knife blade gleam of threat and insinuation in their eyes.
She was a small thing. Fragile, like all hope was. A glimmer, easily snuffed by their shadow passing over her.
He stood before her, always, dancing in front, catching their eye.
He couldn’t let them see her. Touch her.
He wouldn’t let them.
In the quiet, when the leash went slack, her happiness was everything. Her safety, paramount. He could hide the ring about his neck with high collared garments, an easy smile, a quiet laugh. When it was just the two of them, he could pretend again to be a person real and solid, sentient and full of a will of his own.
But one harsh word and a harsher glare and the leash pulled taut again, the illusion crumbling away as they brought their beast to heel. Go there. Do this. He let his mind slip away in the hot splatter of his obedience, fading with the light in his victim’s eyes.
He remembered each one of them, carefully cataloged. Each moment, each face, each trembling breath, each twist of the blade, each body gone slack then another then another then another.
How many lights snuffed to protect the glitter of his chosen one? How many more must he end?
He was long past the point of redemption now, if there ever was such a thing. The collar tightened, a splintering ache. But there was no choice. . .