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I'd always noticed him.
That boy.
Everytime they came, he stood quiet and contained by his mother's side. Always dressed so meticulously, and always a charming smile on his face.
It made me wonder if he ever frowned, or if he ever wanted to.
But then he was never close enough for me to ask, and later, later I couldn't bring myself to ask.
Because I despised doing things that he found unpleasant.
So when my entire existence had become for his joy and pleasure, I couldn't bring myself to ask if he ever frowned.
The first time we had any contact, I was seven.
It was in the storage room outside the orphanage, and he smiled at me when I came out.
But many people had smiled at me before, so it was nothing too strange. Yet somehow, I felt it was special. There was a chilling coldness behind his eyes, even as his lips curled.
As if he was looking at a toy on display, deliberating on whether it was worth spending money on.
I didn't dislike that look, mostly because it seemed unmasked to me. Like he had no reason to hide what he felt, and I found that safer than those with pure smiles etched onto their faces.
So I smiled back at him.
Back then, we were the same height, he was perhaps half an inch taller but it was still all the same.
He had the silkiest of skin, evidently well cared for. And I could only wish to leave a mark upon it those days. But then again, he was not what you could call a blank canvas. It was just that the paint had seeped somewhere beyond the eyes could see.
Regardless, he mesmerized me like nothing else had.
I always thought of him, you see. When his family would come to visit again, whether he would come too, and whether I could see him up close again.
The second time we met, it was in the orphanage director's office.
I lay bleeding on the floor, vivid belt marks all over my back, and he stood at the door, having just pulled it open.
The director went pale with fright, and after that incident, I learned that children weren't supposed to be beaten like this.
My eyes could barely open, but I wanted to look at him once. Him standing by the door.
So I did.
He asked if he should come back later, and I thought to myself, yes, he shouldn't see me like this.
Still, when he left, I regretted not having him there for longer.
The third time, to my elation, was not too far from the second. Just a few hours in between.
When I reached the small closet like space I called my own, I found him right outside, waiting. For me?
He was dressed impeccably as always, so out of place in these narrow, unclean corridors.
I stared at him for a long while, wondering how a boy the same age as me could possibly seem so delicate. Although I wasn't under the impression of him being weak.
We lingered at the door for a moment, after which he turned and went inside.
A few seconds of hesitation later, I slowly followed behind.
That night, I wasn't in pain from the beatings anymore. It had been so long, the thought of sleeping without the stinging sensation nearly drove me to tears.
He brought me medicine. He brought me bandages. He brought me peace and quiet.
I wanted that night to last forever.
That taste of sweetness left me greedy for more.
So the next time, the fourth time, I didn't wait upon chance to see him.
When he came by that day, I kept a closer eye on him than usual. Waiting for him to separate from the crowd.
In the back garden, where he went to get some fresh air, I decided to speak with him.
I no longer remember what I said to him, but it was enough to make him stop and pay attention to me. We talked for a while, and somewhere along the way, I asked if he often came to this garden when he visited.
He looked at me in silence, then laughed. And said, it was cute of me to ask.
But I couldn't get an answer from him.
From then on, he took a stroll in the garden whenever he came, alone in quiet. I wondered if it was because he wished to see me as much as I wanted to see him.
If only he did.
Nevertheless, what mattered to me was his existence, not how he felt about me, so I didn't ponder much on it. I had no power to change things anyway.
And so, nothing changed.
For years.
In the darkest times of my life, he was there. Not as a pillar of support, not as a caring hand, he was just there, the only constant. And in my pathetic quagmire of nothingness, it was enough to make him my sole reason.
Occasionally, he brought me clothes. Sometimes food and sometimes books. And every passing day, the obsession with which I waited for him to come grew.
Then finally, when I was eleven, things changed.
On that day, he asked me if I liked pets. It slips my mind what answer I gave him, but to it he responded with the information, he liked dogs.
At that moment, I couldn't piece together his intentions, but later that day, when my adoption papers were being signed, him and his parents right there, I suddenly understood what he meant.
I was his dog.
He wanted me as his dog.
He wanted me.
I was desired by that person, even if as a pet.
That was the happiest day I had lived so far.
There was nothing to miss at this place, and he was all I needed to live.
Once the process was done with, I was taken to his home. But, he did not come to pick me up, and I was driven to their place by car.
Large but seemingly empty, dark and dreary, it was a picture not much different from the orphanage. Except for the luxurious part of it, it was gloomy just the same.
Although his parents were never to be seen, all my needs were well taken care of. We ate the same food, drank the same water, and read the same books. One might even mistake us for real siblings.
But really, everything was what he gave to me.
And I was grateful. I was so very grateful.
A couple months by, and he told me to learn how to fight. A dog should have sharp teeth, he said. To protect his master faithfully, he said.
He also forbid me from making other friends, even acquaintances. But he really didn't have to, because I only ever had eyes for him.
It pleased him excessively.
To the point that I was given a room nearby his own, and he let me know that nobody else except for us was allowed in that wing of the mansion. That was how he liked it.
And so did I. Because it meant I was special to him.
I craved his attention, wished I could tell him how much he mesmerized me.
But it would not be wrong to say that I despised him as much, as I loved him.
He was a playful soul, understand. Toying with me amused him to no end.
And he was too soon aware of my thoughts, of how much I wanted for him. Needed him like a drop of water to a lost traveler in the desert.
Oh, how he knew it.
It happened for the first time on his fourteenth birthday, when ke kissed me. It was a light brush of our lips, and we didn't even close our eyes for it, but it was as if a splash of bright color had fallen on my gray world.
I wanted more.
But that was it, he knew I wanted more too. So he never did it again.
Oh, not with me.
But he would show me, the other people he met with. None of which were worthy of him, none of them knew him the way I did.
It became a sort of punishment for me, to see him affectionate with those faceless strangers, while I stood incapable of touching him.
Sometimes it would be just a kiss, sometimes they would do more. I couldn't stand it.
But then one day, our boundaries were broken down even further.
In the four years I had lived with him, his parents had never met with me.
Everytime they had need for their son, they called on him only.
This time was different. This time, I too was summoned.
He did not like it at all, infact, he was very against it.
It made me itch to know more, while at the same time wish I didn't have to go. But it was not a choice upon me, and so I did as I was asked to.
It was his father.
Never had I hated a man so.
He often called for his son, but I was never privy to what he needed from him.
That day I witnessed it clear as day.
My treasure had taken his shirt off, and lay down on the wooden table to the side.
There were countless scars on his back, each no longer than an inch, and several burn marks all over.
I had never seen that sight before.
His father pulled out a drawer, very close to where I stood. And inside were a set of knives, each sharper than the next.
He picked and choosed for a while, taking his time as he leisurely walked around the study
Then he pulled one out, and got to work.
At that moment, I did not understand why he wished for me to be there, or why he was showing me all this, but it was a matter to be comprehended later perhaps.
I stood there for more than an hour, hearing the muffled cries of my master. He must have been unbearably pained, with every new cut added to his body. Or the butt of a cigarette falling on his skin.
He was incapable of walking after the ordeal, so I carried him out in my arms.
For the first time, this person who was my entire world, felt so weak and frail to me.
Already, he was shorter than I. Different from when we first met. And I could cover his entire body with mine without a problem.
But I failed to protect him like a good dog would, I was powerless in his misery.
He didn't blame me, and said that he understood. That it would be fine.
And although that day was full of pain for him, it makes me float in happiness when I recall it. For the first time, I was allowed inside his bedroom.
He said I was worthy.
Worthy, I was.
I was the first, and the last.
He allowed me to tend to his wounds, allowed me to touch him, and kiss him again. And when he was no longer in pain anymore, he allowed me to light a cigarette for him.
There were now fewer barriers between us. I was the one closest to him, his most faithful.
It was to the point that he could confide his secrets in me, sometimes.
He told me, of his siblings, three of them, all dead. Dead in the line of work their parents led them on. And he believed that would be his fate too.
At sixteen, we were no longer being taught by the tutors as we were used to.
And at sixteen, he began his work.
Drugs, gambling, money lending at atrocious interests, murder. Everything henious and illegal, they did it all.
And they wanted my treasure to do it too.
So I did it in his place.
I now knew, the reason why he wanted me to be was taught the same as he was, fed the same, rest the same.
I was not his dog, not anymore.
He had all the authority, I did all the work. It was the perfect arrangement.
Because it finally made us equals, generously speaking. In truth, I had control over him then.
He had no choice but to depend on me, for if I refused to do his bidding, he would die, undoubtedly.
I would kiss him whenever I liked, touch him however I pleased, and even at times he would have otherwise refused, he had to comply.
And the day he turned eighteen, I asked him to give himself to me.
Already, he was mine. Had been for a long time.
But he needed to understand that fact as well.
My treasure refused.
That was the way he was. Even when he knew, I was no longer subordinate to him, he never once behaved in a way that made him seem my equal.
Perhaps because he was always above me. Always.
I wanted to drag him back to hell with me, never to leave, and he didn't want the same.
There was never a choice, however.
So on the eighteenth, I took him for myself.
Then soon enough, everything, from what he ate to what he wore was in my hands.
And his father, he didn't care one bit. The only thing that mattered to the man was his empire of crime. And he didn't care whether the one leading it was his son, or his son's dog.
He was quite happy with the way things happened.
Infact, one might even say he gave his son away to me. Uncaring of what I did to him.
But really, could I ever hurt my darling?
Ofcourse not.
As long as he only looked at me.
Thought of me.
Loved me.
Cared for me.
How could I?
I made him my lover, just then, on the eighteenth.
He was dissatisfied, quite a bit. But eventually, he understood that I was the only one for him. Now, and forever.
It made him accept me.
Or so I thought.
One day, the mansion was on fire, burning everything it touched. And there they were, the police right outside.
And my treasure, my treasure was gone. He ran away from me.
He ran.
From me.
For years.
And I couldn't find him, it drove me insane.
My sweet and helpless darling, how could he survive without me to care for him?
Oh.
But he did. For three whole years.
He owned a small bakery in a no-name town, lived right upstairs, and had enough for a simple life.
One would even say he was happy now.
But ofcourse he wasn't, not without me.
When I found him, he begged me not to take him.
He had never done that before, begging for it.
He said it would ruin his happiness, that he had worked desperately for it.
But he didn't understand, living like this was not for him.
I knew him, knew just how depraved he was. How cruel.
So I would be the one to make him happy.
I wiped away his tears, and held him close to me.
And I told him, he would never leave again.
He was home, mine.
The bakery was given away to someone, and my treasure was back where he belonged. In the palm of my hands, where I could cherish him.
Our old home was burnt quite badly, but I had it fixed.
Yes, I fixed everything.
Right in that room, where he used to live, I took him once again.
Over and over, I made him mine.
He was mine.
And I was his.
Whether he wanted it or not.
And it wasn't long before he accepted it, he had to.
He didn't resist anymore, and he didn't fight with me.
He just lay in bed all day, not even speaking.
Why won't you look at me? I asked him countless times, daily.
But he wouldn't open his eyes, hadn't done it in days for me.
He won't eat, or even move.
Not even when I promised to give him his bakery back.
I think he is sick now.
His body is cold, and no matter how much I cover him with blankets, he never seems to warm up.
Are you upset with me again?
Don't you love me?
Why won't you love me?
But it's okay, I love you enough for both of us.
Then why won't you talk to me?
Please, notice me.
I have always noticed you.
That boy.
I'd always noticed him.