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every part of me hurts. He’s hit me probably a hundred times, all together, and all I want is for it to end.
    “You may apologize to Mr. Torenze.”
    I lurch forward, eyes blurry with tears, and drop to my knees. I don’t want to apologize to this bastard. I want to scream at him for making my life miserable. I want to see him destroyed for taking pleasure in my misery. I want his business to fail, his family to die, his health to suffer, because he has just facilitated my destruction.
    “I’m so sorry, sir,” I force out. “I… I was rude, and disrespectful, and I shouldn’t have spoken out of turn.” I don’t mean any of it. I’m too busy hating him, because I still can’t bring myself to hate my master, and if I let myself take responsibility for my actions tonight, I’ll curl into a ball and Cashiel will have to drag me out of here. “I apologize, sir,” I repeat, meaning it no less this time.
    Torenze frowns down at me, and I wonder for a moment if he might kick me. I wonder for a moment if my master might let him.
    “Cashiel, is that the best he can do?” he sneers. “I’ve seen the new slaves at the re-education centers do better than this, maybe he could use a few more lashes?”
    I panic, dropping lower to the ground and reconsidering my motivations. I can humble myself in front of him if only for self-preservation. “Please, sir, I really am sorry, I just didn’t want to impose, didn’t want you to have to waste time on me! I didn’t understand, sir, how offensive my words were, and how much they were inappropriate, and now that I’ve been punished, I get it, I do, I promise! Please, please, sir, excuse my master, and don’t let this cloud your judgment of him, and know that I really am remorseful, please sir, I swear!”
    I hope I sound sincere now, because I am, in that false way that terror and pain can make you believe anything you say. Or anything someone else says.
    “He’s not too used to having to speak after being punished,” my master says. “I don’t want to hear it. Tell him what usually happens after you’re beaten, Sascha.”
    I glance up at him, wondering why and how he can be so cruel as to make me say this. He provided an excuse, and if Torenze doesn’t buy it, I’d rather have the extra lashes that he suggested. But my master’s face is rigid and he looks away from me, refusing to meet my eyes. I don’t understand; he’s never hesitated to take charge and glare at me before. I feel like he’s abandoning me, my only anchor casting me aside so callously. I turn my gaze back to Torenze, sickened by his smile.
    “My master usually gags me, sir,” I tell him. I can feel my face flushing with shame, like I’m a naughty child. The corners of Torenze’s mouth curl up into a smile, a perverse look of satisfaction that makes me thankful for the tears that are blurring my vision. I just want this to be over.
    “Continue,” my master orders, the word as tight and clipped as possible.
    “I wear the gag all day, sir, and sometimes the following day, so I can remember to hold my tongue.” I don’t like thinking about the gag, and I don’t want to experience it again. Even more, I don’t want to talk about it. I wish he’d just do it, so this could all stop, so I wouldn’t have to be complicit in my own torture anymore.
    “I’d wash your mouth out with soap,” Torenze replies, almost a challenge.
    “That is highly impractical and not nearly as effective,” my master comments, sounding irritated at the suggestion. “It’s hard on him not to be able to speak.”
    “What should we gag him with?” Torenze asks, too eager. He looks around the room, and I can just hear his evil mind thinking of all the things he could shove in my mouth; all the things he could use to keep it there.
    “I will not walk around with a gagged slave,” my master replies, haughty and dismissive. “I trust that he will not speak another word at this event, and he will be promptly