(Close your eyes. I am going to teach you what happens to boys who take things for granted. Do not cry. Do not make a sound. Do you hear me?)

In this dark, stale room, I doubt you can think coherently. When I was you, I couldn’t.

When my palm meets your cheek, you cry. When my fingers pull at your hair, you shriek. You are like a baby. You aren’t one, but you curl up, shaking, cowering, and you cry. Only babies have such ugly stains; only babies have tears so grotesque. You are like a baby.

Why do you cry? You have never realised that you are loved. You do not realise that, not even now.

My fingers close around your throat, and you shriek, gasping for breath. Are you in pain? Are you struggling to breathe, to keep yourself alive? This is nothing. I’ve had it much worse than you. So do not whine. Complaining is for babies: But you are gaining some resemblance to one. I hate babies, but I love you. Do you want me to hate you?

Don’t get me wrong, Taemin. I am just teaching you. You are loved.

There was a time you whimpered, between sharp sobs, that you were scared of me. When I raised my arm, you flinched and screamed when I hit you. These are just smacks – get used to them. Why do you fear me? Why do you resent me? Why can’t you return my love? I am teaching you, I am showing you something your naïve brain cannot conceive; cannot contain.

You do not realise that you are loved. Your bruised body is nothing to me, nothing to anyone. It should not matter anything more to you.

Look at me. You are not leaving me. I said, look at me. You don’t believe me? I love you. I always have.

You are a lucky boy, Taemin. You are loved.