“You won’t do it because you’re weak,” he whispered.

“You’ve always been weak.”

“That’s why you stayed.”

“That’s why you let me hit you.”

Each word was like a physical blow, dragging me back to the small apartment in Queens.

I remembered the smell of burnt toast, the sound of the television blasting to drown out my screams, and the cold linoleum against my cheek.

“Shut up,” I said.

“Shut up, Paul.”

“You think this little piece of iron makes you safe?” he asked.

He reached out suddenly, his hand snapping toward my wrist like a snake.

I flinched, pulling the gun back, but I didn’t squeeze the trigger.

I couldn’t.

My finger felt glued to the metal guard, paralyzed by the weight of my own fear.

He laughed, loud and sharp, the sound bouncing off the brick walls of the tunnel.

“See?” he said.

“Nothing.”

“You’re nothing without me to tell you what to do.”

He grabbed my left wrist, his grip like a vice.

His fingers dug deep into my flesh, finding the old scars from where he had bound me before.