There’s a few especially nasty scenarios I tend to come back to, but maybe the darkest is of being gaslit into thinking I’m safe. Broken in as a slave, tortured so thoroughly that life beyond my master’s grasp is unimaginable. Starting to feel positively towards him… to embrace his touch, to crave his praise, and eventually, slowly, after days or weeks or months, becoming confident that I’m his favourite. To be the most obedient and passionate of his playthings. He would tell me as much. I’m a good girl.
Then one day he decides I’m boring, and kills me in one of any number of horrible ways. And as I’m sliding down his throat or feeling the pressure of my ribs being crushed in underfoot, I’m dismayed - inconsolable - because I don’t even know what I did to deserve it. I was a good girl. Master would never hurt me without reason. …but it isn’t a punishment. He’s not getting rid of me because I failed him - on the contrary, I was entirely perfect. He just thought it’d be fun to hear my final screams. And he’ll have a new favourite toy soon enough.
