My colleague Claire and I are on a special shift today, playing the part of two immaculate nurses. Ours is not a practice of healing, but one of ownership and play. Observe our crisp, white uniforms, the gloves snapped firmly over our wrists, the veneer of sterile professionalism—all a prelude to the delicious cruelty beneath. Our patient lies before us, fragile and yielding. His diagnosis is irrelevant; our prescribed treatment is absolute: the systematic dismantling of his pride. Allowing him air is our first concession. The initial dose of medicine? A sharp, wet spit across his face. Savour that, slave. Your revulsion and thrill are both plain to us, and your struggles only sweeten our enjoyment. We proceed to the bandages—tape, plastic, cord—winding him into a tight, helpless package, a specimen prepared for our discretion. He is not a man now, but an object in our laboratory. We lock onto his glassy eyes as we mock him, this will-less creature reduced to a test subject for our whims. Every command is a calculated strike. Every laugh, a surgical incision into his spirit. We press our soles against his face, force his jaw wide, and degrade him with titles befitting his state: nothing, failure, fraud. Our therapy is contempt; our anesthetic, pure humiliation. Recovery? An impossibility. After such intensive care, only dependency remains. He understands this already. He will return, pleading for us to don these uniforms once more, to snap on the gloves again, and to treat him as the willing refuse he has become. For what is more intoxicating to a slave than being the permanent property of his merciless nurses?
