Chapter 10 #3
“Then you’d better maintain your focus.” Vale settled back in the chair across from him. “Any mistake—a wrong note, a hesitation, any imprecise technique—and you start over. Keep starting over until you complete it perfectly, or until I decide you’ve learned what you need to learn.”
“I c-can’t—” Just flexing his fingers sent fire shooting up his nerves. “It’s impossible—”
“Then this will be a very long afternoon.” Vale’s voice held no sympathy. “But you chose this, sweetheart. You said you’d do anything but the basement. So do it.”
Kieran looked down at his guitar—his one safe thing, the instrument he’d played since he was twelve. His fingers hovered over the strings, trembling.
“Begin.”
He pressed down on the first note. The string bit into his burning fingertip like a blade. But his muscle memory was stronger than the pain as his fingers found their positions and began the tremolo pattern that opened the piece.
He made it through the first phrase before his ring finger slipped. It was a single, barely audible wrong note.
“Start over.”
“Vale—”
“Start. Over.”
Kieran started over. He made it further this time—maybe thirty seconds—before the burning in his fingertips made his hand spasm, ruining a run.
“Again.”
“Pl-please—”
“Again.”
The third attempt lasted almost a minute. The fourth made it halfway through the first section before pain stole his precision. The fifth attempt—
“Your tremolo is sloppy. When you start over, focus on evenness.”
Kieran’s vision blurred with tears. His fingertips felt like they were being flayed with every string press. The pain kept building, layers of agony compounding until he couldn’t think or couldn’t breathe around it.
“I c-can’t do this—”
“You can. You’re just choosing comfort over dedication.” Vale leaned forward and wiped the tears from his cheeks. “Real artists play through injury, through illness, through pain that would stop amateurs. This is what commitment looks like.”
“This isn’t c-commitment, it’s t-torture—”
Vale gestured to the guitar like he didn’t hear him. “Again. And this time, remember that every mistake means starting over. Make your pain matter.”
Kieran started again. And again. And again.
Time blurred into endless cycles of beginning the piece, burning through however many measures his disintegrating technique could manage before being forced to start over.
His fingers were leaving red streaks on the strings and fretboard—the capsaicin mixing with whatever fluid wept from his abraded fingertips, every press a fresh knife of pain.
Around the twentieth attempt, Kieran sobbed openly while trying to maintain the tremolo, tears and snot dripping down his face.
“Please—” His voice was wrecked. “Please, I’m s-sorry, I’ll go to the b-basement, I’ll be g-good, just please stop—”
“You chose this.” Vale’s voice held no mercy. “You said anything but the basement. So finish what you started.”
“I c-can’t—” Kieran’s hands were shaking so hard he couldn’t hold formation. “My f-fingers, they’re—”
“Try again.”
“Vale, please—”
“Try. Again.”
Somewhere around the thirtieth attempt—or maybe the fortieth, Kieran had lost count—his fingers simply stopped obeying. The pain had reached some threshold where his nervous system refused the commands. His hands hovered over the strings, trembling, unable to press down.
“I can’t.” The words came out flat, broken. “I physically c-can’t anymore.”
Vale lifted the guitar carefully from his lap and held out his hands, palms up. “Let me see.”
Kieran extended his hands with the last of his strength. Vale cradled them gently, examining the damage—fingertips swollen and red, strings had cut into the inflamed skin, leaving dark lines of blood from where the calluses had torn.
“There,” Vale said softly, almost tenderly. “Now you understand.”
“Understand what?“ Kieran almost wailed the words, too exhausted for anger. His world was only pain. His guitar was pain. Vale was pain. He was pain.
“That the basement is a mercy.” Vale’s thumbs brushed carefully over his ruined fingertips. “You wanted a different lesson. I gave you one. How does it compare?”
Kieran couldn’t answer. He could barely think past the throbbing agony in his hands.
“Next time,” Vale continued, “when you’re ready for your lesson, I want you to remember this feeling. Remember that in the basement, I just guide you through the experience.” He released Kieran’s hands. “That’s the difference between what I offer and what you just put yourself through.”
He left Kieran on the couch, hands cradled against his chest, understanding with devastating clarity that Vale made him torture himself. Vale had positioned the whole thing so Kieran couldn’t even blame him—you chose this, you insisted on something different, you refused my mercy.
That night, lying in bed with his hands wrapped in gauze, Kieran stared at the ceiling and understood.
The basement wasn’t the punishment.
This was the punishment.
And he’d begged for it.
The next morning, Vale cleaned and rewrapped his fingers, saying something in a soft, soothing voice Kieran didn’t process into words. He just focused on the sound of the words and pretended they were comforting.
“I brought you something.” Vale placed a notepad on Kieran’s lap. “I’m going to let your fingers rest for a few days. But you can still create.”
Kieran stared at the notebook. What was he supposed to say? Thanks for taking a few days off from torturing me?
“You’re a writer, sweetheart. You process through lyrics.” Vale’s hand came to rest on Kieran’s shoulder. “So write. Whatever you’re feeling. However you need to say it. I won’t read it unless you want me to.”
The kindness was worse than the cruelty. Kieran could understand cruelty—he could categorize it, hate it, use it to fuel his anger. But this?
What am I supposed to do with this?
“I don’t—” Kieran’s voice cracked. “I don’t know how to—”
The tears came before he could stop them. Not angry tears or desperate ones. Just... confusion. Complete, overwhelming confusion about what Vale wanted, what any of this meant, whether the gentleness after so much pain was kindness or just another form of violence.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Vale’s hand moved to cup his face, thumb brushing away tears. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”
“I’m n-not—” Kieran couldn’t get words past the sobs building in his chest. “I don’t kn-know how to f-feel—”
“You don’t have to know. That’s what the notebook is for.” Vale’s other hand came to rest at the back of his neck—that familiar pressure that made Kieran’s nervous system go quiet despite everything. “Write it out. All the confusion, all the fear, all the things you can’t say out loud. It’ll help.”
Kieran sobbed harder, body shaking with the force of it. Because Vale was right. The notebook would help. Writing songs had always been his way of processing, of making sense of chaos.
Which meant Vale was giving him exactly what he needed while simultaneously being the reason he needed it.
“I h-hate you—” The words came out broken, nonsensical, caught between sob and confession.
“I know.” Vale pulled him carefully against his chest, mindful of his damaged hands. “I know you do.”
They sat like that while Kieran cried himself empty. Vale’s hand steady at his neck, the other stroking his hair, murmuring soft reassurances that felt genuine even though they couldn’t be. Even though this same man had tortured him yesterday and would probably torture him again tomorrow.
When Kieran finally quieted, Vale helped him eat breakfast. He cut his food into pieces Kieran could manage with bandaged hands.
He held the cup so he could drink without gripping it.
He did a dozen small acts of care that felt like mockery, except they didn’t feel like mockery—they just felt careful. Attentive.
Almost loving.