An afternoon in the wine bottle, so quiet you can hear each other's heartbeats. Aya is in the corner again, scratching her thigh with her nails, leaving red marks. She bites her lip without a sound, but her eyes are frighteningly bright. I know what she's thinking—she's waiting for our master to pull us out of this damned elegant cage, waiting for those large hands to grip our necks, waiting for the sharp crack of the belt against our flesh.

Sometimes I envy creatures that can die normally. Our cycle is too... complete. Broken, bleeding, dissolving, reforming in the wine. Every shattering is remembered clearly: last time, the crunch of ribs being stomped; the time before, the searing pain of candle wax dripping on the nipple. Aya says we're like parchment being erased and rewritten over and over, but parchment doesn't get soaked from anticipation.

Today, I especially want something different. I want our master to command us to stay miniature, then stuff us into his fist, squeezing until our bones emit faint cries of sorrow. Or make us swell to human size, but scatter shards of the wine bottle on the bed, forcing us to kneel and lick his boots. Say it, say we're filthy beasts only fit to live among broken glass.

The bottle wall reflects our images. Two 25-centimeter, thirsty, never-quite-dead troubles.