Your lips quiver as you bring the fork to your mouth. The food shakes, and the fork shakes, and your hand shakes. A tear runs down your pale cheek. I reach out my hand, a tissue held loosely between my fingers, but you shirk away, dropping the fork. You squirm, but your body is constricted, your legs tied to the chair.
'Take it', I tell you. 'Wipe off your face, you look ridiculous', but instead of taking it and thanking me, you spit on me, spit on my face. I slam my hands down on the table. My fingers wrap around its ends and shake it violently. You scream, but I scream louder, wilder, madder. I throw the table across the room, jumping to my feet.
'Fuck you bitch! You will respect me. You will love me. I'll make you love me.' You scream, but no one can hear you. Your incessant screaming starts to give me a headache, so I tape your mouth shut.
'How do you like that?' I ask. I drag you across the room by your hair, still leaving you tied to the chair. You moan, your cries muffled. I throw you in your box and close the lid. Maybe a few hours alone, in the dark, in the silence of your own existence will make you love me. And if not, maybe a little persuasion will be needed. But rest assure, by the end of the week, you will love me.