The Friction of the Bone
They asked me to polish the edges, to sand down the cruel burrs of the metal so it would rest gently against the skin. I refused. To smooth the metal is to flatter the flesh, to apologize for the weight of the object. I do not apologize.
I designed the curvature to mimic a shattered spine, violently hammered and extracted from a prehistoric beast. The surface is deliberately jagged, pitted, and uneven. Every contact it makes with the skin is not a caress, but a hostile, physical scraping.
I want the wearer to feel the sting of obedience with every rotation of the joint. Comfort lulls the mind into a pathetic complacency. This relentless, grinding friction is the stimulant of the abyss. It permanently engraves the decree of submission onto the flesh, ensuring they never forget who they belong to.