The Universe's Mixer

Jack worked on the boy. Day and night. No regard to anybody's sleeping habits, not even his own. He didn't keep things on any kind of schedule, he didn't want the boy to be ready for anything. Ever. So whenever he thought of something, Jack was at Jake's door, ready to play. Ready to bring the brat pain like he'd never known in his life, and confusion that would addle his brain and destroy his reality.

But whatever Jack did, he cleaned up after. When the boy was crying, twisted in agony and sweating, ready to give in to the darkness of unconsciousness, Jack would stop. He would leave the room and return with items to help the boy recover. Cold water, food, bandages, soothing ointments. He tended to the wounds and spoke in soft tones. Called him a good boy, a strong boy. Told him that things would be okay. This was in direct contradiction to the things that he said when he was doing the great amounts of harm, those things tended to hover around Jake being hopeless, that nobody loved him, that nobody was coming for him, that he was a brat, weak, cowardly.

The juxtaposition couldn't be any more massive if a team of psychologists were standing by to give Jack aid.

Sometimes, Jack didn't feed the boy. Sometimes, he brought him fantastic meals of the sorts that little boys loved. On the days when Jake got no food, Jack didn't even bother to taunt him about it. He just left the room and didn't come back. But on the days when the feasts were given, Jack coddled the boy and petted him. Some days the boy got regular meals. Maybe only one would be skipped. Maybe days would go by before he got another.

Nothing was consistent.

It was just the way Jack liked it.