Too many people look at me when I leave the house and assume I’m completely fine. Able bodied. Sound of mind, because I smile at them. I carry on a conversation and can crack jokes. If I’m smiling, I must be fine. Even my own mother is guilty of it. She never understands the depth of trauma and how it sicks its talons into you, hiding in the places no one can see.
I think that’s what ultimately lead to me slicing into my own skin when I was younger. Making the trauma I felt on the inside, visible on the outside.
But how can I blame them since I’m the one putting on my mask for the world. Not wanting them to truly see how messed up I am. Not wanting to explain. Not wanting the pity. Or worse, having it be deemed an excuse.
That last one always boils my blood.
As if I chose to have things turn out this way.
Agoraphobia isn’t a choice. It found me. It wrapped around my body like a snake cutting off my oxygen until it looked me dead in the eyes and claimed me as its own. It’s a constant reminder of what I’ve survived. My body’s own personal warning system going off like an oversensitive car alarm if someone gets too close.
Fuck.
I shake off my spiraling thoughts. I don’t have time to be dealing with an episode tonight. Maybe just a swig or two of alcohol to keep the demons at bay. I decide to go for it, calming my nerves even more, before opening my drawer of toys. Only… it’s empty. Not one vibrator. Not a dildo to be found.
What the fuck?
I blink slowly, feeling the effects of the pills and alcohol mixing.
Am I hallucinating?
Patting my hand down into the drawer, I feel around wondering if I’m just dreaming the whole thing up. But no. Nothing. It’s truly empty.
Goosebumps erupt along my skin. So, someone reallywasin my house earlier. I run to check all the doors and windows, finding one in the front loose. Frowning, I wiggle it into place with a snap. Hmm. I look around for something to alert me to an intruder that I can use. Remembering my mother’s Christmas present from last year, I grab it out of the closet and wrap the tiny bells around the latch.
If someone tries to open it again, the bells will ring, giving me enough time to protect myself.
I grab a knife from the kitchen and go to my set up, placing it within reach but out of the camera’s shot.
Just in case.
Shaking, I manage to buy myself more toys. I’ll need them for future live broadcasts.
The bills, unfortunately, don’t pay themselves. I get myself ready, applying my makeup just the right way. Wig in place, clothes just seductive enough while I press record.
Going through the motions I rely heavily on this mask I’ve perfected. Hoping it’s enough to get me through. Enough to trick my subscribers into thinking I’m having the time of my life here. I don’t even come this time, too caught up in my brain and the endless barrage of worries that consume every available corner in my brain.
Is this stalker watching now? How I play with my body?
A chill erupts over my skin, and I can’t tell if the thought scares me or thrills me.
If this fucker wants a show, I’ll give them a goddamn show. I’ll pretend I’m unaffected by their little mind games. Even though I want nothing more than to curl up in my bedand pretend that my life isn’t like this. Escaping to a fictional dreamland my brain makes up in the comfort of my room.
I play with my nipples and my clit, making all the right noises and faces. The bottom of my screen alerts me that my performance is beyond acceptable. Meeting my goal within minutes. Quirking a smile and winking for the camera as I pretend to shatter. The money icon triples, and a sense of relief fills me. That’s one hospital bill down.
Logging off, I run my fingers over the raised skin on my arms. A reminder of what I have to pay off. Scars of my past embedded into the very fabric of my being.
Grabbing the knife, I eye its sharp tip, remembering how it felt to slice apart my own skin. How sickly euphoric and blissful I’d been at the thought of ending my suffering. The pull of that thought lingers. Almost like a whisper. A promise to ease my endless plight. Pressing my thumb into the tip, I watch as a small bead of blood wells up, then drips onto my thigh. Splattering the hurt into something visible.
So much of the hurt goes unseen. Locked up tight in my head. But this? This bead of blood? These scars down my arms? A tangible reminder of the pain I carry.
I won’t let it win, though. I’ve come too far and fought too hard. I deserve a better life. I deserve to keep the promise I made to myself that I wouldn’t let what those fuckers at Kingston Prep did get the best of me. I deserve to watch them rot and for me to live a life I’ve always dreamt of. One free of the fear they instilled in me. I stalk into my bedroom and lock the door, placing the knife beside my bed.
If this stalker wants to come back, I’ll fight. They don’t know what I’m capable of, but I do.
CHAPTER 7
THE MISFIT
