My fingers dig into my thigh at the lie. The tips of my fingernails leave tiny red indents on my skin. I don’t tell her I’ve been putting off the increased dosage for the last week because I hate being dependent on the pills. I know they help. I know I need them, but I hate it all the same.
Dr. Thurston gives me a weighted stare, assessing my clipped answer before jotting something down on her notepad. “Well, if you do notice anything, let me know, and we’ll adjust as needed.”
Suppressing a groan, I avoid my own box’s reflection as much as possible. I know what she sees. My long hair looking tangled, greasy, and in desperate need of a shower. The prominent bags under my eyes and the haunted expression etched on my face.
Sometimes, I fucking hate myself and wish I could jump into the body of someone with less trauma. Less anxiety. Less damaged. Maybe then I wouldn’t need these sessions and pills and exercises. I could just exist.
“Is there anything else you’d like to tell me before we end? We have about five minutes left.”
I could tell her what today is and why I’m more fucked up than normal. I could tell her of the nightmares that still plague me. The way I see a bloody footprint being washed away by the river. The way I constantly look up the case to see if anything new has surfaced. How I can’t remember exactly what happened that night and how I worry that Sarah’s disappearance could be my fault, just like everyone back home accuses me of. But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I shake my head, eyebrows raised, as if that will keep Dr. Thurston appeased.
I try not to wiggle under her weighted stare. Those deep brown eyes and wrinkled forehead that assess my every movement.
A tiny puff of air escapes my lips the moment she backs off.
“Until next week, then,” she says, then exits the meeting, leaving me blissfully alone once again.
Blankly, I stare at the absence of her box as my shoulders relax. Clicking to exit the empty virtual room, I’m greeted by a serene ocean view that serves as my screensaver. Peaceful. Tranquil. Unbothered calm waves in a vast expanse of nothingness. The complete opposite of how I feel inside. I’m a hurricane. A fucking maelstrom of broken emotions and endless cycles of torment.
It’s amazing that, with all the years of therapy, countless meditation exercises, the many pill alterations, it still feels like I’m clawing my way to feel a sliver of normalcy.
Functional- but barely, a term that has shackled itself to me. I’m functional enough to earn a paycheck. To pay my bills. To change my underwear every day. Not broken enough to be locked up, but not able to hold down a steady relationship.
In my line of work, it’s hard to find someone who won’t go batshit jealous anyway. I’ve made peace with the longest romantic relationship in my life being my toys. The only time they let me down is when I forget to charge them.
Being a cam girl does have its perks, though. Like how it feels to pretend I’m someone new. Someone not weighed down by the sum of my life’s experience. It’s as if I get to step into the skin of a fresh personality. I become this version of what my online persona has morphed into. A fantasy, pure and simple, but one that I indulge in just as much as my subscribers.
I used to be afraid someone might recognize me, but people are far too busy, far too self-involved to remember my mostly covered face. They only want what I can give them. A good time. An escape from their everyday lives. Besides, the subscribers love seeing my face when I come, throwing money into my account, keeping me afloat in this capitalist hellscape. I trust my makeup, masks, and wigs have been doing a good enough job at hiding my true identity.
Fuck it. I go to my bathroom cabinet and grab the medication Dr. Thurston prescribed me and toss the doubled dose back. I angle my head under the chrome faucet and spray just enough in my mouth to swallow the pills. Squeezing my eyes tight, I let it into my body before returning to my vanity I have set up in my room. The plush seat welcomes me, offering me a moment of comfort as I complete the ritual of getting ready.
After grabbing the concealer, I dab on a thick layer of makeup to disguise the deep purple circles that cling below my eyes and swipe across the few blemishes dotting my chin. My pink wig sits crooked on a faceless mannequin head. It looks as if it watches me. Questioning my every move.Same, girl,I think, speaking to the inanimate object. I wish I had the answers, but I have no fucking idea what I’m doing other than trying my best to exist.
I grab the curly pink wig, then tug it into place. Snapping the pins into my low, greasy bun, I let the long locks travel over my sharp collar bone. Staring into the mirror at the fabrication I’ve created with perfectly placed makeup and fake hair, I see thewoman I could be. The woman I get to be for a few measly hours of escape. The sight of my well-crafted lie squeezes at my middle as bile rises in my throat.
My fingers clumsily knock into blushes, eyeshadows, and dusty piles of makeup I haven’t used in a few weeks until they find the bright orange container labeled Xanax. The letters stick out in bold, threatening font while the off-white label curls up at the bottom to cover the warnings. I grab it and take two instead of my normal dose, even though I shouldn’t.
A full bottle of Jäger sits in the corner, dust piled on the cap. It’s stupid, but the pull of today wins, and I reach for it. The glass feels heavy as I twist the top off and take a burning sip of the alcohol.
I want to feel numb.
No.
Ineedto feel numb.
I raise the bottle in the air. “To Sarah.” I throw the pills in my mouth and down another gulp of the liquid fire.
The pills slide easily—expertly—down my throat. Shame and a curtain of calm hit my senses as the drugs and alcohol coat my system. It takes a few moments to absorb before my movements lag, becoming sluggish, as I put the finishing touches on my face. I go to pull on my favorite black lace outfit and almost topple over. Thankfully, I catch myself and a small bubble of a laughter rises in my chest at my clumsiness.
The outfit cinches my middle perfectly, giving my already voluptuous hourglass figure even more dimension. My cleavage is on full display, spilling out of the top in a way that leaves little to the imagination. A dusting of freckles lines my body, as do faint silver scars. Self-inflicted reminders of just how deep I can sink inside my own head.
The lace mask is my finishing touch. Hiding my identity enough for me to feel comfortable, but showing enough for my audience to get a glimpse of my features.
Turning on my ring lights, I bask in their warmth, feeling a new kind of anxiety take over. The kind that makes me perform for the viewers like my rent depends on how well I do—because it does. That thought spurs me on as I get into position in front of the tumbling black background. I arch my back and turn on the camera to greet my subscribers. Tugging my lips into a tight smile, I flash my brilliant white teeth, my muscles twitching as I drag my face into this forced happiness.
Showtime.
CHAPTER 2
