Page 80 of Outspoken

My accounts are maxed out, and my credit is so low that I should be legally declared unfit to manage finances.

While my mind is heavy—like it usually is—with the huge gaps in age and financial capabilities between me and other students, a memory hits like a semi-truck. Mr. Williams has a tattoo of that same ink painting on his wrist, but I’ve also seen it somewhere else. I whip out my phone, load a familiar site, and log in.

I haven't been on this cam site in months, but my old inbox messages are still there. I scroll through, studying the user pictures—mostly from my top clients. The ink painting from Mr. Williams’ office flashes in the list, so I click on the user profile and zoom in on the pic as much as possible. This might be a simple coincidence. The painting might be something famous that I saw in Art History and then spaced. Or could be a meme. Either way, it doesn't mean this user profile belongs to Mr. Williams. That’s too crazy.

Zoomed in, the user picture is blurry, but I see the edges of other pictures around the ink symbol. A sickening ache fills me—it looks like he snapped a photo of his office wall and uploaded it. And the profile's username is OxfordComma34. Mr. Williams talks about that fucking comma usage in almost every lecture.

Tightening my grip on my phone, I review his messages, our past interactions all bubbling to the surface. For about a year, he was a top client, paying for a ton of long private shows several days a week. I loved his generous tips, but his requests kept getting more demanding. He wanted me to stick things in my vagina and then my ass that I wasn't comfortable with—remotes, ice pops, toothbrushes. I would always decline and act sweet until he agreed to watch me use my normal toys.

One night, I was too drunk and lost my temper. I was tired of him pressuring me when I had already told him 'no’ so many times. I can’t remember exactly what I said—only lots of swearing—but he stopped messaging after that.

My body is drained and heavy, so I find a bench under a shady tree to collapse on. I'm not sure whether to laugh or break down. This basically guarantees I'll fail this semester—the jerk wants payback. I could blackmail him, but for what? He's a guy who likes watching cam girls stick remotes up their hoo-hahs. That's not illegal. And I wasn't his student when he paid for my private shows.

I could report him for grading me unfairly, but with what proof? A blurry user pic? He could simply delete his account, claim that I'm turning in poor work, and then sayI’mthe one with the grudge.

I laugh, full-on hysterical laughing in public. A few nearby students give me weird looks, but I don’t care. I’ve officially lost it. Am I being pranked? How is this my life? Considering that the cam site is nationwide, what are the chances that I ended up with him as my teacher, or that we even live in the same fucking city?

Or that, no matter how hard I fight, my past mistakes will always haunt me, destroying every step forward?

There’s no escape. No hope. No future for me. I’m stuck in a room, inside a room, inside a room. I will always bethatAmber—the one from all the stories. The woman that others should pity and babysit, especially once a year on the anniversary of when she killed that guy. Remember that? I always will, no matter how many hours of therapy are shoved down my throat.

Drugs were the only things that ever made me forget. But I gave those up. Why?

Why?

My laughter turns into sobs, getting even more looks from strangers. I still don't care—I ugly cry.

Paige doesn’t need me anymore. She has Brody and they’re both so happy together. All I ever do is drag them down by making them worry about my stability.

School is out the window, and even if I wasn’t failing, my heart isn’t in this. I don’t know what job I want or what I could even tolerate. Nothing much makes me happy anymore—there’s no meaning.

I kind of like writing, but what is that good for? My poems are dumb. My brain is dumb. Word-vomiting in journals only gives me a few moments of distraction—I can't do anything with those ramblings.

And the man I thought I was developing feelings for doesn’t see the real me. He sees a woman to rescue—a woman he chases out of pity because she’s so lost and pathetic. But it’s more than that. He’s so desperate for a relationship that he tries to force himself into one—he confesses feelings too soon and plays games.

How can I possibly believe he loves me when he’s confessed his devotion to so many women he barely knew? When he’s proposed to two women yet can’t even tell me what he loved about them?

Why is life this hard?Constantly. Life isconstantlyan uphill battle, and I’ve never glimpsed the top. It doesn’t exist. Clouds give the illusion that it does, but nothing is up there—only an endless climb trying to escape the darkness that creeps closer every day.

I lower my gaze, looking down into the void as it curls around my ankles, gripping me with icy tendrils.You win.You always fucking win.

PAIGE IS MISTY-EYED AS we stand together on Brody’s porch a week later. It’s a blindingly bright day in late March, so we’re both squinting at each other while Brody loads luggage into his car. Paige tries to blink away her tears, chewing her bottom lip before finally opening her arms for a hug. I walk into her arms, wrapping my arms loosely around her back.

She squeezes me before I step away.

“Are you nervous?” I ask, trying to force energy into my voice.

I’m too drained. I’ve felt this way all week, even though I haven't done much—turning down jobs and skipping classes. To make my schedule look normal, I often drive to a park and take naps in my car. Jackie, Brody, and Paige would all ask too many questions if I stayed at home in my PJs like I want to.

Brody closes the trunk, adjusting his black shirt, and then climbs the porch steps to stand next to us. He raises his arms for a hug, so I give him one like I did Paige. When I try to make it quick, he refuses to release me, suffocating me under his massive biceps. He smells sweaty.Gross.

“Tell me you need us to stay and we will,” he says.

My words are muffled in his shoulder. “Thanks, but I'm fine. I've got Jackie and Frank. I'm fine.”

He releases me, brushing a long strand of hair from his perspiring forehead. “You need to tell us if we should stay.”

Paige nods in agreement as she bounces on her toes. She’s in a purple flowery dress today, looking completely ready for their trip.

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