Page 16 of Wicked Scorn
Knight99 insists, his messages now tinged with desperation. I glance at them briefly before dismissing them once more. It’s crucial to maintain control, not just for my sake, but for the entire audience. They deserve my full attention.
“Alright, loves,” I announce, sensing the hour slipping away. “One last question before we wrap up. Make it good.”
Are you happy
Comes a sudden, simple query. It hangs in the air, heavier than the rest.
“Am I happy?” I repeat, caught off guard. “Happiness is...complicated. But in this moment, with all of you, I find joy. And sometimes, that’s enough.”
As the hour draws to a close, I feel a twinge of reluctance. Despite the thrill, a part of me longs for something real, something beyond the virtual veil that I’ve created. I want to feel this comfortable when I’m walking across campus, while I’m at work in the library, when a random man looks at me. I don’t want to question if he’ll be another man to hurt me. But tonight, this will have to suffice.
“Time’s up, loves,” I say, my voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “Until next time.”
With a final wave, I log out; the screen going dark. The room feels different now—emptier, quieter. I remove the mask, placing it back on the desk with a sense of finality.
“Another night, another show,” I murmur, reaching for my journal. The pen feels heavy in my hand as I begin to write, the words flowing out in a torrent of conflicting emotions. Empowerment, doubt, fear—they all blend together, forming a tangled web that mirrors my state of mind.
Is this really what I want?
I write down, but the answer remains elusive, hidden beneath layers of uncertainty and longing. For now, all I can do is keep searching, hoping to find clarity in the chaos. My mind drifts back to Jeremiah Blackwood. I might have felt in control during my cam show tonight, but the only place I’ve ever felt safe is with him. That’s for another day and another therapy session to figure out, I guess.
The pen scratches against the paper, each stroke arelease of pent-up frustration. The black ink bleeds into the fibers, creating words that feel heavy with meaning and doubt.
Why does this feel so wrong?
I write, biting my lip as the question hangs in the air. The room is silent except for the soft hum of the mini-fridge and the distant murmur of campus life filtering through the walls.
Growth is uncomfortable, Oakley. My therapist’s voice rings in my ear, her tone calm and measured.You owe it to yourself to embrace uncertainty.The problem is that I’m uncertain about almost everything at this point and nothing I do seems to swing things back to the way they were before. I always had trouble sleeping, but Jeremiah was there to soothe that ache. Since he’s been gone, nothing has felt right and now, he’s back in my life and I want nothing more for him to leave me alone.
Bitterly, I realize how contradictory that sounds. I’m so twisted up in my head over the night he left me and never looked back even more than the night I was attacked.
This isn’t even about him and yet he invades every aspect of my life just like he has been doing for years. I wish I could erase him from my mind, my life, my everything.
I’m doing this for me, right?
Or am I just chasing validation? I can’t ignore the nagging thought that maybe, just maybe, I’m seeking approval from faceless strangers. Each comment, each tip—it fills a void, but it’s temporary. Fleeting.
I toss my journal to the side because I’m not getting anywhere with this whole exercise and pick up my phone. There are seventeen messages from Jeremiah Blackwood, and I hate the fact that his number is still stored in my phone asPretty Boyinstead of just his name.
Pretty Boy
You can’t ignore me forever bunny.
I know every move you make. I know everywhere you go. Everyone you talk to. Every thought you think is mine. You’re back in my crosshairs now, Oakley.
I roll my eyes and refrain from texting him back that if he knew I was chatting with strangers online tonight, he’d already be over here kicking my door in. Well, the old Jeremiah would. I don’t know what this version of him would do, and I choose to keep ignoring him. After two years of silence, I’d say he deserves it.
Pretty Boy
Answer me.
You can’t keep your secrets forever.
Oh, but I can, pretty boy.
Chapter 6
Jeremiah
