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I eyed two girls in the corner. They stood out in the bar. Wearing fashionable headbands, shirts with sayings like “I woke up like this” and “Call Me Never”, and leggings, they truly seemed out of place. They didn’t appear to mind, though, as they were busy on their phones, probably posting a selfie or some shit.
I didn’t do social media. After seeing hundreds of memes made about yourself, it gets old. Slut shaming is alive and well, and I was the slut shamed humorously on all the major social media websites.
Honestly, that’s wasn’t the main reason I left social media. Yeah, it was traumatic and terrible seeing my name and face plastered carelessly for a joke, as if I wasn’t a person but just a thing to laugh at, to get likes and votes. It was…eye opening, to say the least.
I could handle that, though. I understood it. People didn’t view me as a person. They weren’t making fun of me, they were making fun of the joke. I moved on. What I couldn’t handle any more was the small and supposedly uplifting shit people posted on their walls.
One thing particularly stood out to me. It was a quote done up in a pretty font with a pastel background. You know the type. It read, “Your naked body should only belong to those who fall in love with your naked soul.” At first glance, it’s a beautiful and pithy saying that makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside. A bunch of people liked it and all they had to say was “beautiful” or “Love this.”
The person who had posted it said she only hoped to teach her daughter that one thing.
At first I shrugged at it then moved on.
But it gnawed at me.
And kept gnawing.
Really, that’s all you want to teach your daughter? All you want to teach your daughter is that her body is sacred? That she absolutely cannot fail at finding someone to honor her body?
It kept festering inside me. I knew I should just unfollow the chick. She was like everyone else, not realizing how even the simplest of words can shape a person or even an entire generation. I used to think like that. I used to like those photos. And then my naked body was taken by someone who had no intention of loving anything about my soul. He didn’t even love my body.
And I was the one who felt bad. That was the messed up part of the whole scenario. I was the one made to feel bad. He did the wrongdoing but I felt bad because my body was ruined.
So naturally I blew up on Facebook. I wrote a long, thought-out argument against slut shaming and how we view women in society and how it needs to change. Her response? “I just liked the words, chill out.”
I deleted my account that day.
Taking another swig of whiskey, I focused on the scars in the wood. Little scratches covered the table I sat at. Some were intentional, with etchings that said shit like “Linda and Joey forever,” but others weren’t. Other scars had just happened, marring the wood for life.
I took another swig.
“There you are.” I didn’t stop to think how Law had found me because he seemed to have some GPS that pinpointed my exact location. I merely took the final sip of my drink and turned to face him. He looked exactly as I’d left him. Handsome. Beautiful. Absolutely perfect. Internally I screamed.
“Why did you leave?” he asked. Concern etched his features, but also something else. Was it understanding? No, it couldn’t be. There was no way he could understand.
I couldn’t tell him that our kiss reminded me of him. That I felt sick to my stomach and didn’t want to admit it. That I felt horrible that he had ruined such a beautiful thing. That I felt horrible that I had let him ruin such a beautiful thing. That it was easier to run away than confront any of it.
I shrugged and stood up.
“Nami!” Law grabbed my arm as I made my exit from the bar.
“What?” I snapped, turning to face him. Why couldn’t he realize I was utterly damaged? I was broken beyond repair. His warm hazel gaze, like melting caramel, needed to fixate on somebody else. Someone who could appreciate it.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” he replied. I shrugged him off, pushing the bar doors wide open. Oh I was going to do something stupid. I was going to do something really stupid.
Back to where it all began: the campaign office. Banners hung on the walls that said “Morris: More to Hope For” in red, white, and blue. Cardboard boxes filled with buttons and pens to giveaway were stacked haphazardly. Fingering the cool plastic surfaces of the buttons, I remembered my first day like it was yesterday.
“This will be your cubicle. You share it with two other interns,” some no-name staff coordinator had said, pointing to a depressing looking box. At the time it could have been Oz’s Royal Palace, I was that enamored. The coordinator went over sexual harassment (HA!) and a few other rudimentary things before giving me my task. I was to stamp and mail flyers to campaign suppor
ters.
The day flew by quickly. I felt like a member of the team. Becca Riley, Morris’s campaign manager and resident rattlesnake, stopped by the desk to wish me luck on my first day. I nearly fainted. Then, as if the day couldn’t get any better for naive me, Morris himself walked in.
Mitch Morris was an icon. With perfectly maintained dyed blond hair, blue eyes, and an Abercrombie jaw, he was the epitome of the all-American boy. When I thought back on the time, I was sickened by myself. Sickened, because I knew if he’d just asked me to sleep with him, I would have said yes. Instead he’d decided to force it.
Over the months, I’d felt myself change. I used to be so hopeful and naive. I thought the world could be a better place. I thought we were all working toward the same goal: a better tomorrow. I was an idiot, I guess. Now, I’m was still working toward that goal, but I now know you can’t fight evil with good, you have to fight evil with evil.
I walked along the empty cubicles and desks, the dark night illuminating the surfaces in gray. The lonesome office was such a stark contrast to the day. During the daylight hours the office was a mess of phone calls, yelling, and paper shuffling. Everyone had a job to do; most had multiple jobs to do. It felt like I was walking through a ghost town.
