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I had started reading and commenting on rape recovery forums, but even those weren’t helping. The biggest problem I had was that I didn’t know who I was. I felt like an amorphous blob of feelings and ambitions with only one connector: Mitch Morris. I missed the days when I did and felt things for me and me only. Despite knowing this and wanting this, it didn’t change anything. I could scream that I wanted to be me again until I was blue in the face, but I still felt and did things for Mitch Morris.
I set the paper bag down next to me and stared at the black screen of my TV. Raskol immediately forgot the task of sitting on my head, deciding instead to investigate whatever was inside the paper bag. Feeling no desire to ruin another of my favorite TV shows, I reached for my laptop. As I began to input a name into the search bar, the computer automatically filled in another website for me. I froze. The last time I’d gone to that website had been while working for Morris. Memories drowned me faster than a flash flood.
I glanced at the clock: it was well past ten at night. Everyone had gone home but I had stayed to finish mailing flyers. As I sat in the small cubicle, I stared at my blank computer screen. No one was around; it was just me in the office. I’d been doing some reading and I was so curious. What could it hurt to go to the website?
I’d always been curious about kink. The thought of being tied down turned me on. I used to tie my Barbies up when I was little. I never could find a partner who was into that, or at least a partner that was actually as into it as me, not just for a onetime thing to do on Valentine’s Day.
I input the website and signed up for an account. It was overwhelming at first. There was so much I didn’t know. I had thought I knew everything, but I was way out of my league. That didn’t scare me though—in fact it did the opposite. I was so excited. There were people openly talking about their kinks. There was no judgment. There were even people posting nude pictures.
I opened up a picture of a woman tied up and suspended from the ceiling. The caption read “for Sir”.
“Interesting.” I jumped at the voice, closed the website, and turned around to see Senator Morris looking over my shoulder. He had a peculiar expression on his face. Later, I would come to recognize that expression as guile.
“I was just…” I trailed off, not sure how to explain myself. Morris only chuckled and walked off. I was so embarrassed that he’d seen me looking at the website. So embarrassed that I’d been looking up my fetish at his office. I didn’t realize that I needed to be wary, that I needed to be watchful. Morris had seen something that made him think I was asking for it.
I stared at the website name, ready to open with a single click. I hated that Morris had taken that part of me. He had taken it before I even got to explore. Instead of feeling excitement, I felt dread. I was about to give up and close my laptop, when the website loaded on its own. I must have accidentally clicked, or perhaps fate intervened. The website opened and I stared at the sign-in page. I shook my head at it, prepared to close my laptop, when I found myself inputting my sign-in information.
What had drawn me to the website in the beginning had been its anonymity. Everyone acted under aliases (mine had been RecklessDream) and only gave out as much information as they wanted. There was even a built in app on the website called “Secrets”. The idea of “Secrets” was to post your most intimate secrets anonymously.
I had so many secrets. So many things I wanted to tell the world. Where did I start? Before my brain could process what was happening, I was typing in the small text box the app allowed.
“I’m afraid I’ll never be myself again.” Wow. That felt really good. Sending my most private thoughts into cyberspace was terrifying but completely freeing. The best part was knowing no one knew who I was. No journalists would overanalyze the meaning. No one would make a meme of it. It was my secret out in the world, but it was completely free of Nami DeGrace.
I posted another: “I’m afraid I’ll never love, but I’m really afraid I’ll never have good sex again.” I giggled when I hit send and Raskol popped his head out of the bag, giving me a curious look. I felt giddy. I hadn’t felt giddy in a long time. I was about to post another one when a text bubble appeared unwanted on my screen.
“U want some fuck?”
My eyes widened. I was about to respond unkindly to the person when another bubble appeared, overlapping the previous.
“I’ll give you good sex.”
Shit. What had I done? I’d had no idea about the message feature. Apparently my confession was an opening to every horny person out there. I looked at the message center, watching my unread messages rise from one to twenty in less than two minutes. My heart sank. I just wanted to send my confessions into the wind. I was naive.
Again.
Deciding to delete my secret, I returned to the home screen. Just as my finger rested on delete, I received another message.
“The darker the night, the brighter the stars.”
I smiled in surprise. The person had quoted Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment. It was one of my favorite novels, obviously; I mean my dog was named Raskolnikov. Removing my finger from the delete icon, I went back into the app and replied, “The deeper the grief, the closer is God.”
I waited patiently for the person to respond, ignoring all the other messages that were popping up with some variation of “sex” or “fuck”. While I was waiting I clicked on the person’s info. His alias on the site was “Scarred” but that was about all the information he’d provided. There was no picture and the only information he shared was that he was male and straight. I couldn’t really complain, though, because all the information I’d given was that I was female.
At last Scarred responded and I clicked out of his bare profile. “You sounded like you could use a little Dostoyevsky. I assume you’re getting a lot of dick pics right now, too. So, you could definitely use some Dosto.”
I smiled. “No dick picks yet…wait.” I looked at the app’s notification center and saw a picture. “Never mind.”
“Saying sex on the internet is like yelling free beer at Oktoberfest,” Scarred replied.
I smiled, leaning back on my couch. “I’ve learned my lesson!” I saw three little dots appear in the text box which let me know the person on the other end of the computer was typing and I waited patiently for their response. For the first time in months I wasn’t wary, I was excited.
Conversation with Scarred
Scarred: “So, internet noob, what’s your favorite book?”
RecklessDream: “Asking me to pick my favorite book is like asking me to pick my favorite child.”
Scarred: “Parents do that all the time. Mine did. Look, I’ll go first. Huckleberry Finn.”
