I’m really sorry St. Clair, I’m really really sorry. I wish I could tell you about what happened, or show you this blog, but I wasn’t allowed to. The Judge is always watching. I can see The Prosecutor following other people around, digging up more secrets, dragging more dark things into the light. It smiles at me every time I pass by.

Please, stay in the dark. The light is bright, the light is blinding. The light brings only pain. Don’t let Them find you. I’d warn you properly if I could, really, I would.

But I couldn’t. I was only allowed to write, not tell.

Now I’m not allowed to write. He wants my computer.

Now I’m only allowed to hope that you find this, that you read this.

I’m sorry.

10

St. Clair was a little too loud.

St. Clair was a little too loud, and a few too many people laughed.

St. Clair was a little too loud, and a few too many people laughed, and the boss finally realized that someone was talking about him behind his back.

I wasn’t even involved; I’d just been sitting there. But as soon as the laughter subsided, he came over and asked what was so funny. Nobody said anything.

His expression was still flat, still emotionless, but he was starting to sweat. He asked again, louder. And nobody said anything. He finally dispensed with all pretenses, and demanded to know who’d started making fun of him. 

Nobody looked at St. Clair. She said she didn’t know, becoming the picture of innocence. I felt the eyes starting to burn into the back of my head. 

He yelled for about three minutes straight. The office was deathly quiet again. Quiet like the subway. Everyone was watching again, like the subway. I closed my eyes but I kept seeing that Eye, the dog, the jury. The lights behind my eyelids became those horrid points of light. My head began to throb. My chest started seizing up the more I thought about it,  I started breathing in and out faster and faster and faster-

And I guess that’s why he heard me. That’s why he asked me who’d started talking. I wasn’t really present, mentally; I was still freaking out. The small part of my brain that was still there was relieved, and I thought for a moment that I’d be unable to do as ordered.

But the bite on my chest flared up. It felt like something was holding my ribcage in place, forcing the air out of my lungs, forcing the truth out of my mouth. 

And all the eyes filled with anger and disgust again, just like the subway, when I said St. Clair’s name. 

There was this sick look of something vaguely resembling triumph when he heard the name. He turned on her, and began calmly berating her in that even, psychotic tone. I was allowed to resume panicking as he leveled judgement at the friend who’d stood by me for three years. I caught her stare as I began to seize up again.

Now, all the eyes I see are green and full of hurt and revulsion every time they look at me.

Those eyes hurt me almost as much as the Other one.

Almost.

9

He’s taken my watch. 

He’s taken my phone.

I keep working later hours.

I keep doing more and more because he won’t ever stop asking.

I was supposed to go over to a friend’s last night. We hadn’t seen each other for years. It had been planned for a while.

But he told me that someone needed to go over to his house and groom his cat while he closed a business deal. Right away.

So I spent the night grooming his cat.

When he got home, I thought it was over. I thought I could finally leave.

But the house needed to be cleaned. So I cleaned it.

The dresser needed to be moved down the stairs. 

So I pulled something in my back carrying it.

I could see the eyes in every painting, every picture, watching and looking and judging.

Always judging. 

8

He told me that he wanted my notebook.

I’d saved up a lot of money for this notebook. It’s durable, it’s leather-bound, it has all of my reminders and memos and thoughts and ideas in it.

And he told me he wanted it.

So I gave it to him.

I just handed it over. Simple as that. No struggle. No refusal. I couldn’t do anything.

St. Clair asked if anything was wrong with me, and I almost cried because I was so relieved to tell someone, to finally let someone know.

But I couldn’t.

I have to do everything and anything except tell someone what’s going on.

So I said nothing.

She’s disgusted by me now.

I’m sorry St. Clair.

I’m so sorry.

7

I can’t say no. I want to, but I can’t. Not anymore. 

My boss came up to me, demanded that I work triple overtime without extra pay. His face was expressionless, his voice monotone.

And I said yes.

The words just tumbled out of my mouth.

I tried to say no, but my throat locked up on me.

St. Clair was stunned. 

He nodded, then walked away.

So I worked until 9, then stayed until 10. Because he asked me to. Because he told me to give the office a once-over, to make sure everything was clean.

I only stopped the data entry at 9 because he told me to stop. It felt like being in the subway car again when they held me down, able to twitch, but still held in place.

My wrists hurt. My hands hurt. My back hurts.

The eyes are still watching me. I feel them every time other people are near me. I can feel them staring, like they can see the words on my chest. I feel them every time I turn on a light.

But in the dark, I’m reminded that It still knows where I am. In the dark, I still hear growling outside my window.

6

Something is very wrong with me.

Something is very truly and deeply wrong with me.

I’m losing my mind.

I think I’ve already lost it.

That’s why people hallucinate, right?

I saw...things....things I don’t even know how to reconcile.

And it all came true, even though it wasn’t real.

I was on the subway again, headed to my parent’s house, trying to rest my eyes.

And that’s when I heard the growling. 

And that’s when I saw the dog. 

The massive, black, ragged, angry dog, blood weeping from burning eyes. 

I tried to scream, but nobody heard me screaming.

They all kept looking away.

They kept looking away as it padded down the subway car towards me, twisted claws leaving holes where it stepped.

I tried to run away, stumbling back a few seats. I reached the doors, pulling at them. But I saw the dark behind the glass. We were still in the tunnel.

No way out.

I could smell the dog’s breathe now.

The stench of a thousand rotten corpses, of a thousand broken bones, of a thousand limbs ripped off and cast aside.

Of a thousand tears. Of a thousand secret stories. Of a thousand little secrets people would rather have left buried in the dirt. 

I could hear them whispering softly, those secrets. I could hear them screaming.

The people couldn’t see the dog, couldn’t see me, but they were still watching. Always watching. I felt their eyes all looking, then saw the stares riveted to my every move.

The dog moved closer.

I tripped over someone, falling to the ground. I looked up to meet that empty-eyed stare.

But they weren’t empty.

Someone’s head split open, jaw crunching as it split outwards.

Wet tearing noises echoed in the car as Someone’s face burst at the center seam. 

I could see the muscles and the skull and the cartilage being twisted, pushed, moved aside and forced away as a massive, soft white bulge pushed its’ way to the front of the mess where Someone’s face had been.

That bulge rolled towards me, and a black circle pierced by little bright dots became stained with blood and fluids and bits of flesh and bits of bone as it looked at me.

Someone wasn’t really Someone after all.

ACCUSED IS NOW PRESENT. PROCEEDINGS MAY BEGIN.

The pink, pulsing tube that led to its’ throat quivered as a voice that sounded like a hundred shards of metal grinding on a hundred other shards of metal filled the silence. I should have covered my ears but I couldn’t. I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t move, I couldn’t do anything. 

I could just look into that Eye. 

I could just look into that Eye and feel all those other sets of eyes boring into me.

THE PROSECUTOR WILL PRESENT EVIDENCE.

The dog was growling again. I shivered when it brushed my arm on its’ way forward. That fur was full of dirt, full of hushes and no-one-need-ever-knows. I could feel the secrets it had ripped from people.

I could feel my secrets being ripped away as it suddenly turned and sank those rotten fangs into my chest. They felt cold. I felt little barbs tearing deeper into my chest, twisting and squirming. I tried to scream, but I still couldn’t scream. I still wasn’t allowed.

I also wasn’t allowed to make any sound when the dog opened its’ mouth and dropped something in front of the Eye.

Somethings.

My things.

My private things.

A collar. A gag. A crop. A set of handcuffs. A memory card that I’d locked away after recording only three videos.

They lay there before the Eye, and for a fraction of a second it looked down. 

And then it looked back up.

ACCUSED HAS BEEN CHARGED WITH SEXUAL DEVIANCY AND PERVERSION. JURORS WILL NOW GIVE THEIR HONEST OPINION AS TO WHETHER THESE CHARGES ARE CORRECT WHEN APPLIED TO THIS ACCUSED.

I was allowed to look at the people.

I know I don’t know what people are thinking.

I know I can’t read minds. 

But I know faces.

I know what disgust looks like.

I know the face of a mother trying to beat the wrong out of her child.

There were now dozens of those faces.

And every single one of them opened their mouths to say

“Pervert.”

“Freak.”

“Sick fuck.”

“Mentally disturbed.”

“Pathetic.”

“Weak.”

“Disgrace.”

“Slave.”

The dog’s teeth were bared, cracked and blistered gums withering into what I will swear to anyone who will listen was something approximating a bloody smile. 

JURY HAS FOUND ACCUSED GUILTY OF ALL CHARGES.

The Eye drew me back into its’ depths; it placed its’ hands on me, fingers pressing into my head. The little points of light began to light up, swirling and changing colour. 

ACCUSED IS NOW GUILTY.

THE JUDGE WILL NOW PASS SENTENCE.

GUILTY WILL BE ADORNED AS HIS CRIME BEFITS.

People stood up, still empty and staring. They loomed over me. I tried to struggle, but only managed little shaking spasms as they moved over me, taking off and removing, looking at every inch of me. Then came the fastening and securing.

I couldn’t see. 

I was still looking into the Eye. 

It was starting to hurt.

The edges of my vision blurred. My head started to ache. Those fingertips became hot.

GUILTY’S PERVERSE AND IMMORAL DESIRE IS TO BE MADE A SLAVE.

GUILTY WILL CONSEQUENTLY BE CONSIGNED TO THIS STATE ETERNALLY.

THE JUDGE WILL NOW STRIP GUILTY OF ALL INHIBITIONS AND RESERVATIONS.

THE JUDGE CONDEMNS GUILTY TO BE UNABLE TO DISOBEY ANYONE ANYTHING.

My head swam, that Eye filling me up and pushing fire into my brain, molding and changing and scorching the parts of my head that everyone had just called bad.

I was allowed to scream then.

So I screamed.

I screamed until I ran out of air.

Until my throat was bloody and raw, until it felt like someone had poured battery acid into my lungs.

Until I passed out.

And when I did wake up, the train had stopped. The doors hissed open, and the name of the station where I was going to meet my parents greeted me, big and black and bold.

I ran out of there, head still smoldering, eyes still hurting.

I think I’d lost bladder control. There was something warm running down my leg. People were giving me strange faces that I couldn’t focus on clearly. I kept moving, kept running through the station until I spotted them.

My parents were waiting further down the platform, all prim and proper in their Sunday best, stern looks fixed on their faces. My father’s hair was greying gracefully at the temples. My mother still wore hers in an old-fashioned bun that might’ve been fashionable fifteen years ago.

I raced up to them, panicked. My mother gasped, my father held his arms out, keeping me back. Their mouths were moving, but everything sounded so distant, so far away. 

I forced myself to take a moment. I stepped back, rubbing my eyes to clear them.

When I looked up, someone was walked by me. He was laughing. 

He was laughing at me.

Everyone was laughing at me.

Or trying not to laugh.

Or pointedly looking away.

Or walking away.

Or sneering.

My mother was horrified, unable to finish a sentence.

My father was demanding that I tell him what’d happened, what was going on.

I still didn’t understand. I looked down.

I was naked.

I was naked except for the collar.

And the gag.

The handcuffs dangled from my left wrist.

There was writing on my chest.

Pervert

Bitch

Movement caught my attention, I turned to see another eye; the live feed camera.

I could see myself on the screen, on every screen throughout the platform.

And so could everyone else.

I started sobbing. My vision was clouded again, this time by tears.

My father took a tentative step towards me, half-frozen by shock and disgust.

I ran out of the station, trying to cover myself with my hands. Later, I stumbled into a store whose name I don’t remember. I grabbed a coat and some other clothes. I took a cab home.

I don’t know how any of that happened.

I just know that it did.

My parents called me twice. I let the machine get it. They didn’t leave any messages.

Nobody from work has called me.

I keep checking YouTube obsessively, wondering when I’m going to end up as a viral hit.

Wondering exactly how many people saw me.

I still feel watched.

I can still feel all those eyes on me.

I need to go lie down

5

I’ve not been doing well lately. I...I can’t sleep. I can’t sleep, and I feel like I’ve got eyes staring at the back of my head at all times. It’s difficult to focus on anything, let alone work. My boss has become increasingly demanding, and I’ve become increasingly short in my dealings with him. St. Clair is amused, but I know that my previous politeness will only provide me so much leeway before the boss snaps.

I need this job. I need this job to pay for the house. If I can’t pay for the house, I’m going to end up moving back with my parents, and...and I really don’t think that’ll be healthy for anyone involved in that situation. 

My parents aren’t bad people, really. They’re just really set in their ways, always have been and always will be. They don’t take kindly to people who reject or step outside their definition of respectable. I  kept my toes on the line, always obeyed, always being the good kid, but it was strangling. Once I finished school, the opportunity presented itself to leave my parents’ home, and I leapt for it. For those first few weeks on my own, I felt like I was finally free; I could finally breathe. I had a place all to myself, where it was perfectly acceptable to be me. 

But I’m still dealing with the fallout from spending so much time with my parents. That’s why I started this blog, after all. 

That’s my fifth confession, I guess. I’d almost rather be homeless than go back home with my parents.

Which is what makes their little weekend visits like the one rapidly approaching so arduous. 

We’ll see if I can weather the storm on little to no sleep.