Submerge

F R A C T U R E

He doesn't ask questions. He gives me a time and a location. A bench behind the 7-Eleven near the tracks.

It's just past two when I get there. Cold air presses into my lungs. I shove my hands in my pockets, wait.

He shows. Drops the bag into my lap like it's a sandwich. Nods once. Leaves.

I don't open it.

I carry it home. 

Sit on the edge of the tub. Stare at the little zip-top bag with something leafy and green that looks harmless and loaded at the same time.

I hold it between my fingers.

Then I flush it.

The sound it makes when it disappears down the drain is ugly.

Too loud in the quiet.

I watch the swirl until it's gone, until the porcelain bowl is clean again. 

Like it was never here. Like I didn't almost cave. 

Like I didn't already lose something I can't name.

I rinse my hands even though they're not dirty. 

Sit there another five minutes with the bathroom light humming and the vent clicking on and off above me. Then I stand. My knees ache. My spine pops. My chest doesn't feel any lighter.

Back in my room, I pull the blanket up to my chin and lie sideways across the mattress. The fan hums. The window's still cracked. The outside air feels too clean to belong in here.

I grab my phone, scroll through nothing for a while. Instagram. A school email about FAFSA deadlines. A spam text about free concert tickets I never signed up for. My messages are mostly unread.

One from Ethan. 

Hope Ellis didn't make you cry too hard. Let me know if you wanna come over. Or if I should just show up with cookies and pretend it's about cookies.

I read it twice. Then lock the screen.

I press my forehead to the wall and whisper, "I'm trying."

I don't know who I'm saying it to.

God?

Myself?

Emma?

Doesn't matter.

No one answers.

The phone buzzes again—short, sharp, clinical.

A text.

Unknown number.

No subject.

No context.

Just a link.

[Video]

My thumb hovers. My heart goes still. Everything in me screams not to touch it.

But my body's already moving.

I tap.

The screen goes black. One heartbeat. Two.

Then the video opens.

At first, it's nothing. Just digital grain, messy light, the edge of a bed too familiar. A limp figure, barely upright. Slouched. Head lolled sideways.

Me.

There's no sound for a breath.

And then it floods in.....fuzzy at first, like a distant radio, then sharp enough to cut.

Jacob's voice.....smug, slurred. 

Marco's laugh.....mean, bright, too loud.

My name.....twisted into something I don't recognize. A punchline.

Hands. 

One on my shoulder. 

Another on my thigh. 

My mouth opens. 

Moves. 

The audio distorts—hiccups and skips.

A moan.

 One I don't remember. One that doesn't sound like mine. 

But it is.

I know it is.

I know this room. This night. This version of myself. Half-conscious. Drifting in and out. Trying to say stop. Trying to say no. Trying to say anything.

But all they heard was silence.

And silence, to them, was permission.

The screen jumps. The light shifts. Jacob says something I can't make out. Marco chuckles low in the background, a laugh that makes my stomach twist into glass.

The video cuts to black.

A message flashes underneath:

Push the charges and this hits PornHub at midnight.

And I know it'll go viral in a day. The sound of your moans? Unmatchable.

I don't scream.

I don't gasp.

I just go very, very still.

Then I hurl the phone.

It slams against the wall with a sickening thud and falls, face-down, onto the carpet. The screen keeps glowing.....mocking, blinking, waiting.

I'm already shaking before I know I'm moving.

I stumble to the bathroom like I'm drunk on nausea.

My reflection waits for me, but I can't look at it. I can't look at him.

The version of me in the video. The version that couldn't stop it. The version everyone will see if this leaks.

My hands clutch the edge of the sink, white-knuckled. I try to breathe, but the air feels like it's been siphoned out of the room.

And then something inside me—deep, buried, already bruised.

Fractures.

I slide to the floor. My legs fold beneath me. My spine caves like a kicked-in door.

I think I make a sound. A kind of whimper. Or maybe it's a sob. It doesn't matter.

My body feels like it's falling apart in pieces.

They filmed it.

They filmed it.

They filmed it.

They laughed

They laughed

They laughed

And now... they know I said yes.

My yes—the one I never gave.

And when they make the world watch, no one will care about what I didn't say.

They'll hear the moan.

They'll see the limp limbs.

They'll call it pleasure.

They'll call it a choice.

They'll call it sex.

But it wasn't.

AN: Next chapter is the final one!