Pantsing and Stripping Forums

Stripped to the Core

Chapter 1: Stripped Bare

The sun barely kissed the horizon as I trudged through the towering metal gates of Pine Valley High. It was only the second week of the semester, but the long bus ride still left a knot in my stomach. No matter how many times I made the trip, it felt the same. The cold September morning clung to my skin, biting through the thin fabric of my jacket. The air had that early autumn crispness, carrying the sharp scent of dead leaves and freshly cut grass. I hugged my sketchbook to my chest as if it were a shield, protecting me from the hostile environment that felt louder and more menacing with every passing day.

My name is Emma Collins. I’m a sixteen-year-old artist—a label I cling to more desperately than I should. In a world full of noise and harsh judgments, art is my sanctuary. Each pencil stroke lets me voice the turmoil inside, a voice muffled by self-doubt and insecurity. My blue eyes, often described as icy or distant, are far more expressive in my drawings than in conversation. They capture the emotions I can’t articulate, holding secrets about who I am beneath the layers of my carefully constructed persona.

At five-foot-four, I’m slender but unremarkable, lost among the tall, confident bodies that fill the hallways. I often catch glimpses of myself in window reflections, barely recognizing the girl staring back. My long, light-brown hair, usually tied back in a neat ponytail, hangs over my shoulders like a veil, hiding me from the world. I’d rather keep it as a barrier than risk it distracting me from my art—or worse, catching the judgmental gaze of my peers.

Beneath my layers of clothing lies a tapestry of insecurities, each thread woven from past experiences. I cover myself in oversized sweaters and long sleeves, even when the afternoon sun begs for lighter attire. The chill of autumn is nothing compared to the icy grip of self-consciousness that’s settled in my chest. I wear these layers not just for warmth, but to shield myself from scrutiny, to hide the imperfections I see in the mirror each morning. The scars from awkward growth spurts and early teenage awkwardness are etched onto my skin—reminders I desperately try to obscure.

I should have more confidence and more presence. As the oldest of four, I’m expected to be a strong role model. My parents constantly urge me to be more outgoing, and to “believe in myself.” But they don’t understand how impossible that feels most days. Every step outside my room is an act of courage, and by the time I get to school, I’m already exhausted. I feel like a ghost in my own life, floating through the motions while trying to keep my insecurities from swallowing me whole. They push, and I pull away, retreating further into the safety of my art.

There was one moment that cemented my need for layers. I had come home from school one afternoon, tired and wanting nothing more than to unwind. Thinking I was alone, I changed into just my bra and panties, enjoying the cool air on my skin. But then Mason burst through the door, his bright energy invading my sanctuary. I scrambled to cover myself, embarrassment crashing down like a wave. His innocent confusion only deepened my shame, making me feel even more exposed.

That moment locked in my resolve to always stay covered. Now, I wear at least two layers of clothing at all times—even in the shower, where I wear a bikini to minimize any chance of exposure. The thought of being seen without my armor sends my heart racing. I would rather suffocate in fabric than feel that vulnerable again.

My little brother Mason, twelve and full of energy, always bugs me about why I won’t hang out with him and his friends. He doesn’t understand the effort it takes just to get through the day, much less be social. Ellie, at ten, is everything I used to be—bright, optimistic, and eager to make friends. Watching her is like looking into a mirror at my younger self before self-consciousness and doubt became too heavy. And Lila, only six, is still blissfully ignorant of how harsh the world can be, living in a bubble of innocence I wish I could protect forever.

They love me in their ways, but none of them know me. They don’t see the parts of myself I hide from everyone—the broken, insecure, and invisible parts. I’ve mastered the art of appearing fine while keeping everything else locked away. But even that mask is starting to crack.

My mother, of course, was the one who pushed me to audition for the controversial graphic art course, even though I didn’t want to. By the end of my freshman year, she convinced me it would be a prestigious opportunity, something to be proud of. I was accepted, but now, two weeks in, I could feel the dread building like a tidal wave.

The course is taught by Ms. Jennifer Amberley, a name that sends chills through the art world. A few years ago, she caused an uproar with her infamous exhibit Stripped Bare—an installation that became a national scandal. It wasn’t just the graphic nature of the art that grabbed attention; it was the extreme methods she used, pushing her students to the brink of emotional collapse.

Stripped Bare was more than an exhibit—it was a psychological experiment in public humiliation, forcing participants to confront their most vulnerable, humiliating truths. The centerpiece was a series of glass boxes where each student stood exposed—both physically and emotionally. Behind them, written on the walls, were confessions of their darkest fears and most shameful secrets, displayed for all to see. The audience was invited to participate, scribbling comments on the glass, jeering, and criticizing.

It was a grotesque spectacle of vulnerability turned into entertainment. Some students broke down during the exhibit, sobbing as they stood exposed. Others left the art world entirely, unable to recover from the psychological toll. The media condemned Ms. Amberley, calling it an abuse of power. But she defended it, claiming true art had to be raw, unfiltered, painfully honest. She argued that the humiliation was part of the process—a way to strip away the masks people wore and expose the raw, ugly truth beneath.

Now, she’s teaching my art course. In just two weeks, I’ve already seen glimpses of her methods—her cold, calculating gaze as she dissected our sketches in front of the class, her harsh critiques that felt more like personal attacks. She wants us to expose ourselves, to dig into our deepest fears, and then put it all on display for judgment.

It’s terrifying.

I clutched my sketchbook tighter as I walked through the doors of Pine Valley High, the familiar weight of dread pressing down. I didn’t know how much longer I could keep doing this, how much further Ms. Amberley would push us. But I had a feeling this was just the beginning—that she hadn’t even started stripping us bare yet.

There are moments in life when you can see your destruction on the horizon, like a storm barreling toward you. It’s there, clear as day, yet somehow, you keep walking into it. That’s exactly what I felt the day Ms. Amberley called me to her desk. She was my first-period teacher, and every time she glanced in my direction, my stomach twisted into knots.

Ms. Amberley, my high school graphic arts teacher, had made it clear from day one that this course was no walk in the park. The syllabus spelled it out in stark, unambiguous terms: Yes, this is an elective course, but non-compliance will result in harsh consequences, including a failing grade—period. There was no sugarcoating it. She told us about her infamous exhibit, Stripped Bare, and insisted that the media hadn’t gotten the full story. According to her, it wasn’t some cruel, grotesque spectacle, but an attempt to push artists to their emotional and creative limits.

"This is my first time teaching at the high school level," she’d said on that first day, her tone cold and authoritative. "But I assure you, the expectations are no different. Every one of your parents or guardians has signed off on this course. They’ve been informed of what it entails. Civil authorities and medical professionals are on standby should we ever need them. We will be pushing boundaries here—pushing you to the edge." Her words left an eerie silence in the room. The edge. We all knew what she meant by that.

She claimed she was helping us find our "authentic artistic voice," but I could see through that. What she enjoyed was watching us squirm, seeing how far she could push us before someone cracked. Her gaze would linger just a little too long on the most nervous students as if testing their breaking points. Every critique felt more personal than professional. She dissected us the way a scientist might peel back the layers of an experiment. And none of us dared to push back—not really. We were all just trying to survive her class, to make it to the end of the semester with some semblance of dignity and, hopefully, a passing grade.

When she called me to her desk that morning, I could feel the eyes of my classmates on me. My legs felt like lead as I crossed the room. The crisp, sterile smell of the art room—paint, graphite, and cleaning supplies—suddenly became suffocating. Her desk was a minimalist nightmare, devoid of personality except for a few pieces of abstract art hung on the wall behind her. No personal photos, no clutter, just the cold surface of her desk and the piercing gaze of her pale green eyes.

"Emma," she said, her voice low but firm, "I want to talk to you about your latest piece."

My heart pounded as I stood before her, clutching my sketchbook to my chest like a lifeline. I had spent hours on that drawing, pouring every bit of myself into it, but I knew whatever she was about to say wouldn’t be good.

"This," she tapped her finger on my sketch, barely looking at it, "this is technically proficient. Your lines are clean, the composition is sound. But where’s the emotion, Emma? Where’s the vulnerability?"

I swallowed hard. Vulnerability. The one thing I had spent my entire life trying to avoid. How could I possibly put it on display, on paper, for her and the entire class to scrutinize?

"I—" My voice cracked, and I cursed myself for it. "I thought I was expressing it… in the shading and the details."

Ms. Amberley gave me a long, hard look. "You’re hiding, Emma. Hiding behind the technique. I want you to strip away the safety net and show me something raw. Otherwise, what’s the point?"

Her words hit me like a slap. She wanted raw. She wanted me to tear myself open, bleed onto the page, and let everyone see. The thought of it made me want to shrink into myself, to disappear. But I couldn’t back down. Not here, not in front of her and the class.

"I’ll… try," I muttered, knowing it wasn’t enough but unsure what else to say.

"You’ll do more than try," she said sharply. "You’ll push yourself, or you’ll fail. It’s that simple."

I nodded, feeling a lump forming in my throat. I hated how powerless I felt in front of her, how she could reduce me to this quivering mess with just a few words. As I turned to walk back to my seat, I caught the glances of a few of my classmates—some curious, some sympathetic. But no one said a word. We were all in this together, and yet, at the same time, we were all on our own.

I sat back down at my desk, my mind spinning. Vulnerability. Stripped bare. She wanted me to expose the parts of myself I spent so much time hiding, the parts that made me feel weak and broken. How could I do that? How could I show her—show everyone—the things I kept locked away inside?

I opened my sketchbook and stared at the blank page in front of me, the weight of Ms. Amberley's words pressing down on me like a heavy blanket. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was hiding. But I didn’t know how to stop. I didn’t know how to strip away the layers of protection I had built over the years without falling apart completely.

And yet, despite the fear, I knew I didn’t have a choice. Ms. Amberley wasn’t going to let up. She would keep pushing until I either broke or found a way to give her what she wanted. One way or another, she would strip me bare.

Then, as I watched several other students walk up to the desk and each of them was torn down just like I was, it still felt like she was hardest on me. All the while, I kept my eye on the clock, waiting for the next bell, when I heard, “Emma,” Ms. Amberley purred, her voice honey-sweet but dripping with malice. “Come over here and face the class, standing before the center row.”

I should’ve known right then that nothing good was going to come from that tone. But, like a moth to a flame, I walked over, pretending not to notice how my classmates stared at me, eyes wide with relief that they weren’t the ones in the spotlight.

“Yes, Ms. Amberley?” I asked, my voice steady. I was good at playing calm when everything inside me screamed to panic.

She smiled at me like I was some little bug she was about to crush. “We were just talking about your latest project,” she said, her fingers drumming rhythmically on the table. “The self-portrait.”

I knew where this was going. It had been a simple assignment—a self-portrait, any medium, any style. Most of the class had done traditional sketches or digital work. I, on the other hand, had decided to experiment with abstraction, trying to capture my emotional state rather than my physical features. I thought I’d done a good job. It was personal but still safe.

“Your piece,” she said, a smug smile pulling at the corner of her lips, “is… fine. But I think you’re capable of so much more.”

I clenched my jaw, refusing to take the bait. Ms. Amberley stood up, circling me like a predator. “Emma,” she said, drawing out my name, “art isn’t about safety. It’s about vulnerability. It’s about stripping yourself bare, exposing the raw truth, the parts of you that you keep hidden from even your family and friends.”

I stayed silent. I wasn’t new to her games. If I argued, it would only make things worse.

“I have a little… opportunity for you,” Ms. Amberley continued, her eyes glinting. “The ongoing student living art exhibition. I think your piece should be the centerpiece.”

My heart lurched. The ongoing student art exhibition, leading to that big night at the end of the school year, was a big deal. Everyone would be there—students, teachers, parents, local art critics. The idea of my work being the centerpiece should’ve been a huge honor. But the way she was looking at me made it feel like a trap.

“I don’t want you to use paint this time, though,” she said, her voice sickly sweet. “I want you to use yourself.”

I blinked, trying to process what she meant. “Excuse me?”

Ms. Amberley grinned, leaning in close. “A live performance, Emma. Something truly avant-garde. Something dangerous, embarrassing, and humiliating. I want you to be the art.”

There it was. The trap had sprung.

She explained the twisted idea to me with enthusiasm. The plan was simple: I was to stand in the center of the exhibition, completely nude, while attendees wrote their thoughts, criticisms, and judgments on my continually exposed body with markers. It was supposed to be a statement about vulnerability, about how the world sees us versus how we see ourselves.

But really, it was about stripping me of everything—my clothes, my dignity, my control. She wanted to break me down, to see how far she could push me before I shattered. And she wanted to do it in front of the entire school.

I felt sick. My skin crawled at the thought of standing there, naked and exposed, while everyone I knew and respected wrote their deepest, cruelest thoughts on my skin. And the worst part? I knew I couldn’t say no. Ms. Amberley had that power over us. If I refused, my grade would suffer, and worse, she’d make sure I never forgot it.

“So, what do you think?” Ms. Amberley asked, her eyes locking onto mine. “Are you ready to make real art, Emma? Or are you just going to keep hiding behind your canvas?”

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. There was no way out. I could feel their eyes on me, waiting for me to break, waiting for me to beg for a different assignment. But I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. I wouldn’t let them see my fear.

“Fine,” I said, my voice steady despite the chaos swirling inside me. “I’ll do it.”

Ms. Amberley’s smile widened, her victory gleaming in her eyes. “Good girl. This will be a performance they’ll never forget.”

As I walked back to my seat, my mind raced. I had agreed to her twisted exhibition, but that didn’t mean I was going to let her win. If she wanted me to strip myself bare, then fine. I would. But I would do it on my terms.

And when it was all over, she would be the one left exposed.

I thought agreeing to Ms. Amberley’s twisted art performance would be the worst of it. That it would end with one night, one exhibition, and then I could move on. I was wrong. So painfully wrong.

The next day, I was called to the principal’s office. My stomach twisted into knots as I made my way down the sterile hallways. My mind raced, wondering if they’d decided to cancel the whole thing or if I was about to be suspended for something I didn’t even know I’d done. I knocked on the door, hesitating for a moment before stepping inside.

Principal Thompson was seated at his desk, his usual stern expression even more rigid than usual. Across from him sat my parents, looking strangely composed, almost detached. And to the side, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, was the superintendent, Mr. Harper—a man I’d only seen at formal school events or during budget meetings. The moment I walked in, all eyes were on me.

"Emma," Principal Thompson said, motioning for me to sit. His voice was serious, but there was something else lurking beneath it, something I couldn’t quite place. "We need to have a very important discussion."

I sat down, forcing myself to stay calm. Whatever this was, it couldn’t be worse than what I’d already agreed to, right?

"I spoke with Ms. Amberley yesterday," Principal Thompson began. "She explained the concept for your upcoming exhibition piece. It’s certainly... unconventional." He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

My stomach dropped. Why was he bringing this up now?

"After some discussion with the school board and other officials," the superintendent interjected, his tone clipped, "we’ve decided that this project has the potential to set a new precedent for artistic expression at this school. I’m talking about a truly avant-garde approach to learning."

I frowned, not quite understanding where this was going. My parents sat stone-faced, as if they had already been through this conversation, and resigned themselves to whatever was coming next.

"It’s not just the exhibition anymore, Emma," the superintendent continued, eyes gleaming with the same kind of twisted excitement I’d seen in Ms. Amberley’s. "I want this to be more than a one-time performance. I want it to be a school-wide initiative. Something that lasts."

I stared at him, not fully comprehending. "What do you mean?"

Principal Thompson cleared his throat, glancing nervously at my parents before speaking. "What Mr. Harper is trying to say is that, effective immediately, you will be embodying this performance piece throughout the entire school year."

The words hit me like a freight train. The entire school year?

"You will be that art piece," the superintendent said with a smile. "Everywhere you go—classes, lunch, the hallways. You will remain in character as part of this living art installation. Your vulnerability, your exposure, will be the statement. This is about pushing boundaries, Emma. It’s about breaking down societal norms and exploring the human condition."

I sat there, stunned, as the weight of his words sank in. They didn’t just want me to perform for one night. They wanted me to live it. Every. Single. Day.

"And as part of the agreement," Mr. Harper added, "your wardrobe will be... adjusted accordingly. Your parents have graciously agreed to box up your clothes and donate them to charity. You won’t need them."

I whipped my head toward my parents, shock and betrayal written across my face. "What? You agreed to this?"

My mother’s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes distant. "It’s for your future, Emma. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Think of the exposure, the attention. Colleges will notice."

"Colleges?" I spat, incredulous. "You’re letting them strip me naked for a year, and you’re thinking about college applications?"

"Emma, calm down," my father said in a low voice as if this was all just some logical discussion we were having over dinner. "This is art. This is how the world works sometimes."

I felt like I was suffocating. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be happening. They wanted me to walk around school—nude, vulnerable, on display—for the entire year. They wanted me to be the art piece, the embodiment of everything Ms. Amberley had preached about vulnerability and humiliation. But this wasn’t art. This was a nightmare.

"I can’t do this," I said, my voice shaking. "I won’t."

Principal Thompson sighed heavily, leaning forward with a look of faux sympathy. "Emma, we understand this is... unconventional. But if you refuse, you’ll be expelled. The school board has already approved this as part of your curriculum. You won’t have any other options."

Expelled. My mind reeled. They had backed me into a corner. If I said no, I’d lose everything—my grades, my chances at graduating, any hope of escaping this town. And my parents—they weren’t going to stand up for me. They’d already sold me out, packaging it as some artistic journey.

"Is this even legal?" I asked, desperation seeping into my voice.

"We’ve spoken with state officials," Mr. Harper said smoothly, "and everything has been cleared. You’re part of a progressive educational experiment now, Emma. One that could shape the future of art education. You should be proud."

Proud? Proud of being humiliated day after day in front of everyone? Of being reduced to nothing but an object for people to gawk at, criticize, and judge? This wasn’t art. This was cruelty. And somehow, they had wrapped it up in academic pretension and sold it as progress.

I stared at the floor, my mind racing for an escape. There had to be a way out. There had to be. But the silence in the room, the weight of everyone’s expectations, made it clear that I was trapped. I was alone in this.

Ms. Amberley had pushed me into this corner, and now, everyone else was complicit. The teacher, the superintendent, the principal, my parents. They were all in on it.

"Fine," I whispered, my voice barely audible. I felt like I was signing my death warrant. "I’ll do it."

There was no applause, no congratulations. Just a collective sigh of relief from the adults in the room. They had gotten what they wanted. I was going to be their art piece, their spectacle, stripped of not just my clothes but of everything else I had left.

As I walked out of the principal’s office, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning. I had been pushed into a performance that wasn’t just about art—it was about control. And I was determined to take it back, one way or another.

So, her clothes boxed up by her parents and given to charity; Seems that she will be an art piece even when home with her parents and siblings!

Quite a bit of potential to explore, more than just an embarrassed nude model for a life drawing class.

Chapter 2: The Trophy Hallway

I was relieved to be leaving the principal’s office still fully dressed, but the weight of what had just been decided was crushing me. As I stepped into the hallway, I could already feel the stares burning into me. My hands shook uncontrollably, and I tried to hold myself together, but it was pointless. I was a wreck. A few students were scattered around, eyes wide, watching me. They had probably seen me go in with my parents, and now I was coming out, shaking like a leaf. The air was thick with curiosity, and I knew what they were thinking. What could be so important that the superintendent had to be there? I wondered the same thing when I first walked into that small, suffocating office.

Now they would all start talking. They’d be whispering in the halls, in class, at lunch. And soon, they’d know. Everyone would know.

It wasn’t just an art exhibit anymore. I thought it was going to be one humiliating day—one mortifying moment where I’d stand there, exposed, while people wrote on my skin like I was nothing more than a chalkboard. But no, I was so wrong. Yesterday in Ms. Amberley’s class, I thought it was a one-off event. Just a strange, uncomfortable thing I could somehow survive and forget. I couldn’t have been more naive.

In that tiny office, with my parents sitting there beside me, I learned the horrifying truth. The principal, Mr. Thompson, and the superintendent, Mr. Harper, calmly explained that this wasn’t just a single event. It was an art project—one that would last the entire year. I was to be the centerpiece, the living art, the "canvas" for everyone to write their deepest thoughts on. My body would be exposed, laid bare in front of the school, in front of strangers, again and again.

I felt like I couldn’t breathe. My head was spinning as they talked, my eyes darting to my parents, hoping they’d protest, say something—anything. But they didn’t. Instead, they nodded along as if this was some great opportunity for me. Then, to my absolute horror, they agreed to donate all my clothes. Everything I owned to cover myself up? Gone. Just like that.

I could barely process it. They had just stripped away my last shred of protection, and I felt like I was falling into a nightmare I couldn’t escape. My worst fears—my deepest insecurities—were about to be put on display for everyone. Did they not know how self-conscious I am? How do I hide behind layers of clothing, even when it’s hot, just to avoid the stares and the comments? I’ve spent years trying to disappear, blending in, doing everything I can to avoid being noticed. And now they wanted me to stand there with nothing to hide behind. Nothing.

I walked down the hallway, my body still trembling, as more students began to gather. They were whispering, pointing. I tried to keep my head down, but I could feel their eyes on me. They must’ve known something big was happening. They probably thought I was in trouble or that something scandalous had gone down in that meeting. But whatever they were imagining couldn’t come close to what was happening.

My face burned with humiliation as I realized that soon, they’d all know. They’d know that I was going to be the school’s human canvas, that I would be standing there, exposed, while they wrote whatever they wanted on my skin. Some of them might laugh. Others might pity me. But worst of all, they’d look. I was already the girl who wore too many clothes, and who kept to herself. Now, I’d be the girl everyone would be staring at.

I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes, but I refused to cry in front of them. Not yet. But the humiliation was already creeping up, tightening around my chest. How was I supposed to face them every day, knowing what was coming? What were they about to do to me?

I walked faster, trying to escape their stares, but the hallway felt endless. All I could think about was how, soon enough, I wouldn’t be able to hide at all.

Then, with about ten minutes left of the first period, my parents slowed down right in front of the row of sports trophies and achievement plaques encased in glass. Their polished surfaces gleamed under the fluorescent lights, taunting me with their permanence, their respectability—everything I was about to lose. But I wasn’t focused on that. All I could think about were the doors at the end of the hallway, just beyond reach, that led off campus. I silently begged to be anywhere but here, to walk through those doors and away from this nightmare. But I wasn’t going anywhere.

My stomach churned with dread as we came to a stop. I stood there, right in the middle of the busiest section of the school—the spot where every hallway met, where students from all corners of campus passed through between classes. I knew what was coming, but I still clung to some desperate hope that this was all a mistake, that maybe my parents would realize how insane this all was.

But the look on their faces told me otherwise. Stone-faced. Expressionless. There was no going back. I felt the floor beneath me tilt, and my breath came in shallow bursts. This was happening.

I could already feel the eyes on me. A few students were loitering around, watching from a distance, their curiosity building. More would come soon. The bell would ring, and the halls would be flooded with students. They’d all be witnesses to what was about to unfold.

My heart pounded in my chest as I looked at my parents. I wanted to scream at them to stop, to tell them that they couldn’t do this to me. But my voice was stuck in my throat. I couldn’t make a sound. My mom stepped closer, her voice low and cold, as if even she was disgusted by what she was about to say.

"Emma," she said, not meeting my eyes, "your dad is going to start cutting off your clothes, piece by piece, right here. It’s time for everyone to see what you’ve been hiding behind all this time."

Her words hit me like a slap to the face. I stared at her, my mind reeling. Right here? Now? My eyes darted around the hallway, taking in the familiar lockers, the rows of classrooms, and the glass display cases reflecting a distorted version of myself. I felt like I was trapped in a nightmare, one that was quickly spiraling out of control.

“The school officials have agreed to this,” she continued her voice barely above a whisper. “We thought it would be better to do it here, now, instead of waiting for the assembly later today. That way, the students won’t have to cut away your clothes during the seventh-period demonstration.”

I felt my knees buckle. My head spun, and for a moment, I thought I might faint. I had known something terrible was coming, but this? The public display? The cutting away of my clothes like I was some object? This was worse than anything I could have imagined. I looked at my dad, hoping—begging—for some sign of hesitation, for him to step in and stop this madness. But he was already standing behind me, a pair of scissors in his hand. His eyes were glued to the floor, avoiding my gaze, as if he was ashamed of what he was about to do. But not ashamed enough to stop.

"Please," my mom added, almost too calmly, "turn and face the onlookers."

I wanted to run. My body screamed at me to turn and bolt out to the nearest exit, but my feet wouldn’t move. My body felt paralyzed. I could feel the curious eyes of the students already gathered around us, and more would be coming soon. The humiliation of it all was like a thick, choking fog. I tried to steady my breathing, but it was impossible. Every breath was shallow, shaky. My mom crouched down to untie my shoes, her fingers moving methodically as if she’d done this a thousand times before. As if this was normal.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

But it was. My dad’s hands were suddenly on my shoulders, cold and firm, as he began cutting away the first layer of my jacket. I flinched at the sensation of the fabric falling away from my body. The sharp snip of the scissors was deafening in the dead-silent hallway. One sleeve fell, and then the other dropped to the ground with a quiet thud. My stomach clenched as I felt the cold air hit my skin. My mother, now kneeling in front of me, was already working on pulling off my socks like it was nothing—like I wasn’t about to be stripped of everything that made me feel safe.

The jacket slipped off completely, landing on the floor between us. It felt like I was shedding my skin, layer by layer, and with it, every ounce of dignity I had left.

The chatter around us grew louder. More students had gathered. I could see them out of the corner of my eye—whispering, pointing, staring. But in my state of mind, I couldn’t hear what they were saying. All I could hear was the pounding of my heart in my ears, the snipping of the scissors as my dad moved on to the next layer, and the sinking sound of fabric falling to the ground. My throat burned, but I forced myself to stay silent. Crying would only make it worse.

I felt the pressure of my dad’s hands on my shirt now, pulling it taut as he slid the scissors underneath. He was cutting through the fabric slowly, methodically, like he was unwrapping a present. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the reality of what was happening, but there was no escape. The first cut sliced through my shirt, exposing my bare skin to the hallway. Then the next. Each snip made my chest tighten until it was hard to breathe.

The crowd was growing. I could hear their voices now, louder, more excited. They were watching—watching as my dad stripped me down in front of everyone. I could feel the heat of their eyes on my skin, the way they lingered on every inch of exposed flesh. I tried to cover myself, instinctively pulling my arms across my chest, but it didn’t matter. This was just the beginning.

"Why are you doing this?" I choked out, my voice barely a whisper. My question hung in the air, unanswered, as my dad cut through the last bit of my shirt and it fell away, leaving me standing there in my bra, half-naked, surrounded by my classmates.

My dad moved on to the waistband of my pants, his hands steady as he prepared to cut through the last layer of clothing separating me from complete exposure. The tears I had been holding back threatened to spill over, but I refused to let them see me break. Not yet. Not while I still had a shred of control.

The scissors paused for a moment as if my dad was hesitating. But then, with one swift motion, he cut through the waistband, and my pants slipped down my legs. I stood there, exposed in nothing but my underwear, feeling like the ground had disappeared beneath me. My skin burned with shame, every inch of me on display for them to judge, to mock.

I could hear their voices, their laughter. They weren’t even trying to hide it anymore. They were laughing at me, enjoying my humiliation, feeding off my vulnerability. I wanted to disappear, to melt into the floor, and never be seen again. But there was no escape. I was trapped, standing there in nothing but my underwear, waiting for the final, devastating blow.

And then, as if to seal my fate, my mom whispered, "Time for the rest, Emma."

I felt the world tilt again as my dad raised the scissors one last time. The last layer of clothing—the final piece of myself I had left—was about to be taken from me, right here, in front of everyone. And there was nothing I could do to stop it.

Just as I stood there, totally exposed before my parents, the shrill ring of the bell echoed through the hallway, marking the end of the first period. I felt like I was in a nightmare that wouldn’t end. Students began to file into the corridor, and my heart sank as I realized they were all seeing me—seeing me. My humiliation deepened with every passing moment as they took in my bare skin, the scraps of fabric that had once covered my body littering the floor around me.

I was stunned by how calm my parents were, especially my mom, who gestured for me to hug her. She looked at me as if this was just another day, completely unfazed by the fact that they had publicly stripped me of everything, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. I could hardly bring myself to touch her, my skin tingling with shame and disbelief. As I wrapped my arms around her, I could feel the warmth of her body against my naked skin, a stark reminder of how far removed I was from the comfort of clothing. The irony twisted in my stomach; the very person who was supposed to protect me was now complicit in my humiliation.

I tried to block out the cruel comments that began to drift through the crowd as they walked by. “Look at her,” one girl snickered. “Is she going to let them do this?” Another voice chimed in, “What a loser. I can’t believe she’s just standing there.” Each remark felt like a stab to my already wounded pride, and I could feel my cheeks burning with shame. My heart raced as I looked around, desperate for an escape, but there was nowhere to run. The hallway felt like a cage, and I was the unwilling animal on display.

And then, as if my day couldn’t get any worse, our only female vice principal, Mrs. Blunderbuss, approached me. My eyes darted to my father, but he was preoccupied, picking up the scraps of my clothing from the floor and tossing them into a nearby trash can. My stomach churned at the sight; it felt symbolic of everything I was losing. I had always used my clothes as armor, a way to shield myself from judgment and scrutiny. Now, as I stood there stripped bare, that armor had been reduced to nothing more than trash.

Mrs. Blunderbuss smiled at me as she handed me a cloth lanyard, the words “Graphic Art Living Project” attached to it, alongside a sleeve holding several markers. My throat went dry as I registered the absurdity of it all. This wasn’t just an art project; it was a complete violation of my privacy, my body, and my identity. I felt the lanyard hang heavy around my neck, a brand of shame that marked me as a target for everyone to see and judge.

“Emma,” she began, her voice dripping with false sympathy, “the school understands that this isn’t going to be easy for you. We know you’re extremely self-conscious about your body.” Her words felt like a patronizing pat on the head rather than any real acknowledgment of my situation. I wanted to scream at her that she had no idea what this felt like, standing there in front of my peers, stripped of everything that made me feel safe and whole.

She continued, “Your teacher, Ms. Amberley, believes you can handle being like this around the clock for the rest of the school year.” My heart sank further with each sentence. Handle it? How could they expect me to handle being a walking canvas for everyone’s feelings, all while completely exposed? The thought made me feel sick. It was like asking someone to walk through a fire and not get burned. The pressure of it all bore down on me, a suffocating weight that made it hard to breathe. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes, threatening to spill over, but I forced them back. Crying would only give them more satisfaction.

Mrs. Blunderbuss gestured toward the other students, who were still gawking at me, some with smiles plastered on their faces, others whispering among themselves. “Your project is for everyone in each of your classes. They’ll be able to write on your body, expressing their feelings and analyzing themselves through your living body art.”

The words felt like daggers, each one cutting deeper than the last. I turned to look at my mom, her face a mix of pride and excitement. She was smiling, but all I could feel was the weight of despair. My life, as I had known it, was officially over. I wasn’t just exposed—I was reduced to a walking billboard, my body now a canvas for others to write on, to express their innermost thoughts and feelings. The gravity of that reality settled in my stomach like a lead weight, dragging me down into a pit of despair.

As the bell for the second period rang, its sound felt like a death knell. Students began to shuffle into their next classes, but not before taking one last, lingering look at me, the girl who had been stripped bare in front of everyone. I felt like a spectacle, a cruel joke, and there was nothing I could do about it. I was utterly humiliated, standing there with my bare skin exposed to the world, knowing that every single one of them would remember this moment. I could already hear the whispers, the laughter following me down the halls, taunting me, reminding me that I was nothing more than a performance for them to gawk at.

The enormity of my situation crashed over me like a wave, leaving me gasping for breath. I wanted to scream, to run, to hide, but I was frozen in place, a deer caught in headlights. With every passing second, the laughter grew louder, the stares more intense, and my skin prickled with the heat of shame. I felt raw and vulnerable as if every ounce of my dignity had been stripped away along with my clothes.

As I stood there, I could feel my old self slipping away, piece by piece, with every judgmental gaze and whispered comment. I was no longer Emma Collins; I was a living art project, a spectacle to be consumed and critiqued by the very people I had once called friends. I could feel the tears threatening to spill, but I refused to let them see me break. The humiliation was unbearable, and I knew I had to find a way to survive this—a way to navigate through this sea of shame and emerge on the other side. But at that moment, it felt impossible.

The vice principal allowed me to hug my parents before they left. As I clung to my mom, I could feel the warmth of her body against mine, a brief comfort in this storm of humiliation. “I’m so proud of you, Emma,” she whispered, her voice a mixture of encouragement and something else—maybe guilt? I couldn’t quite tell. Dad grabbed Mom’s hand, and I watched them walk out the door, their figures slowly disappearing from my view.

As the door closed behind them, an overwhelming wave of despair crashed over me. I stood there, completely naked, the lanyard still hanging heavily around my neck. I slipped it around my now exposed form, the fabric pressing against my skin like a reminder of everything I had lost. I looked at Mrs. Blunderbuss, my heart racing with a desperate hope that she would somehow call this whole thing off. Maybe she’d see how utterly ridiculous this was and let me get dressed again. But even as the thought crossed my mind, I knew deep down that it was futile.

Mrs. Blunderbuss reached into her pockets, and I found myself transfixed by the sight. Pockets. They were a symbol of the very freedom I craved—the comfort of clothing, something that now felt like a distant memory. I was acutely aware that she had the privilege of wearing clothes, something I no longer had. It seemed so unfair. With every passing second, I felt more like a ghost of my former self, stripped of my identity and dignity.

She pulled out a hall pass and handed it to me, her expression neutral as if this were just another ordinary day in the office. My fingers wrapped around the paper, but I could hardly focus on what it said. All I could think about was the fact that she was standing there fully clothed, while I was left vulnerable and exposed, a living exhibit for all to see. I wanted to scream, to demand my rights, to insist on the simplest comfort of clothing, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, I felt my throat tighten, the embarrassment coursing through me like a poison.

“Here’s your hall pass,” she said, her voice devoid of any empathy. “You can use it to move around campus, but remember, you’ll be back here for the second period. There are still people waiting to express themselves on your canvas.”

Her words felt like a death sentence, and I wanted to rebel, to refuse this absurdity, but I was paralyzed. The weight of my situation hung over me like a dark cloud, blocking out any glimmer of hope. I forced myself to look down at the hall pass in my hand, wishing I could find a way out of this nightmare, wishing for a return to normalcy, to the comfort of clothing, even if it was just for a moment. I couldn’t shake the feeling that my life had irrevocably changed and that I was now at the mercy of the very people I had once thought were my allies.

With every passing moment, my body felt more exposed, not just physically but emotionally. I felt as though I was standing on a stage, with everyone watching, judging, and waiting for me to crumble. It was humiliating, and I knew that the path ahead would be riddled with challenges I had never anticipated.

As the seconds dragged on, I clenched the hall pass tightly in my hand, trying to ground myself in this surreal reality. I had to find a way to survive this, to navigate through the shame and emerge on the other side. But at that moment, with the vice principal watching me and the weight of my vulnerability pressing down, it felt like an impossible task.

Mrs. Blunderbuss scanned the crowd, her gaze piercing through the throng of students who had gathered to witness this bizarre spectacle instead of being in their classes. The air felt electric, charged with a mixture of curiosity and malice as she commanded their attention. “Listen up, everyone! This is Emma Collins, and today she becomes a living art canvas for our Graphic Art Living Project.”

As her words hung in the air, an eerie silence enveloped the hallway. I could feel the weight of their stares, the scrutiny burning into my skin. Just then, a student I only knew casually from a few of my classes piped up. Her voice broke the silence, ringing out with unexpected clarity. “Can I write something on her skin, Ms. Blunderbuss?”

I felt my stomach drop at the suggestion as if I had been punched in the gut. It was surreal to hear someone casually ask to defile my body with their words as if I were nothing more than a piece of paper.

Mrs. Blunderbuss nodded, a smirk creeping across her face. “Sure, but you need to explain to everyone your reasoning and why you’re expressing that.”

The student stepped forward, her hand clutching a red marker. “Um, I wrote ‘Brave’,” she said, hesitating for a moment. “I mean, it takes a lot of courage to do this. I can’t imagine being exposed like this in front of everyone, you know? It’s like... she’s standing up to all of us. It’s brave to just be here and let us write to her.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd, but I felt anything but brave. My heart raced, a conflicting mixture of anger and embarrassment swelling inside me. I hated that she had chosen that word for me; it felt like a label I hadn’t asked for, and the weight of it only deepened my humiliation.

Mrs. Blunderbuss nodded, her expression one of approval. “Excellent point! That’s the spirit of the project. Emma is indeed displaying bravery by participating in this experience.” Her words felt like they were echoing in my head, twisting around my thoughts. Did she think I was brave? Or was she simply trying to sugarcoat this nightmare?

After the girl stepped back, five more students approached, each armed with a different color marker. They lined up in front of me, and I felt a growing sense of dread. One by one, they wrote words on my skin, each accompanied by their reasoning:

A boy in a bright blue shirt stepped forward. “I wrote ‘Free’,” he said, a proud grin spreading across his face. “You’re, like, breaking the norms. Most people wouldn’t dare to do this. It’s cool.”

“Free,” Mrs. Blunderbuss echoed, nodding appreciatively. “That’s an interesting perspective! Emma is indeed liberating herself from societal expectations, even if it feels daunting.”

A girl with colorful hair came next. “I wrote ‘Unique’,” she said, her voice softer but confident. “I think it’s cool how you’re expressing yourself. No one else would do this. It shows that you’re not afraid to be different.”

“Unique!” the vice principal exclaimed. “Excellent! Individuality is essential in art, and you embody that today, Emma!”

A tall boy with glasses approached, writing down a simple word: “Strong.” He looked up at me, a hint of sincerity in his eyes. “I wrote that because it takes a lot of strength to be here like this. It’s not easy to be vulnerable.”

“Strength! A wonderful observation,” Mrs. Blunderbuss said, clearly enjoying this showcase of student engagement. “Emma’s willingness to expose herself in this manner is indeed a testament to her strength.”

The fourth student, a shy girl, stepped up and wrote “Hope.” “I think it’s hopeful that you’re letting us express ourselves. It shows that even in tough situations, we can still find ways to connect.”

“Hope—such a beautiful sentiment!” the vice principal replied, beaming. “Art is about connection, and you’re allowing others to connect with you through this project.”

Finally, a confident girl wearing bold lipstick came forward, writing the word “Real.” “I wrote that because you’re showing everyone who you are. It’s not about the clothes; it’s about being true to yourself.”

“Real! Fantastic!” Mrs. Blunderbuss applauded. “That’s what this project is all about: authenticity and self-expression.”

As I stood there, my skin covered in a kaleidoscope of words, I felt increasingly like a blank canvas for others to project their thoughts onto. It was dehumanizing, and despite the positivity they tried to attach to it, I felt more like an object than a person.

Finally, Mrs. Blunderbuss glanced at the clock and announced, “Okay, everyone, it’s time for Emma to report to her second period. Remember, each of you will receive a hall pass for your participation in this project.”

With that, she handed out hall passes to the onlookers, who began to disperse, leaving me alone with the remnants of my humiliation. As the crowd faded, I could still feel their eyes on me, their words etched into my skin. I took a deep breath, fighting against the overwhelming shame and anger swirling inside me. I had to face the next part of my day, still exposed and vulnerable, and I knew this was only the beginning of what felt like a very long year ahead.

I'm guessing since what was left of the clothes after they were cut off were tossed in the trash, her sneakers and socks were tossed too. Also since her parents are boxing up and donating all her clothes, this probably will be going on for more than just the school year, since she will have no clothes to wear at all period. It going to be royal fun for her when winter comes.

Also is it permanent makers, or water base markers that can be washed off.

One other comment, maybe her head should be shaved too so her head has more canvas for everyone to write on.

Excellent beginning. You tell a good story. Please continue.

Maybe other students could be subject to different insecurities (like the kid with the lisp being made to do public speaking), but of course none as drastic as Emma).

Perhaps Emma somehow ropes Ms. Amberley into also getting naked. Or flubs the next assignment on purpose out of protest for her condition while still trying not to fail completely. Or breaks down and shouts so much that her honesty impresses Ms. Amberley, and Ms. Amberley even offers her a skimpy dress to wear for school, but one she has to give back at the end of the day and a reminder that she is clothed only when Ms. Amberley says so.

Love this story so far! I hope the classmates will slowly start pushing the line to force her to do embarrassing things and to also write things on her that make her feel more humiliates instead of ‘brave’. Maybe they convince the teacher the ‘canvas’ should be in a certain (embarrassing for Emma) position. Hope they will find ways to humiliate and embarrass poor Emma more.

Can’t wait for next chapter!

I must concur, both that it is a great story and that, from the moment I heard her long hair described, I thought this story should really involve her losing it. Maybe not all of it, but cut short so she can't cover herself with it at all. And of course, certain other hair might be hiding something...

Mrs. Blunderbuss raised her hand, commanding the attention of the students gathered at the hallway junction. It was a busy, open area where several corridors converged, with students milling about between classes, some leaning against lockers, others lingering by the water fountains. But now, all eyes were on me—some entertained with wide grins, others whispering behind their hands. The gazes felt like harsh spotlights, revealing every inch of my vulnerability.

"Your project," Mrs. Blunderbuss began, her voice cutting through the low murmurs, "is for everyone in your classes." She paused, letting her words settle in the air like a suffocating fog. "They'll write on your body, expressing their feelings and analyzing themselves through you—living body art."

Her explanation hit me with the force of a punch I wasn’t ready for. I glanced at my mom, who stood proudly at the far end of the hallway junction, her face glowing with excitement. But all I felt was dread, creeping over me like ice water. This wasn’t just an art project—it was the end of my normal life. I wasn’t just exposed; I was about to become a canvas, scrawled with the frustrations and self-hate of my classmates. The weight of that realization pressed down like a heavy stone in my gut.

The hallway, usually filled with the buzzing energy of students, now felt claustrophobic. Locker doors slammed in the distance, echoing off the tiled floors, and the fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, casting a harsh, sterile glow over everything. The oversized bulletin board announcing upcoming events and club meetings seemed almost irrelevant now, as every student passing through the junction stopped, their attention fixated on me. I could feel their stares digging into my skin, each one sharper than the last.

The bell rang for the second period, but its usual chime sounded more like a death knell. As the students shuffled closer to the center of the junction, their eyes lingered on me—wide, curious, judgmental. I wasn’t a person anymore; I was a display. Frozen in place, I felt the humiliation building, knowing this moment would be etched into their memories forever. I could already imagine the mocking whispers that would follow me through the halls, laughing at the girl who had become a living art project.

A wave of anxiety crashed over me, stealing the air from my lungs. I wanted to run, to scream, to disappear, but I was trapped. My skin burned under the weight of their eyes, raw and exposed, as if each glance peeled away another layer of my dignity.

With every look and whisper, pieces of my old self crumbled. I wasn’t Emma Collins anymore; I was an object—a punching bag for their insecurities. Tears welled in my eyes, but I blinked them back. I couldn’t let them see me break. I had to survive this somehow, but at that moment, survival felt like an impossible dream.

The vice principal allowed me a brief hug with my parents before they left. I clung to my mom, her warmth a fleeting comfort—until her words shattered that fragile peace.

“I’m so proud of you, Emma,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. Pride, maybe, but there was something else too. Guilt? Regret? My dad squeezed her hand, and together they turned and left, disappearing through the far hallway.

Despair swelled inside me. I was alone, the cool air brushing against my bare skin, save for the lanyard around my neck—a pitiful, absurd reminder of how little I had left. Mrs. Blunderbuss stood nearby, fully clothed, her hands tucked casually into her pockets. Pockets. I fixated on them, a symbol of the security I no longer had. The comfort of clothes now felt like a distant memory.

She pulled a hall pass from her pocket and handed it to me without ceremony, her expression indifferent, as if this was just another day. I gripped the slip of paper, but the words blurred in my vision. All I could think about was the unfairness of it all—she had clothes, and I had nothing. My throat tightened with the urge to scream, to demand my dignity back, but no sound came.

Her words were a death sentence. Every part of me wanted to rebel, to scream at the absurdity of it all, but I was trapped—held down by the suffocating weight of my situation. I glanced at the pass in my hand, desperately searching for an escape, but there was none. The world I once knew was gone. All I could do now was endure.

The sense of exposure deepened with every second—not just physically, but emotionally. I felt like I was on a stage, and the whole school was watching, waiting for me to crack. I clenched the hall pass tighter, hoping it could ground me somehow. But I knew this was only the beginning.

Mrs. Blunderbuss scanned the students gathered around the junction, her voice rising above the whispers. "This is Emma Collins," she announced, as though unveiling a piece of art. "Today, she became a living art canvas for our Graphic Art Living Project."

An uneasy silence fell over the hallway. My heart raced, the weight of their collective gaze suffocating. Then, someone spoke.

"Can I write something on her skin, Ms. Blunderbuss?"

The question felt like a slap. The idea that someone could casually mark my body, like a piece of paper, was incomprehensible.

Mrs. Blunderbuss smiled. "Of course, but you’ll need to explain your reasoning."

One by one, they came forward. Each one brought with them a marker and a piece of their own pain.

“I wrote ‘Fat’ because I hate my body,” one boy said, his eyes downcast as he scribbled the word across my stomach. "I’ve always felt disgusted with myself."

"Ugly," a girl wrote on my cheek, her marker pressing harshly against my skin. “I can’t stand the way I look, and now, neither can you.”

"Stupid," another scrawled across my forehead, laughing bitterly. "That's how I feel every day in class, so now you can feel it, too."

More followed. "Worthless." "Gross." "Weak." Their hands moved across my arms, my legs, my back—each one leaving behind a piece of themselves. The insults poured over me like acid, burning away at whatever remained of my dignity. I wasn’t Emma anymore. I was every insecurity, every insult they had ever felt about themselves, tattooed across my skin.

As they finished, Mrs. Blunderbuss smiled, nodding approvingly. "See? Emma is now a reflection of all of us."

The crowd stepped back, their work done, leaving me covered in their darkest thoughts, their insecurities, their hate. I fought back the tears that threatened to fall, but the weight of the words on my body made it hard to breathe. This wasn’t just an art project. This was torture. And it was only the beginning.

I stared at the cold, tiled floor beneath my feet, my body stiff and motionless. The markers had long stopped moving, but the insults they’d left behind throbbed like fresh wounds. Fat. Ugly. Worthless. They weren’t just words anymore; they were weights, pulling me down, crushing me under their collective force.

The bell for the second period rang, but I didn’t move. The students filed out of the hallway, some with satisfied looks, others with nervous glances thrown my way. They’d each left a piece of themselves behind, etched on my skin, but I was the one who had to carry it now. I was their mirror, reflecting their pain and self-hatred at them.

Mrs. Blunderbuss stood by the junction entrance, her hands casually folded in front of her. She didn’t offer a word of comfort or acknowledgment. In her eyes, this was art—a project, a lesson in self-expression. But for me, it was something else entirely. I wasn’t a person anymore. I was a canvas, a vessel for their darkest thoughts.

I didn’t know how long I’d been standing there, but the junction had emptied, leaving only me and Mrs. Blunderbuss. She walked over, her heels clicking on the tiled floor, each step a sharp reminder of my exposed state.

"Emma," she said, her voice cool and detached, "you did well today."

I wanted to scream. I wanted to tear the words off my skin, to scrape away the hateful phrases, and to reclaim what was left of myself. But all I could do was stand there, frozen under the weight of everything they’d written. I could still feel the markers pressing against my flesh, the stares lingering, the laughter echoing in my mind.

I finally found my voice, though it was hoarse and weak. “Why?”

Mrs. Blunderbuss raised an eyebrow as if she didn’t understand the question.

“Why me?” I croaked, my throat tight with unshed tears. “Why did Ms. Amberley and the school, choose me for this?”

She tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. “Because you represent something everyone can relate to. You’re not just you, Emma—you’re all of us. Our fears, our insecurities, our flaws. You’re an important part of this lesson.”

Her words landed like blows, each one chipping away at what little of myself was left. I didn’t want to be a lesson. I didn’t want to be a mirror for their pain.

I wanted to be me again.

_______________________________________________

I entered the ladies' room and stood before the mirror, dreading what I might see. The sterile, cold tiles beneath my feet were a stark contrast to the heat coursing through my body, my mind still reeling from everything that had just happened. As I looked into the glass, the girl staring back at me was almost unrecognizable. My skin was a chaotic patchwork of bright colors, each word scrawled like twisted graffiti.

I tried to focus, to pull myself together, but the image felt surreal—like I was floating outside my body, unable to process what had been done to me. My eyes scanned the words—“Brave,” “Free,” “Strong,” “Hope,” “Beautiful,” “Unique,” alongside “Dumb,” “Fat,” “Loser,” “Weirdo,” “Unlovable,” “Disgusting,” “Failure,” “Worthless,” “Empty,” “Betrayed,” and “Unwanted.” They were all meant to be encouraging and cruel at the same time, weighing on me like chains, binding me to this nightmare. Each marker stroke felt like it had burrowed beneath my skin, branding me with other people’s perceptions of who I was supposed to be.

Then I noticed it. Lower. My breath caught in my throat. “Unique”—written in purple ink, dangerously close to my pubic hair. My stomach lurched, the air thickened, and my heart pounded in my chest. The word hovered over a part of me that felt intensely personal, violated. How had I not noticed? Someone had gotten that close, seen that part of me, and still dared to leave their mark.

As I scanned my body, I found more words written on my skin—“Loved” and “Special” on my breasts, and my right breast read “Valuable”—but I was shocked to see how empty they looked as if they were saved for someone or something yet to come. I felt a pang of loss at the realization that my body had been marked with these affirmations while being stripped of the essence that they represented.

I could also see “Dumb” and “Fat” etched across my thighs, “Loser” scrawled on my left butt cheek, and “Weirdo” on the right. Each word was a brutal reminder of the judgment I had faced, an unrelenting echo of the cruel whispers that had haunted me for far too long. “Disgusting” ran across my stomach, while “Failure” trailed down my side. “Empty” lay cruelly on my chest, and “Betrayed” was scribed along my ribs. The names they had called me were now carved into my flesh, a grotesque reminder of how I had been reduced to someone else's idea of me.

I wanted to scream, to scrub the words away, to erase the traces of this violation from my body. But I was frozen, staring at the mirror, my face pale and hollow. The room felt suffocating, the walls pressing in as the full weight of what had happened crashed over me. How had I allowed this to happen? Why hadn’t I stopped it?

“Unique.” The word twisted in my mind, like a cruel joke. This wasn’t something to be admired. It was a violation. Stripped bare, I didn’t feel unique—I felt used, exposed, humiliated.

My fingers hovered over the word, trembling, but I couldn’t bring myself to touch it. My skin burned beneath the ink, a reminder that I wasn’t in control anymore. My body wasn’t mine—it belonged to them now, to the project, to the school. I wanted to claw at it, to scrub it off until my skin was raw, but I knew it wouldn’t help. The ink might be temporary, but the damage was deeper.

I took a shaky breath, fighting back the tears threatening to spill. My reflection blurred as my vision clouded with unshed tears, and I blinked them away furiously. I couldn’t break down here. Not yet. I wouldn’t let them see me fall apart. But I wasn’t sure how much longer I could hold it together.

As I looked up in the mirror, I suddenly caught sight of a reflection behind me—Ms. Amberley, my art teacher. She stepped inside the restroom, her presence filling the small space like a storm. I turned around slowly, my heart racing as she took a step closer, her gaze sweeping over the words scrawled across my skin.

Without hesitation, she reached out, her fingers closing around my trembling hands. I hesitated but eventually, reluctantly, grasped hers, feeling the warmth of her touch in stark contrast to the icy dread settling in my stomach.

“Emma,” she said softly, her voice calm, almost soothing. “Explain your feelings to me in great depth. Tell me about the rawness you’re experiencing from the comments written by others on your skin.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy with an almost clinical detachment. She wanted me to explain. To talk about it? My thoughts spun, emotions clashing violently inside me, but I couldn’t find the words. How could I possibly explain the violation I felt? The deep humiliation of having my body reduced to a canvas for others to project their thoughts onto?

Before I could respond, Ms. Amberley’s smile widened slightly, and she added, “You do know, don’t you? You’re not naked anymore. Clothes—” she paused, her tone shifting, becoming more deliberate, “—are not yours to wear or own. This is yours to embrace. This new form of expression. These words—they define you now.”

Her words felt like they were pressing down on me, suffocating me. Not naked? Embrace this? My mind rebelled against the idea. How could she possibly expect me to embrace this humiliation, this exposure? But her grip on my hands tightened, and I could feel her pulling me deeper into her twisted logic. The words on my skin weren’t just ink to her—they were a new kind of identity, something she believed I should accept, even celebrate.

I looked away, my hands trembling in hers, the tears I had been fighting so hard to hold back now dangerously close to the surface. How could she possibly understand the agony of standing there, marked by others’ words, stripped of any agency over my own body? And yet, the way she spoke—it was as if she truly believed this was some kind of revelation, something I needed to embrace to become… what? More enlightened? More free?

“I… I don’t feel free,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “I feel… trapped.”

Ms. Amberley tilted her head slightly as if considering my words, her smile never faltering. “You’re only trapped by your resistance, Emma. The rawness you feel—that’s the beginning of understanding. The sooner you let go, the sooner you’ll see the beauty in this.”

Her words were like poison, seeping into the cracks of my already fragile state. I wanted to pull away, to run, but the weight of everything was pressing down on me too heavily. How was I supposed to embrace this when every fiber of my being screamed that it was wrong?

Ms. Amberley’s grip on my hands didn’t falter. Her smile was unwavering as if my turmoil was some kind of educational experience for both of us. I could feel my pulse racing in my throat, a combination of anger, disbelief, and confusion. I wanted to shout, to tell her how wrong this was, but my voice remained caught in my chest.

“You say you feel trapped,” she continued, her voice soft but firm. “But that’s because you’re still clinging to old ideas, old definitions of what it means to be you. The rawness, the discomfort, it’s all part of shedding those old layers. Don’t you see? The words on your skin—they’re not just what others think. They’re reflections of how they see you, of how you can see yourself in new ways.”

I shook my head, my voice shaking. “But these words… they’re not mine. I didn’t choose them.”

She squeezed my hands gently as if comforting me. “That’s the beauty of it, Emma. Sometimes, we need others to show us parts of ourselves we can’t see on our own. This project is about transformation, about vulnerability. You’re not just an individual anymore. You’re a canvas for others to express what they see in you—and through that, you can discover things about yourself you’ve never realized.”

I felt sick. The idea that I was supposed to be grateful for this intrusion, that I was expected to learn from this violation, twisted my stomach into knots. I looked down at our intertwined hands, struggling to breathe through the wave of panic rising inside me.

“I didn’t want this,” I muttered, the words spilling out before I could stop them. “I didn’t want to be… reduced to this.”

Ms. Amberley sighed, her tone still infuriatingly calm. “You’re mistaken if you think you can walk away from this unchanged, Emma. This isn’t just about you anymore. You’ve become part of something larger. Whether you like it or not.”

I felt a flicker of anger igniting within. I wasn’t a victim in this scenario; I was a participant—albeit unwilling. But I could choose how I responded.

Taking a deep breath, I looked back at the mirror, staring into my own eyes with newfound determination. “Maybe I can’t change what’s been done,” I said quietly, my voice steadying. “But I can refuse to let it define me. I will take back my narrative.”

Ms. Amberley crossed her arms, watching me intently. “You can try, but the words will always be there. You need to learn how to coexist with them.”

“Maybe,” I shot back, “but I’ll make sure they don’t control me. I’ll carve out my own identity, even amidst this chaos.”

A moment of silence stretched between us, filled with tension. I could feel Ms. Amberley studying me, perhaps searching for a crack in my resolve, but I stood firm. This was my body, and I was determined to take back the power I had relinquished, even if it took every ounce of strength I had.

Finally, she stepped back, her expression inscrutable. “I see you’re not ready to embrace this yet. But remember, Emma, the choice is always yours. You can either fight against it or find a way to thrive within it.”

With that, she turned and walked away, leaving me alone with my reflection. I watched as her figure disappeared from view, and for the first time in what felt like hours, I felt a flicker of hope. I was still here. I still had my voice.

I pressed my hands against the mirror, staring at the words inscribed across my skin, each one a reminder of what I had endured. But they were also a testament to my strength. I would not let them dictate who I was.

Taking a deep breath, I squared my shoulders, preparing to face whatever came next. I would reclaim my narrative, one word at a time. No longer a victim of their art; I would become the author of my own story.

_______________________________________________

Entering one of the stalls without bothering to close the door, I figured, what was the point? Everyone could see every detail of my body for the foreseeable future. After flushing and washing my hands, I pushed my bookbag—which now had that damn pass—into the next stall. As I stepped out, I passed two teachers who thankfully didn’t say anything to me, letting me slip away while my second period was still in session.

But then, as I neared my classroom door, I caught sight of another student—a female, probably a freshman—crouched down near the lockers, crying with her head buried in her knees. My first instinct was to simply pass her by, to escape into my class and avoid drawing attention to myself, to avoid the humiliation of being this freak, this walking whiteboard.

I couldn’t help but think how ridiculous I must look, covered in words and comments, while here she was, visibly hurting. But the thought of stopping, of acknowledging her pain, sent a wave of anxiety crashing over me. I wanted to turn away, to vanish, to escape from my reality.

Then I stopped and walked over to her standing off to the side, her tear-streaked face twisted in frustration as I could hear her muttered curses under her breath. Her shoulders were hunched, her fingers pulling at her sleeves nervously. When she finally glanced up and saw me, her expression shifted in an instant from anger to shock, her mouth falling open as her eyes took in the sight of me.

“You’re… you’re…” she stammered, trailing off as she stared at the words scrawled across my bare skin. I cut her off by saying it was not about me, I had been chosen to be this walking whiteboard for others to write their pain anywhere on my skin.

I didn’t wait for her to finish. Instead, I approached her slowly, kneeling beside her so I could look her in the eye fully aware of how I was kneeling. She could see every intimate detail of me. Not sure how to put it on paper, but at that moment I didn’t care about that. Guessing it was less than an hour ago, my parents and the school officials were exposed to greater humiliation. At that moment it was me that was doing it.

“First, tell me why you’re crying,” I asked, my voice soft but steady, cutting through her disbelief.

She hesitated, clearly taken aback by the question. “I… I fought with my best friend,” she muttered, her voice trembling. “We said horrible things, and now she won’t even look at me. I don’t know how it all went so wrong.”

I listened quietly, nodding as she let it out. “It’s tough when that happens,” I said. “When words hurt, and we lose control. But that doesn’t mean things are over.”

Her eyes flicked to the writing on my body, still full of confusion and curiosity. “I don’t understand,” she whispered. “How can you let them write all over you like that? Doesn’t it feel wrong?”

I glanced down at the ink covering my skin, a chaotic mosaic of other people’s thoughts and feelings. “I didn’t choose this,” I replied, my voice edged with quiet defiance. “None of these words are mine. But I carry them because someone decided that’s what I should do.”

She seemed to absorb that for a moment, her eyes drifting over the phrases etched on my arms and chest to the marker hanging from the lanyard around my neck. “Can I write something?” she asked, her voice hesitant, as though her emotions weren’t worthy of being added.

I handed her the marker, our fingers brushing in a gesture of silent understanding. “Write whatever you need to,” I said. “Wherever it feels right.”

Her hand trembled as she took the marker, studying my body for a few moments, unsure where to begin. Finally, she stepped closer, uncapping the marker with shaky hands. Slowly, she began to write around my right breast and then the left one, each stroke deliberate and careful.

When she finished, the phrase curled around my skin in tight, raw strokes: "I feel like everything I say pushes people away, and no matter how hard I try, no one hears me."

Her words stretched across my breasts, curling in looping strokes that radiated her pain and isolation. This wasn’t just anger—it was a plea, a confession of feeling unseen.

She pulled back and stared at what she had written, her lips pressed tightly together as if she couldn’t believe she’d put her pain on display like that. “That’s how I feel,” she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. “Like I’m screaming, but no one’s listening.”

I looked down at the words she had left on my skin, my heart aching for her. These weren’t the careless scribbles of others—this was different. Her words carried the weight of vulnerability and the desperate need to be heard.

“I hear you,” I said, standing slowly. “And maybe your friend does too, deep down. Sometimes we lose each other, but it doesn’t mean we’re lost forever.”

Her gaze lifted to mine, tears brimming again, but there was something softer now, a flicker of relief, as though being heard had lifted part of the burden. “Thank you,” she murmured, voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t think anyone would understand.”

I slipped the marker back into the lanyard sleeve. “Sometimes, sharing the weight helps, even if just a little.”

She smiled, weak but genuine, and turned to leave, her steps lighter than before. As I looked down at the words she had left behind—*"I feel like everything I say pushes people away, and no matter how hard I try, no one hears me"—*I realized this wasn’t just her pain anymore. I am carrying it with her now.

The ink on my skin was more than just phrases. It was a connection, a shared weight. Each word was someone else’s pain, fear, or longing, and in carrying them, I was offering something—space, perhaps. A place where people could express what they couldn’t say out loud.

As I stood there, I felt a shift within myself, as though the ink wasn’t just marking my skin but awakening something deeper. The bell rang, signaling the end of the second period. As students began filling the hallway, I noticed Claire, the girl who had written her pain on my skin, standing with another girl. I assumed this was the friend she had fought with.

Claire’s eyes met mine, and she hesitated before pulling her friend over. “Amy, this is what I wrote,” Claire said softly, gesturing to the ink on my chest. Amy’s gaze followed, her eyes catching on my body—the starkness of my nakedness, the inked words now exposed to the world. Her expression shifted as she read Claire’s words, etched raw and honest across both of my breasts.

The breasts held: "I fear that you will leave me like everyone else did before. I don’t know how to be enough for you, and it’s tearing me apart." And on the right: "I need you to see me, all of me, even the broken parts that scare me most."

Amy stared at the words, her hand lifting but hesitating, trembling slightly. Claire stood beside her, anxious. The silence between them grew heavier by the second. Finally, Amy spoke, her voice barely a whisper. “Claire… I didn’t realize you felt like this.”

Claire’s eyes dropped to the floor. “I didn’t know how to say it,” she whispered. “Writing it felt like the only way to make you understand.”

Amy’s fingers finally touched the ink on my chest, tracing the words slowly. “I’ve been hiding too,” she admitted, her voice breaking. “I was scared to let you see me, to let anyone see me.”

Claire’s breath hitched, but she reached out, taking Amy’s hand. “I don’t want to be scared anymore,” she said quietly. “I’m ready to let you in, for real this time.”

Amy nodded, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I want that too, Claire. I don’t want to hide from you anymore.”

I stood there, a silent witness to their reconciliation, the words on my skin a testament to the healing power of honesty. As Claire and Amy exchanged a tentative but hopeful glance, I could feel the weight between them lift. The ink might fade with time, but the connection they’d rediscovered would remain.

As they walked away, hand in hand, I realized that the ink on my body wasn’t just a burden—it was a way to carry others’ pain, to help them find a way back to each other.

As I walked through the now-crowded hallway before the third period, I could feel the weight of the states around me. The chatter, the whispers, the unflattering comments—some people didn’t even bother to lower their voices as they pointed out the phrases scattered across my skin. Words once scrawled by others were now echoing back at me through their lips, and I could hear snippets of their mocking tones, picking apart my appearance and the messages that were inked into me.

"Look at that one," someone murmured behind me, and I caught the sound of a few words from my body—words I hadn’t chosen, but carried all the same.

I kept walking, forcing myself to focus on getting to Mr. Smothers's Algebra II class. The long hallway felt endless today, and I didn't want to linger in it any longer than necessary. The bathroom break during the second period had been enough of a reprieve, but I needed to keep moving, to get through this moment and reach a place where I could escape the noise, even if just for a while.

As I approached the door to the classroom, I glanced down at the writing that the freshman girl had left earlier. Her words, though heavy with pain, felt different from the rest. They didn’t sting like the others. Instead, they seemed to carry a strange warmth with them—a reminder of the vulnerability she’d shown, and the connection we’d shared in that fleeting moment.

A small smile tugged at my lips as I reached for the door. Her words were still fresh, curling around my skin like a quiet promise, something meaningful amidst the chaos.

With a deep breath, I pushed the door open, stepping into the classroom.

This is an excellent story and deserving of accolades. I'm not sure why a world-renowned artist would be teaching high school art class, or how a girl who is so shy that she can't even shower alone without a swimsuit would be that swayed by the threat of expulsion. But the story has a solid theme and is written well enough to transcend such nitpicking. Kudos.

~ND