Skin Deep
Posted: Mon Mar 03, 2025 1:01 am
Skin Deep
A Novel by Emma Clarke
Prologue: Unraveling
I’m Emma Clarke—21, third-year psychology major at Greenridge University, a liberal arts enclave shrouded in Pacific Northwest evergreens. My roots? A conservative Wisconsin town where modesty wasn’t just virtue but law. My parents, high school teachers with dog-eared copies of The Feminine Mystique they’d never read, preached academic ambition but policed hemlines. Psychology became my rebellion, a scalpel to dissect the societal scripts etched into my bones. But curiosity wars with guilt daily. I journal to survive, pages littered with questions I’m too afraid to speak aloud.
Chapter 1: The Naked Truth
Day 1: September 5th
6:03 AM
The alarm screams. Rain hammers the dorm window as I surface from sleep, the smell of damp pine sharp as a knife. On my desk: a folded sweater, jeans, the bra I bought last spring—all untouched. Clothing constricts women psychologically. Dr. Reed’s theory gnaws at me. To test it, I’m to live naked. For months. No concessions. My academic death sentence or liberation?
I stand, linoleum cold underfoot. The mirror reflects a stranger: goosebumped skin, arms clutched like armor. This is science, I lie. Mom’s voice hisses back: “Decency is dignity.”
8:17 AM
The lecture hall is a cathedral of whispers. Backpack straps dig into my shoulders—my only shield. Dr. Reed enters, tweed-clad and aloof, quoting Foucault like a sermon: “The body is a site of resistance.” His gaze lingers on me. A jock in a varsity jacket snickers, eyes raking my spine. I scribble in my notebook: Is vulnerability the experiment or the punishment?
11:42 AM
Maya finds me at the café, thrusting a scarf the size of a parachute. “For the… you know.” Her neon hair clashes with the autumn gloom. Even she, an art major who paints nudes for kicks, hesitates. I push the scarf back. Authenticity or martyrdom? A freshman gapes, milk dripping from his tray. Maya flips him off. I stab at kale, wondering if humiliation has a caloric count.
3:15 PM
In the lab, Jenna—sociology’s answer to a warrior queen—argues, “Clothing is power. Armor.” She glares, as if my nakedness is a manifesto. I counter, “What if armor’s just another cage?” My voice cracks. Dr. Reed scribbles notes, a vulture circling roadkill.
Later, locked in a bathroom stall, I press my cheek to cold metal. Is this research or ritual sacrifice?
6:30 PM
Maya sketches me for her thesis: Bodies Unbound. The radiator wheezes. Charcoal rasps against paper, a lullaby. “You look… electric,” she says. I laugh, the sound foreign. For the first time today, I didn't feel the cold.
9:08 PM
Steam fogs the mirror. I trace my reflection—collarbone, hip, the scar from my childhood bike crash. Who is this girl? The theory claims fabric stifles, but nakedness feels like trading chains for a spotlight.
11:59 PM
Journal Entry #1:
Survived. Data: Adrenaline ≠ liberation. Variables—shame (internal? Societal?), male gaze (inescapable?). Hypothesis: The constraint isn’t clothing, but the rules. But how to quantify freedom?
The clock tower tolls. Somewhere, Dr. Reed sips bourbon, dissecting our pain. I crawl into bed, sheets abrasive against raw skin. Miss my wool sweater. Miss invisibility.
The night thrums. Tomorrow crouches, hungry. Am I a pioneer or prey?
Day 3: September 7th
7:22 AM
Three days in, and my skin has memorized the texture of every breeze. I wake to rain again, the kind that stitches the sky to the earth. Maya’s still asleep, her hair a neon tangle against the pillow. I dress in the dark out of habit, then freeze, fingers clutching air. Old reflexes die hard.
The dorm hallway is empty. I sprint to the showers, towel clutched like a lifeline. A girl from the lacrosse team passes, eyes averted. Progress? Or pity?
10:05 AM
Dr. Reed corners me after lecture. “Initial observations, Ms. Clarke?” His voice is clinical, but his gaze isn’t. I recite my journal notes like a shield: “Adrenaline spike diminishing. Heightened awareness of social dynamics.” He nods, scribbling. “And the male gaze?”
I flinch. “A confounding variable.”
“Or the point,” he says, smiling. For the first time, I wonder if this experiment is his thesis, not mine.
12:30 PM
Lunch with Maya at the vegan co-op. She wears a t-shirt that says ART OR DIE. A sophomore at the next table films me covertly. Maya snatches his phone, deletes the footage, and snaps, “Her body’s not your content.”
I eat lentils, numb. “What if it is?” I mutter. “Dr. Reed’s making me a lab rat. You’re drawing me. Who owns this?”
Maya stills. “You do. Always.”
4:45 PM
Jenna ambushes me in the psych lounge. “You’re setting us back decades,” she hisses. “Walking around like a… buffet. Men don’t need more excuses to leer.”
I grip my notebook. “So we should police bodies instead of behavior?”
She leans in. “You think you’re brave? You’re just free labor for some tenured creep’s fetish.”
The words stick. Later, I scrub my skin raw in the shower.
8:00 PM
Maya paints my back with henna—swirling vines, a rebellion in dye. “Camouflage,” she jokes, but her hands tremble. The paste itches. “Why are you doing this?” she asks.
I stare at the wall. “To see if I can.”
11:59 PM
Journal Entry #3:
Hypothesis: Nudity doesn’t erase power structures—it refracts them. Data: 23 covert photos taken, 4 slut-shaming memes (reported), 1 elderly custodian who gave me his jacket (declined). Jenna’s right about one thing: Reed’s watching. But so is everyone.
Question: If clothing is armor, is nakedness a weapon? Or just a target?
Day 5: September 9th
2:15 PM
The campus forum erupts. A thread titled Naked Psych Girl trends. Comments oscillate between “Feminist icon!” and “Attention whore.” Someone posts freshman-year photos of me in a turtleneck and plaid skirt. “Pick a lane,” writes an anonymous account.
Maya wants to hack the thread. I let it burn.
5:30 PM
Dr. Reed assigns a reflection paper: “How has nudity altered your social capital?” I write about the lacrosse girl who now avoids me, the custodian’s jacket, Jenna’s fury. No conclusion. Just a postscript: “You knew this would happen.”
9:00 PM
Mom calls. Word reached Antigo. “Your father won’t show his face at church,” she says, voice splintered. I count her pauses like sins.
“Are you… safe?” she finally asks.
“Define safe,” I say.
She hangs up. I smash my childhood snow globe—Wisconsin pines drowning in fake glitter.
11:59 PM
Journal Entry #5:
Variables unaccounted for:
The internet (a social accelerant)
Family (the original architects of shame)
Dr. Reed’s smirk (see: Schadenfreude)
Hypothesis collapsing. New theory: All experiments are exploitation.
Week 1: Data Summary
Physical Symptoms: Persistent chill, improved posture (no slouching to hide), heightened tactile sensitivity.
Social Reactions: 62% hostile (catcalls, photos), 23% avoidant, 15% actively supportive (Maya, custodian, one surprisingly feminist frat guy).
Academic Impact: Reed gave my reflection paper a B-. Notes: “Lacks rigor. Interrogate your compliance in systems of oppression.”
Final Journal Entry of the Week:
Clothing isn’t the constraint. Visibility is. To be seen is to be dissected. But here’s the paradox: I’ve never felt more invisible. Stripped of context—no band tees, no thrifted sweaters—I’ve become a blank screen. Everyone projects. No one sees.
Except Maya.
Day 8: September 12th
10:14 AM
Mom stands in the dorm doorway, her floral suitcase dripping rainwater onto the carpet. She smells like Antigo—linen spray and disapproval. Her eyes darted from Maya’s mural of nude sketches to me, wrapped in a threadbare towel after my shower. “Emma,” she says, the name a verdict.
Maya mumbles something about “printmaking class” and flees. The radiator hisses. Mom sits on my bed, spine rigid, as if contact with the mattress might corrupt her. “Your father’s blaming himself,” she says. “I think he didn’t… guide you properly.”
I pull on socks—my one concession. “I’m not a lost sheep.”
She unzips her suitcase. Inside: my childhood Bible, a sweater she knit last winter, a Ziploc of chocolate chip cookies. Bribes or grenades? “People are praying for you,” she whispers.
“Tell them to pray harder,” I say. “I’m not done sinning yet.”
3:00 PM
Dr. Reed’s office smells like bourbon and dust. He gestures to my henna-stained arms. “Rule addition: No modifications. Purity of form is essential.”
“Purity?” I snap. “Or control?”
He leans back, templed fingers hiding a smirk. “You agreed to the experiment’s parameters, Ms. Clarke. Unless you’d prefer to fail…”
I scratch at the henna vines. Compliance or combustion?
Day 9: September 13th
7:45 AM
The journalist ambushes me outside the dining hall. Riverbend Chronicle badge, iPhone recording. “Emma! How’s the ‘naked experiment’ impacting campus safety?”
Maya body-blocks her. “How’s your obsession with teenage girls?”
Later, the article drops: “NUDE COED SPARKS DEBATE: Feminist Statement or Cry for Help?” My face photoshopped onto a Greek statue. Comments section: a warzone.
12:00 PM
Lunch with Mom at the café. She orders tea, steeped twice as long as needed. “You used to love modesty,” she says, stirring in sugar she doesn’t take. “That lace dress at Homecoming…”
“I froze in that dress,” I say. “Spent the night hiding in the bathroom.”
She stiffens. “Decency isn’t a cage, Emma.”
“Then why does it feel like one?”
Day 10: September 14th
9:30 PM
The protest erupts at dusk. “FREE THE BODY!” chants clash with “PROTECT DECENCY!” posters. I’m caught in the crossfire—a Rorschach test. A freshman shoves a megaphone at me: “What’s your endgame?”
Survival, I think.
Maya drags me away, her palm sweaty. “They’re voting on banning the experiment tomorrow. Reed’s freaking out.”
“Good,” I lied.
11:59 PM
Journal Entry #10:
Variables reshuffled:
Mom’s tears (weaponized nostalgia)
Reed’s “purity” mandate (control masquerading as science)
The journalist’s narrative (my body, her byline)
Hypothesis: Autonomy is a myth. We’re all puppets—just some strings are harder to see.
But
But
Maya left the razor on my desk.
Day 11: September 15th
8:17 AM
The razor glints in the dawn light. Henna vines curl like dead ivy on my scalp. Mom’s voice still claws at the door: “Don’t do this, Emma. You’ll regret it.” I press the blade to my temple. The first strand falls—a whisper of surrender.
Maya texts: Frat guys are chanting your name at the quad. Also, Reed’s office is LITTERED with complaint letters. You’re famous.
I shave harder.
10:45 AM
Dr. Reed’s “vitality check.” His fingers linger too long on my pulse. “Aesthetic choices undermine the experiment’s integrity,” he says, eyeing my buzzcut.
“Integrity?” I yank my wrist back. “You mean control.”
He slides a consent form across his desk. Revised parameters: No alterations to hair, skin, or—
I tear it. “I’m not your doll.”
His smile sharpens. “Then you’re failing the class.”
1:30 PM
The quad swarms. “FREE THE BODY!” activists clash with decency picketers. A freshman thrusts a sign at me: Nudity ≠ Liberation. Someone else screams, “Let her speak!”
Maya shoves a megaphone into my hands. The crowd stills.
I say nothing.
Instead, I unzip my hoodie. Let it drop.
Gasps. Cameras flash. My buzzcut prickles in the wind.
A protester yells, “Put clothes on!”
I step closer. “Make me.”
Silence. Then applause—ragged, defiant.
4:00 PM
Mom packs her suitcase. “You’re unrecognizable,” she says, folding the unused sweater.
I touch my shorn scalp. “Good.”
She hesitates, clutching her Bible. “I prayed for you last night.”
“For me? Or for the daughter you wish I was?”
She leaves without answering. The door clicks. I pocket her Ziploc cookies.
7:45 PM
The journalist’s new headline: “BALD AND UNBOWED: Nude Psych Student Sparks Campus Revolution.” My face is pixelated. My body, a blur.
Maya laughs. “They censored you but not the pervs in the comments.”
I toss the paper. “Symbols are safer than people.”
11:59 PM
Journal Entry #11:
Today’s data:
1 buzzcut (act of war)
37 protests (22% alliés, 78% voyeurs)
1 mother-shaped ghost
Hypothesis: Transformation is violence. You shed skin. Someone always bleeds.
Day 12: September 16th
9:00 AM
Dean Whitmore’s office reeks of lemon polish and authority. Her mahogany desk gleams under fluorescent lights, a copy of the Riverbend Chronicle headline glaring between us: “BALD AND UNBOWED.” She steeples her fingers. “Ms. Clarke, this… spectacle violates our code of conduct. You have until Friday to dress or face expulsion.”
I dig my nails into the armrest. “The experiment’s approved academic research.”
“Approved by Dr. Reed,” she says, smirking. “Who’s now questioning your commitment to methodology.”
The trap snaps shut.
12:30 PM
Reed corners me in the psych lab, his breath sour with coffee. “The dean’s offer is generous.” He slides a sweater across the table—cashmere, ivory, suffocating. “Wear this, keep your scholarship. Continue your… work.”
I flick the sweater. It pools on the floor like a dead thing. “You rigged this.”
He leans in. “Science requires sacrifice. Yours or mine.”
3:45 PM
Maya’s petition hits 10,000 signatures. My face floods social media—hashtags like #NudeAndUnashamed and #AcademicFreedom trend. A TikTok montage edits me into suffragette marches, Wonder Woman, a marble statue. Strangers call me “brave.” I feel like a mascot.
“We’re winning,” Maya insists, her laptop glowing.
I scroll through the comments. “She’s just doing it for attention.” “Finally, a real feminist!” “Where’s her OF link?”
“Winning what?” I mutter.
7:00 PM
The henna artist, Lila, finds me at the co-op. Her arms are a tapestry of ink—serpents, lotus blooms, constellations. “Your buzzcut is a blank canvas,” she says. “I could paint a phoenix. Rising from bullshit.”
The needle hums in my mind. Reed’s rule hisses: No modifications.
“What’s the price?” I ask.
Lila grins. “Your story.”
11:59 PM
Journal Entry #12:
Choices:
Submit (wear the sweater, become Reed’s puppet).
Burn (expulsion, debt, Mom’s “I told you so”).
Transform (Lila’s phoenix, permanent rebellion).
Hypothesis: Freedom is a series of traps. Pick the one that fits best.
Day 13: September 17th
6:00 AM
I dream of the Bible burning. Flames lick Proverbs 31: “She is clothed with strength and dignity.” Ash coats my tongue. I wake choking.
Mom’s package arrives—a new Bible, passages on modesty highlighted. A Post-it: “You’ll need this more than me.”
I drop it in Maya’s kiln. The pages curl, screaming.
2:00 PM
Protesters swarm Reed’s lecture. “Fire the predator!” they chant. He smirks, unshaken, lecturing on Milgram’s obedience studies.
“Emma’s choice proves my theory,” he declares. “Clothing is coercion. She resisted.”
The room swivels to me. Naked. Buzzcut. Exposed.
A student stands. “Or you’re just a creep with tenure.”
The crowd roars. Reed’s mask slips—a flash of teeth, fury.
8:30 PM
Lila’s studio smells of antiseptic and jasmine. I lie on the table, ribs pressed to vinyl. “Ready?” she asks.
The needle bites. My skin sings.
11:59 PM
Journal Entry #13:
The phoenix spans my ribs—golden, half-ascendant. Reed will call it defiance. Mom, damnation.
But under my fingers, it’s just mine.
Day 14: September 18th
8:03 AM
The expulsion letter arrives via email and certified mail. Dean Whitmore’s signature loops like a noose. “…repeated disregard for community standards… psychological disruption… effective immediately.” Maya reads it over my shoulder and hurls her coffee mug at the wall. “Lawyer. Now. We’re fighting this.”
I stare at the shattered ceramic. “With what money?”
She grins, wild-eyed. “With virality.”
10:30 AM
Dr. Reed’s lawsuit against Greenridge trends by noon. “Academic Suppression!” his Twitter proclaims. Attached: a PDF of his “groundbreaking” paper, citing my “deterioration” as proof clothing is psychological warfare. The comments section becomes a coliseum:
“Hero or predator?”
“FREE EMMA CLARKE!”
“This is why I homeschool.”
Maya leaks his emails to the press. Subject line: Ms. Clarke’s “pathology” and the necessity of control. The word deterioration repeats 17 times.
1:15 PM
Lila arrives with a gallery curator in tow—sharp suit, sharper smile. He circles me like I’m a sculpture. “Bodies Unbound could be transcendent. We’ll feature your phoenix alongside Lila’s other work. Nude, of course. A living exhibit.”
Lila frowns. “It’s about agency, not—”
“It’s about tickets,” he interrupts. “You’d get 20% of sales.”
I touch my tattoo, still tender. “And my name?”
“Anonymous Muse has a nicer ring.”
4:45 PM
Mom’s voicemail plays on the speaker: “Your father’s had chest pains. The doctors say stress. You’ve ruined us, Emma. Was it worth it?”
Maya slams the phone down. “Guilt is her superpower.”
I wait for tears. None come. Just the phoenix burning under my ribs.
8:00 PM
The gallery contract mocks me from my desk. Anonymous. Always anonymous. Reed’s emails mock me too: “Subject 04’s refusal to comply suggests profound fragility…”
Maya bursts in, waving her laptop. “The petition hit 50k! Activists are storming the admin building. You’ve got leverage—sue the dean, expose Reed!”
I trace the phoenix’s wings. “Or I let it all burn.”
11:59 PM
Journal Entry #14:
Data:
1 expulsion (institutional verdict)
1 lawsuit (Reed’s last-ditch martyrdom)
1 gallery offer (erasure with a paycheck)
1 mother’s voice (a different kind of fire)
Hypothesis: Maybe rebellion isn’t about winning. Maybe it’s about who you force to watch you burn.
Day 15: September 19th
3:00 AM
I sneak into the psych building. Reed’s office is unlocked, reeking of paranoia and printer ink. I torch his paper drafts in the industrial shredder. Feed his Foucault books into the kiln. Forge his signature on a retraction letter: “My findings were flawed. Clothing is not a constraint—it’s a confession.”
Maya finds me at dawn, ash in my hair. “You’re insane,” she breathes. “I’ll drive.”
12:00 PM
The gallery opens without me. The curator texts: “Coward.” Lila leaves a voicemail: “I gave them nothing. The phoenix is yours.”
At the protest, students chant my name. I climb onto the admin building’s roof, phoenix bared to the sun. The crowd stills. Cameras tilt up.
I don’t speak. Don’t move. Let them sear this image into their retinas—untitled, unexplained, unowned.
11:59 PM
Journal Entry #15:
Today’s variables:
Arson (metaphorical)
Silence (weaponized)
A father’s heartbeat (still thrumming?)
Hypothesis: Fire is a language. Let them parse the smoke.
Day 16: September 20th
8:30 AM
The dean’s office smells of antiseptic resolve. Her offer sits between us: Reinstatement. Probation. Mandatory counseling. “A gesture of goodwill,” she says, steepling her fingers. “We’re prepared to frame this as… a learning experience.”
I trace the raised ink of STILL on my wrist. “And the nudity experiment?”
“Discontinued.” Her smile is a scalpel. “For your well-being.”
Maya kicks my ankle under the table. Walk away, her glare says.
I stand. “I’ll think about it.”
The lie tastes like ash.
12:15 PM
Dad’s voicemail is a rasp of static. “Emma… your mother… the papers…” A cough rattles the receiver. The hospital room number flashes on my screen.
Maya drives, her knuckles white on the wheel. “You don’t owe them.”
The phoenix itches. I scratch until it bleeds.
3:00 PM
Antigo General reeks of bleach and wilted carnations. Dad’s asleep, tubes snaking from his arms. Mom sits rigid in a plastic chair, divorce papers clutched like a rosary.
“He asked for you,” she says, not looking up.
I hover in the doorway. “Did you?”
She flinches. The heart monitor beeps.
Dad’s eyes flutter open. “Em… you came.” His hand trembles toward mine.
I don’t take it.
7:45 PM
Lila’s studio thrums with bass. She inks STILL in Gothic script beneath my phoenix, the needle a metronome. “What’s next?” she asks.
The gallery curator’s texts buzz unanswered: “Last chance to be immortalized.”
“Dunno,” I say. “Burn something else?”
Lila snorts. “Clichéd.”
“Honest.”
11:59 PM
Journal Entry #16:
Variables:
Dad’s hand (reaching, always reaching)
The dean’s bargain (a gilded cage)
STILL (not a mantra—a dare)
Hypothesis: Rising from ash requires first admitting you’re on fire.
Day 17: September 21st
10:00 AM
Maya screens her documentary rough cut. My face flickers—shaving my head, silent on the roof, burning Reed’s papers. “It’s raw,” she says. “Unfiltered.”
I watch myself become a silhouette. “You erased my voice.”
“You chose silence,” she snaps.
The phoenix twinges. We don’t speak for hours.
4:30 PM
The campus quad buzzes. Freshmen snap selfies where I stood naked. A girl with blue hair stops me: “You’re why I switched majors.”
“Don’t,” I say, walking faster.
She follows. “You showed me we can fight.”
I spin. “Fight what? The system just repackages you.”
Her smile falters. I hate myself.
8:00 PM
Reed’s retraction letter trends. Conspiracy theorists claim I forged it. Alumni demand the dean’s resignation. A freshman paints STILL on the admin building in tar.
Maya finds me on the dorm roof. “They’re listening now. Say something.”
I lit a match. Let it die in the wind.
Day 18: September 22nd
5:17 AM
Dad’s heart monitors flat lines as dawn cracks the horizon. Mom’s scream carves the hospital walls. I stand in the doorway, STILL burning under my skin, watching her crumple. No tears. Just the phoenix flexing its wings.
Maya’s van idles outside. “Where to?” she asks, eyeing my bleach-white buzzcut.
“West,” I say.
She doesn’t ask why.
10:45 AM
The dean’s second expulsion letter arrives via text. “Continued defiance… irreparable harm… effective immediately.” I screenshot it, post it raw. The internet howls.
Maya’s documentary leaks. “The Girl Who Wouldn’t Speak” trends. Strangers dissect my silence—trauma, strategy, cowardice.
Lila texts coordinates. 32.1741° N, 110.8462° E. Bring matches.
Day 19: September 23rd
3:00 PM
The desert swallows the van whole. Sand grinds in my teeth, the air blistering. Lila’s camp is a trailer circled by saguaros. She tosses me a canteen. “Drank yet?”
“From what?”
“The rage.”
I spit sand. “Still thirsty.”
8:30 PM
Lila’s tattoos glow in the firelight. She inks a compass over my pulse point—needle pricks spelling NOMAD. “Your turn,” she says, handing me the gun.
I hesitate. “I don’t know how.”
“Neither do they,” she smirks, nodding at the horizon.
The needle buzzes. Her skin accepts the ink like a confession.
11:59 PM
Journal Entry #18:
Data:
1 dead father (body cold, voice quieter)
1 desert (infinite, indifferent)
2 tattoos (mine: STILL, hers: WANDER)
Hypothesis: Maybe roots are overrated. Maybe we’re meant to scorch the earth.
Day 20: September 24th
6:00 AM
Maya films the sunrise, my silhouette etched against the dunes. “Say something,” she begs. “They’re begging me now.”
I write in the sand: NOT YOUR PROPHET.
The wind erases it by noon.
2:00 PM
A car approaches. Activists from Tucson, tracking my coordinates. “We’re organizing a rally,” their leader says, waving a STILL banner. “Be our voice.”
I handed her a match. “Burn it.”
She leaves crying. Lila laughs. “You’re a terrible revolutionary.”
“You’re a worse mentor.”
We share a smoke, watching the ash fall.
9:00 PM
Mom’s voicemail: “He left you nothing. Not even a letter.”
I hurl the phone into the fire. The plastic melts, hissing Dad’s last wheeze.
Lila watches. “Regret’s a luxury.”
“So’s mercy,” I say.
11:59 PM
Journal Entry #20:
Variables:
Silence (chosen)
Sand (shifting)
Fire (always hungry)
Hypothesis: I am not a phoenix. I am an arsonist.
Epilogue: Scorch
One Year Later
11:03 PM
The diner’s neon sign buzzes like a dying insect. Joe’s All-Nighter, flickering in the Nevada dark. My apron reeks of grease and regret. A trucker at Table 4 stares at my tattoos—STILL on my wrist, NOMAD pulsing at my throat. He squints. “Ain’t you that girl? The naked one. From the news.”
I top off his coffee. “No.”
He slaps a $20 on the counter. “Sure looked like you.”
I let the lie simmer.
Midnight
Maya texts: Doc won a Sundance award. They asked about you. Attached: a red-carpet photo. She’s in a tuxedo, neon hair replaced by a silver buzzcut. The caption: “Director Maya Chen: ‘The Revolution is Unspoken.’”
I reply: Burn it all.
She sends a flame emoji. No words.
2:17 AM
The desert doesn’t sleep. Sand scrapes the diner windows. I sketch in the margins of the order pad: phoenix wings, Lila’s compass, Mom’s Bible melting. A regular named Carl chain-smokes by the jukebox. “Have you ever missed it?” he asks.
“Miss what?”
“Being someone.”
I wipe the counter. “Never was.”
3:45 AM
The highway whispers. A coyote howls. I unzip my uniform, press my palms to the diner’s AC vent. The STILL tattoo hums. For a heartbeat, I’m back on Greenridge’s roof, cameras flashing, my body a blade.
Now, I’m just a ghost with a nametag. EMMA in block letters.
6:00 AM
Sunrise bleeds into the desert. Lila’s last postcard taped to my locker: Found a canyon that eats sound. Left your coordinates in the ash. —W
I pocket it. Fold the diner apron. Walk into the dawn.
11:59 PM
Final Journal Entry:
Variables:
Silence (kept)
Sand (endless)
Fire (mine)
Hypothesis: Burn long enough, and even phoenixes tire of rising.
So let the ash settle.
Let the desert forget.
The Last Flame
Somewhere, Maya screens her documentary for senators. Lila carves WANDER into a canyon wall. Mom tends Dad’s grave, Bible in hand, whispering verses to the wind.
And me?
I hitch a ride with a musician headed to El Paso. He asks my name.
I tell him, “None.”
The road swallows us whole.
A martyr. A muse.
Just a woman.
Unbound.
Still burning.
The End
A Novel by Emma Clarke
Prologue: Unraveling
I’m Emma Clarke—21, third-year psychology major at Greenridge University, a liberal arts enclave shrouded in Pacific Northwest evergreens. My roots? A conservative Wisconsin town where modesty wasn’t just virtue but law. My parents, high school teachers with dog-eared copies of The Feminine Mystique they’d never read, preached academic ambition but policed hemlines. Psychology became my rebellion, a scalpel to dissect the societal scripts etched into my bones. But curiosity wars with guilt daily. I journal to survive, pages littered with questions I’m too afraid to speak aloud.
Chapter 1: The Naked Truth
Day 1: September 5th
6:03 AM
The alarm screams. Rain hammers the dorm window as I surface from sleep, the smell of damp pine sharp as a knife. On my desk: a folded sweater, jeans, the bra I bought last spring—all untouched. Clothing constricts women psychologically. Dr. Reed’s theory gnaws at me. To test it, I’m to live naked. For months. No concessions. My academic death sentence or liberation?
I stand, linoleum cold underfoot. The mirror reflects a stranger: goosebumped skin, arms clutched like armor. This is science, I lie. Mom’s voice hisses back: “Decency is dignity.”
8:17 AM
The lecture hall is a cathedral of whispers. Backpack straps dig into my shoulders—my only shield. Dr. Reed enters, tweed-clad and aloof, quoting Foucault like a sermon: “The body is a site of resistance.” His gaze lingers on me. A jock in a varsity jacket snickers, eyes raking my spine. I scribble in my notebook: Is vulnerability the experiment or the punishment?
11:42 AM
Maya finds me at the café, thrusting a scarf the size of a parachute. “For the… you know.” Her neon hair clashes with the autumn gloom. Even she, an art major who paints nudes for kicks, hesitates. I push the scarf back. Authenticity or martyrdom? A freshman gapes, milk dripping from his tray. Maya flips him off. I stab at kale, wondering if humiliation has a caloric count.
3:15 PM
In the lab, Jenna—sociology’s answer to a warrior queen—argues, “Clothing is power. Armor.” She glares, as if my nakedness is a manifesto. I counter, “What if armor’s just another cage?” My voice cracks. Dr. Reed scribbles notes, a vulture circling roadkill.
Later, locked in a bathroom stall, I press my cheek to cold metal. Is this research or ritual sacrifice?
6:30 PM
Maya sketches me for her thesis: Bodies Unbound. The radiator wheezes. Charcoal rasps against paper, a lullaby. “You look… electric,” she says. I laugh, the sound foreign. For the first time today, I didn't feel the cold.
9:08 PM
Steam fogs the mirror. I trace my reflection—collarbone, hip, the scar from my childhood bike crash. Who is this girl? The theory claims fabric stifles, but nakedness feels like trading chains for a spotlight.
11:59 PM
Journal Entry #1:
Survived. Data: Adrenaline ≠ liberation. Variables—shame (internal? Societal?), male gaze (inescapable?). Hypothesis: The constraint isn’t clothing, but the rules. But how to quantify freedom?
The clock tower tolls. Somewhere, Dr. Reed sips bourbon, dissecting our pain. I crawl into bed, sheets abrasive against raw skin. Miss my wool sweater. Miss invisibility.
The night thrums. Tomorrow crouches, hungry. Am I a pioneer or prey?
Day 3: September 7th
7:22 AM
Three days in, and my skin has memorized the texture of every breeze. I wake to rain again, the kind that stitches the sky to the earth. Maya’s still asleep, her hair a neon tangle against the pillow. I dress in the dark out of habit, then freeze, fingers clutching air. Old reflexes die hard.
The dorm hallway is empty. I sprint to the showers, towel clutched like a lifeline. A girl from the lacrosse team passes, eyes averted. Progress? Or pity?
10:05 AM
Dr. Reed corners me after lecture. “Initial observations, Ms. Clarke?” His voice is clinical, but his gaze isn’t. I recite my journal notes like a shield: “Adrenaline spike diminishing. Heightened awareness of social dynamics.” He nods, scribbling. “And the male gaze?”
I flinch. “A confounding variable.”
“Or the point,” he says, smiling. For the first time, I wonder if this experiment is his thesis, not mine.
12:30 PM
Lunch with Maya at the vegan co-op. She wears a t-shirt that says ART OR DIE. A sophomore at the next table films me covertly. Maya snatches his phone, deletes the footage, and snaps, “Her body’s not your content.”
I eat lentils, numb. “What if it is?” I mutter. “Dr. Reed’s making me a lab rat. You’re drawing me. Who owns this?”
Maya stills. “You do. Always.”
4:45 PM
Jenna ambushes me in the psych lounge. “You’re setting us back decades,” she hisses. “Walking around like a… buffet. Men don’t need more excuses to leer.”
I grip my notebook. “So we should police bodies instead of behavior?”
She leans in. “You think you’re brave? You’re just free labor for some tenured creep’s fetish.”
The words stick. Later, I scrub my skin raw in the shower.
8:00 PM
Maya paints my back with henna—swirling vines, a rebellion in dye. “Camouflage,” she jokes, but her hands tremble. The paste itches. “Why are you doing this?” she asks.
I stare at the wall. “To see if I can.”
11:59 PM
Journal Entry #3:
Hypothesis: Nudity doesn’t erase power structures—it refracts them. Data: 23 covert photos taken, 4 slut-shaming memes (reported), 1 elderly custodian who gave me his jacket (declined). Jenna’s right about one thing: Reed’s watching. But so is everyone.
Question: If clothing is armor, is nakedness a weapon? Or just a target?
Day 5: September 9th
2:15 PM
The campus forum erupts. A thread titled Naked Psych Girl trends. Comments oscillate between “Feminist icon!” and “Attention whore.” Someone posts freshman-year photos of me in a turtleneck and plaid skirt. “Pick a lane,” writes an anonymous account.
Maya wants to hack the thread. I let it burn.
5:30 PM
Dr. Reed assigns a reflection paper: “How has nudity altered your social capital?” I write about the lacrosse girl who now avoids me, the custodian’s jacket, Jenna’s fury. No conclusion. Just a postscript: “You knew this would happen.”
9:00 PM
Mom calls. Word reached Antigo. “Your father won’t show his face at church,” she says, voice splintered. I count her pauses like sins.
“Are you… safe?” she finally asks.
“Define safe,” I say.
She hangs up. I smash my childhood snow globe—Wisconsin pines drowning in fake glitter.
11:59 PM
Journal Entry #5:
Variables unaccounted for:
The internet (a social accelerant)
Family (the original architects of shame)
Dr. Reed’s smirk (see: Schadenfreude)
Hypothesis collapsing. New theory: All experiments are exploitation.
Week 1: Data Summary
Physical Symptoms: Persistent chill, improved posture (no slouching to hide), heightened tactile sensitivity.
Social Reactions: 62% hostile (catcalls, photos), 23% avoidant, 15% actively supportive (Maya, custodian, one surprisingly feminist frat guy).
Academic Impact: Reed gave my reflection paper a B-. Notes: “Lacks rigor. Interrogate your compliance in systems of oppression.”
Final Journal Entry of the Week:
Clothing isn’t the constraint. Visibility is. To be seen is to be dissected. But here’s the paradox: I’ve never felt more invisible. Stripped of context—no band tees, no thrifted sweaters—I’ve become a blank screen. Everyone projects. No one sees.
Except Maya.
Day 8: September 12th
10:14 AM
Mom stands in the dorm doorway, her floral suitcase dripping rainwater onto the carpet. She smells like Antigo—linen spray and disapproval. Her eyes darted from Maya’s mural of nude sketches to me, wrapped in a threadbare towel after my shower. “Emma,” she says, the name a verdict.
Maya mumbles something about “printmaking class” and flees. The radiator hisses. Mom sits on my bed, spine rigid, as if contact with the mattress might corrupt her. “Your father’s blaming himself,” she says. “I think he didn’t… guide you properly.”
I pull on socks—my one concession. “I’m not a lost sheep.”
She unzips her suitcase. Inside: my childhood Bible, a sweater she knit last winter, a Ziploc of chocolate chip cookies. Bribes or grenades? “People are praying for you,” she whispers.
“Tell them to pray harder,” I say. “I’m not done sinning yet.”
3:00 PM
Dr. Reed’s office smells like bourbon and dust. He gestures to my henna-stained arms. “Rule addition: No modifications. Purity of form is essential.”
“Purity?” I snap. “Or control?”
He leans back, templed fingers hiding a smirk. “You agreed to the experiment’s parameters, Ms. Clarke. Unless you’d prefer to fail…”
I scratch at the henna vines. Compliance or combustion?
Day 9: September 13th
7:45 AM
The journalist ambushes me outside the dining hall. Riverbend Chronicle badge, iPhone recording. “Emma! How’s the ‘naked experiment’ impacting campus safety?”
Maya body-blocks her. “How’s your obsession with teenage girls?”
Later, the article drops: “NUDE COED SPARKS DEBATE: Feminist Statement or Cry for Help?” My face photoshopped onto a Greek statue. Comments section: a warzone.
12:00 PM
Lunch with Mom at the café. She orders tea, steeped twice as long as needed. “You used to love modesty,” she says, stirring in sugar she doesn’t take. “That lace dress at Homecoming…”
“I froze in that dress,” I say. “Spent the night hiding in the bathroom.”
She stiffens. “Decency isn’t a cage, Emma.”
“Then why does it feel like one?”
Day 10: September 14th
9:30 PM
The protest erupts at dusk. “FREE THE BODY!” chants clash with “PROTECT DECENCY!” posters. I’m caught in the crossfire—a Rorschach test. A freshman shoves a megaphone at me: “What’s your endgame?”
Survival, I think.
Maya drags me away, her palm sweaty. “They’re voting on banning the experiment tomorrow. Reed’s freaking out.”
“Good,” I lied.
11:59 PM
Journal Entry #10:
Variables reshuffled:
Mom’s tears (weaponized nostalgia)
Reed’s “purity” mandate (control masquerading as science)
The journalist’s narrative (my body, her byline)
Hypothesis: Autonomy is a myth. We’re all puppets—just some strings are harder to see.
But
But
Maya left the razor on my desk.
Day 11: September 15th
8:17 AM
The razor glints in the dawn light. Henna vines curl like dead ivy on my scalp. Mom’s voice still claws at the door: “Don’t do this, Emma. You’ll regret it.” I press the blade to my temple. The first strand falls—a whisper of surrender.
Maya texts: Frat guys are chanting your name at the quad. Also, Reed’s office is LITTERED with complaint letters. You’re famous.
I shave harder.
10:45 AM
Dr. Reed’s “vitality check.” His fingers linger too long on my pulse. “Aesthetic choices undermine the experiment’s integrity,” he says, eyeing my buzzcut.
“Integrity?” I yank my wrist back. “You mean control.”
He slides a consent form across his desk. Revised parameters: No alterations to hair, skin, or—
I tear it. “I’m not your doll.”
His smile sharpens. “Then you’re failing the class.”
1:30 PM
The quad swarms. “FREE THE BODY!” activists clash with decency picketers. A freshman thrusts a sign at me: Nudity ≠ Liberation. Someone else screams, “Let her speak!”
Maya shoves a megaphone into my hands. The crowd stills.
I say nothing.
Instead, I unzip my hoodie. Let it drop.
Gasps. Cameras flash. My buzzcut prickles in the wind.
A protester yells, “Put clothes on!”
I step closer. “Make me.”
Silence. Then applause—ragged, defiant.
4:00 PM
Mom packs her suitcase. “You’re unrecognizable,” she says, folding the unused sweater.
I touch my shorn scalp. “Good.”
She hesitates, clutching her Bible. “I prayed for you last night.”
“For me? Or for the daughter you wish I was?”
She leaves without answering. The door clicks. I pocket her Ziploc cookies.
7:45 PM
The journalist’s new headline: “BALD AND UNBOWED: Nude Psych Student Sparks Campus Revolution.” My face is pixelated. My body, a blur.
Maya laughs. “They censored you but not the pervs in the comments.”
I toss the paper. “Symbols are safer than people.”
11:59 PM
Journal Entry #11:
Today’s data:
1 buzzcut (act of war)
37 protests (22% alliés, 78% voyeurs)
1 mother-shaped ghost
Hypothesis: Transformation is violence. You shed skin. Someone always bleeds.
Day 12: September 16th
9:00 AM
Dean Whitmore’s office reeks of lemon polish and authority. Her mahogany desk gleams under fluorescent lights, a copy of the Riverbend Chronicle headline glaring between us: “BALD AND UNBOWED.” She steeples her fingers. “Ms. Clarke, this… spectacle violates our code of conduct. You have until Friday to dress or face expulsion.”
I dig my nails into the armrest. “The experiment’s approved academic research.”
“Approved by Dr. Reed,” she says, smirking. “Who’s now questioning your commitment to methodology.”
The trap snaps shut.
12:30 PM
Reed corners me in the psych lab, his breath sour with coffee. “The dean’s offer is generous.” He slides a sweater across the table—cashmere, ivory, suffocating. “Wear this, keep your scholarship. Continue your… work.”
I flick the sweater. It pools on the floor like a dead thing. “You rigged this.”
He leans in. “Science requires sacrifice. Yours or mine.”
3:45 PM
Maya’s petition hits 10,000 signatures. My face floods social media—hashtags like #NudeAndUnashamed and #AcademicFreedom trend. A TikTok montage edits me into suffragette marches, Wonder Woman, a marble statue. Strangers call me “brave.” I feel like a mascot.
“We’re winning,” Maya insists, her laptop glowing.
I scroll through the comments. “She’s just doing it for attention.” “Finally, a real feminist!” “Where’s her OF link?”
“Winning what?” I mutter.
7:00 PM
The henna artist, Lila, finds me at the co-op. Her arms are a tapestry of ink—serpents, lotus blooms, constellations. “Your buzzcut is a blank canvas,” she says. “I could paint a phoenix. Rising from bullshit.”
The needle hums in my mind. Reed’s rule hisses: No modifications.
“What’s the price?” I ask.
Lila grins. “Your story.”
11:59 PM
Journal Entry #12:
Choices:
Submit (wear the sweater, become Reed’s puppet).
Burn (expulsion, debt, Mom’s “I told you so”).
Transform (Lila’s phoenix, permanent rebellion).
Hypothesis: Freedom is a series of traps. Pick the one that fits best.
Day 13: September 17th
6:00 AM
I dream of the Bible burning. Flames lick Proverbs 31: “She is clothed with strength and dignity.” Ash coats my tongue. I wake choking.
Mom’s package arrives—a new Bible, passages on modesty highlighted. A Post-it: “You’ll need this more than me.”
I drop it in Maya’s kiln. The pages curl, screaming.
2:00 PM
Protesters swarm Reed’s lecture. “Fire the predator!” they chant. He smirks, unshaken, lecturing on Milgram’s obedience studies.
“Emma’s choice proves my theory,” he declares. “Clothing is coercion. She resisted.”
The room swivels to me. Naked. Buzzcut. Exposed.
A student stands. “Or you’re just a creep with tenure.”
The crowd roars. Reed’s mask slips—a flash of teeth, fury.
8:30 PM
Lila’s studio smells of antiseptic and jasmine. I lie on the table, ribs pressed to vinyl. “Ready?” she asks.
The needle bites. My skin sings.
11:59 PM
Journal Entry #13:
The phoenix spans my ribs—golden, half-ascendant. Reed will call it defiance. Mom, damnation.
But under my fingers, it’s just mine.
Day 14: September 18th
8:03 AM
The expulsion letter arrives via email and certified mail. Dean Whitmore’s signature loops like a noose. “…repeated disregard for community standards… psychological disruption… effective immediately.” Maya reads it over my shoulder and hurls her coffee mug at the wall. “Lawyer. Now. We’re fighting this.”
I stare at the shattered ceramic. “With what money?”
She grins, wild-eyed. “With virality.”
10:30 AM
Dr. Reed’s lawsuit against Greenridge trends by noon. “Academic Suppression!” his Twitter proclaims. Attached: a PDF of his “groundbreaking” paper, citing my “deterioration” as proof clothing is psychological warfare. The comments section becomes a coliseum:
“Hero or predator?”
“FREE EMMA CLARKE!”
“This is why I homeschool.”
Maya leaks his emails to the press. Subject line: Ms. Clarke’s “pathology” and the necessity of control. The word deterioration repeats 17 times.
1:15 PM
Lila arrives with a gallery curator in tow—sharp suit, sharper smile. He circles me like I’m a sculpture. “Bodies Unbound could be transcendent. We’ll feature your phoenix alongside Lila’s other work. Nude, of course. A living exhibit.”
Lila frowns. “It’s about agency, not—”
“It’s about tickets,” he interrupts. “You’d get 20% of sales.”
I touch my tattoo, still tender. “And my name?”
“Anonymous Muse has a nicer ring.”
4:45 PM
Mom’s voicemail plays on the speaker: “Your father’s had chest pains. The doctors say stress. You’ve ruined us, Emma. Was it worth it?”
Maya slams the phone down. “Guilt is her superpower.”
I wait for tears. None come. Just the phoenix burning under my ribs.
8:00 PM
The gallery contract mocks me from my desk. Anonymous. Always anonymous. Reed’s emails mock me too: “Subject 04’s refusal to comply suggests profound fragility…”
Maya bursts in, waving her laptop. “The petition hit 50k! Activists are storming the admin building. You’ve got leverage—sue the dean, expose Reed!”
I trace the phoenix’s wings. “Or I let it all burn.”
11:59 PM
Journal Entry #14:
Data:
1 expulsion (institutional verdict)
1 lawsuit (Reed’s last-ditch martyrdom)
1 gallery offer (erasure with a paycheck)
1 mother’s voice (a different kind of fire)
Hypothesis: Maybe rebellion isn’t about winning. Maybe it’s about who you force to watch you burn.
Day 15: September 19th
3:00 AM
I sneak into the psych building. Reed’s office is unlocked, reeking of paranoia and printer ink. I torch his paper drafts in the industrial shredder. Feed his Foucault books into the kiln. Forge his signature on a retraction letter: “My findings were flawed. Clothing is not a constraint—it’s a confession.”
Maya finds me at dawn, ash in my hair. “You’re insane,” she breathes. “I’ll drive.”
12:00 PM
The gallery opens without me. The curator texts: “Coward.” Lila leaves a voicemail: “I gave them nothing. The phoenix is yours.”
At the protest, students chant my name. I climb onto the admin building’s roof, phoenix bared to the sun. The crowd stills. Cameras tilt up.
I don’t speak. Don’t move. Let them sear this image into their retinas—untitled, unexplained, unowned.
11:59 PM
Journal Entry #15:
Today’s variables:
Arson (metaphorical)
Silence (weaponized)
A father’s heartbeat (still thrumming?)
Hypothesis: Fire is a language. Let them parse the smoke.
Day 16: September 20th
8:30 AM
The dean’s office smells of antiseptic resolve. Her offer sits between us: Reinstatement. Probation. Mandatory counseling. “A gesture of goodwill,” she says, steepling her fingers. “We’re prepared to frame this as… a learning experience.”
I trace the raised ink of STILL on my wrist. “And the nudity experiment?”
“Discontinued.” Her smile is a scalpel. “For your well-being.”
Maya kicks my ankle under the table. Walk away, her glare says.
I stand. “I’ll think about it.”
The lie tastes like ash.
12:15 PM
Dad’s voicemail is a rasp of static. “Emma… your mother… the papers…” A cough rattles the receiver. The hospital room number flashes on my screen.
Maya drives, her knuckles white on the wheel. “You don’t owe them.”
The phoenix itches. I scratch until it bleeds.
3:00 PM
Antigo General reeks of bleach and wilted carnations. Dad’s asleep, tubes snaking from his arms. Mom sits rigid in a plastic chair, divorce papers clutched like a rosary.
“He asked for you,” she says, not looking up.
I hover in the doorway. “Did you?”
She flinches. The heart monitor beeps.
Dad’s eyes flutter open. “Em… you came.” His hand trembles toward mine.
I don’t take it.
7:45 PM
Lila’s studio thrums with bass. She inks STILL in Gothic script beneath my phoenix, the needle a metronome. “What’s next?” she asks.
The gallery curator’s texts buzz unanswered: “Last chance to be immortalized.”
“Dunno,” I say. “Burn something else?”
Lila snorts. “Clichéd.”
“Honest.”
11:59 PM
Journal Entry #16:
Variables:
Dad’s hand (reaching, always reaching)
The dean’s bargain (a gilded cage)
STILL (not a mantra—a dare)
Hypothesis: Rising from ash requires first admitting you’re on fire.
Day 17: September 21st
10:00 AM
Maya screens her documentary rough cut. My face flickers—shaving my head, silent on the roof, burning Reed’s papers. “It’s raw,” she says. “Unfiltered.”
I watch myself become a silhouette. “You erased my voice.”
“You chose silence,” she snaps.
The phoenix twinges. We don’t speak for hours.
4:30 PM
The campus quad buzzes. Freshmen snap selfies where I stood naked. A girl with blue hair stops me: “You’re why I switched majors.”
“Don’t,” I say, walking faster.
She follows. “You showed me we can fight.”
I spin. “Fight what? The system just repackages you.”
Her smile falters. I hate myself.
8:00 PM
Reed’s retraction letter trends. Conspiracy theorists claim I forged it. Alumni demand the dean’s resignation. A freshman paints STILL on the admin building in tar.
Maya finds me on the dorm roof. “They’re listening now. Say something.”
I lit a match. Let it die in the wind.
Day 18: September 22nd
5:17 AM
Dad’s heart monitors flat lines as dawn cracks the horizon. Mom’s scream carves the hospital walls. I stand in the doorway, STILL burning under my skin, watching her crumple. No tears. Just the phoenix flexing its wings.
Maya’s van idles outside. “Where to?” she asks, eyeing my bleach-white buzzcut.
“West,” I say.
She doesn’t ask why.
10:45 AM
The dean’s second expulsion letter arrives via text. “Continued defiance… irreparable harm… effective immediately.” I screenshot it, post it raw. The internet howls.
Maya’s documentary leaks. “The Girl Who Wouldn’t Speak” trends. Strangers dissect my silence—trauma, strategy, cowardice.
Lila texts coordinates. 32.1741° N, 110.8462° E. Bring matches.
Day 19: September 23rd
3:00 PM
The desert swallows the van whole. Sand grinds in my teeth, the air blistering. Lila’s camp is a trailer circled by saguaros. She tosses me a canteen. “Drank yet?”
“From what?”
“The rage.”
I spit sand. “Still thirsty.”
8:30 PM
Lila’s tattoos glow in the firelight. She inks a compass over my pulse point—needle pricks spelling NOMAD. “Your turn,” she says, handing me the gun.
I hesitate. “I don’t know how.”
“Neither do they,” she smirks, nodding at the horizon.
The needle buzzes. Her skin accepts the ink like a confession.
11:59 PM
Journal Entry #18:
Data:
1 dead father (body cold, voice quieter)
1 desert (infinite, indifferent)
2 tattoos (mine: STILL, hers: WANDER)
Hypothesis: Maybe roots are overrated. Maybe we’re meant to scorch the earth.
Day 20: September 24th
6:00 AM
Maya films the sunrise, my silhouette etched against the dunes. “Say something,” she begs. “They’re begging me now.”
I write in the sand: NOT YOUR PROPHET.
The wind erases it by noon.
2:00 PM
A car approaches. Activists from Tucson, tracking my coordinates. “We’re organizing a rally,” their leader says, waving a STILL banner. “Be our voice.”
I handed her a match. “Burn it.”
She leaves crying. Lila laughs. “You’re a terrible revolutionary.”
“You’re a worse mentor.”
We share a smoke, watching the ash fall.
9:00 PM
Mom’s voicemail: “He left you nothing. Not even a letter.”
I hurl the phone into the fire. The plastic melts, hissing Dad’s last wheeze.
Lila watches. “Regret’s a luxury.”
“So’s mercy,” I say.
11:59 PM
Journal Entry #20:
Variables:
Silence (chosen)
Sand (shifting)
Fire (always hungry)
Hypothesis: I am not a phoenix. I am an arsonist.
Epilogue: Scorch
One Year Later
11:03 PM
The diner’s neon sign buzzes like a dying insect. Joe’s All-Nighter, flickering in the Nevada dark. My apron reeks of grease and regret. A trucker at Table 4 stares at my tattoos—STILL on my wrist, NOMAD pulsing at my throat. He squints. “Ain’t you that girl? The naked one. From the news.”
I top off his coffee. “No.”
He slaps a $20 on the counter. “Sure looked like you.”
I let the lie simmer.
Midnight
Maya texts: Doc won a Sundance award. They asked about you. Attached: a red-carpet photo. She’s in a tuxedo, neon hair replaced by a silver buzzcut. The caption: “Director Maya Chen: ‘The Revolution is Unspoken.’”
I reply: Burn it all.
She sends a flame emoji. No words.
2:17 AM
The desert doesn’t sleep. Sand scrapes the diner windows. I sketch in the margins of the order pad: phoenix wings, Lila’s compass, Mom’s Bible melting. A regular named Carl chain-smokes by the jukebox. “Have you ever missed it?” he asks.
“Miss what?”
“Being someone.”
I wipe the counter. “Never was.”
3:45 AM
The highway whispers. A coyote howls. I unzip my uniform, press my palms to the diner’s AC vent. The STILL tattoo hums. For a heartbeat, I’m back on Greenridge’s roof, cameras flashing, my body a blade.
Now, I’m just a ghost with a nametag. EMMA in block letters.
6:00 AM
Sunrise bleeds into the desert. Lila’s last postcard taped to my locker: Found a canyon that eats sound. Left your coordinates in the ash. —W
I pocket it. Fold the diner apron. Walk into the dawn.
11:59 PM
Final Journal Entry:
Variables:
Silence (kept)
Sand (endless)
Fire (mine)
Hypothesis: Burn long enough, and even phoenixes tire of rising.
So let the ash settle.
Let the desert forget.
The Last Flame
Somewhere, Maya screens her documentary for senators. Lila carves WANDER into a canyon wall. Mom tends Dad’s grave, Bible in hand, whispering verses to the wind.
And me?
I hitch a ride with a musician headed to El Paso. He asks my name.
I tell him, “None.”
The road swallows us whole.
A martyr. A muse.
Just a woman.
Unbound.
Still burning.
The End