by Isa Mazzei
“Ever?”
“No, basically she lay there for like forty-five minutes until someone got through to the site and they cut her feed.” I tried not to sound excited.
“So, you don’t know that she died.” Jonah refused to be impressed.
“No. But apparently she never came back.”
“Metal.”
“Jonah…” It was cold in the restaurant. I scooted my chair closer to the window, where weak winter sun was spilling onto the floor. “Anyway, so, my final show. Can I explain?”
Jonah chewed thoughtfully. “I think I see where you’re going with this…” He gave me a look. A look that told me, after nearly a decade of knowing each other, he could read my mind.
“Yeah? You think it’s a good idea?”
“Maybe.” Jonah smirked. “So, after you quit, what are you gonna do?”
“Who knows.” I laughed, a bit sad. “Grad school?” I stared out the window.
“Forever running to the next big thing.” He sipped his tea. “Whatever are you running from?”
×××
Two days later, I was at Home Depot waiting for a friendly looking old man to cut a few pieces of wood for me.
“Did you know that when snakes are stressed they eat themselves?” I asked him.
“You don’t say?” The man laughed and turned to the saw.
“Yeah, it’s a thing. When snakes are super stressed, they eat themselves.”
“I’ve never heard that one.” He passed me two freshly cut pieces of wood, one about three feet long and one about two. “What made you think of that?”
Oh, just having a mental breakdown. Unraveling.
“Where are nails?”
“Aisle seven.”
“Thanks!” I smiled and ran off down the aisles with my wood. I just needed a nail and a single bath tile. And maybe someone who wanted to nail the boards together into a cross because I was fairly certain that, amid all my junk, I did not own a hammer.
Later that night, I sat alone in my room. The cross sat in the corner, a limp dildo hanging expectantly in the middle. A framed picture of Jesus sat next to it, bold and colorful. He wore a crown of thorns, and his heart was glowing bright and yellow through his chest. I had cleared out my entire room: all the furniture, all the knick-knacks were shoved in the closet. It was clean, pure. A pure space for my ritual art.
To the right of the camera, I set up a mass of candles. Tea candles, pillar candles, candles from the clearance section of Target. They emitted a soft glow. To compliment them, I brought in two lamps with red bulbs, which cast the entire room into an eerie gloom.
I poured myself a glass of wine. No one was going to believe I was going to commit suicide if I didn’t fall off the wagon. And in a way, I needed to fall off the wagon for the art to be real, since the suicide wouldn’t be. I had to dig into the deepest, darkest places of my soul and pull up the parts that wanted to die. To sell the act.
I had a pink leather Bible I had found at a thrift shop open next to the candles, and I placed my glass of wine there. I wasn’t going to drink it until I was online. I also had printed out two different speeches: the first was a sermon from the Westboro Baptist Church. I chose it because it was the worst thing I had ever read: a hateful speech from a church infamous for spreading racism, sexism, homophobia, and basically every type of bigotry imaginable. I decided it reflected how much pain and hatred and violence there was in the world. I thought I was being deep. The second was David Foster Wallace’s speech “This is Water.” That one was less ironic and therefore, I felt, maybe more meaningful artistically. “This is Water” was a speech that gave me a lot of hope in college. It made me feel like life made sense. Until, of course, I learned that David Foster Wallace had hanged himself. It made an awful lot of sense for a suicide speech.
I dressed in my sexiest black lingerie. I pinned my hair back with a red rose, and in an impulsive act of melodrama, I wrote “COMMIT” in giant letters across my wall in red lipstick. I hadn’t told anyone about my show. I hadn’t even tweeted that I was coming online. I wouldn’t talk, except to recite the speech. I was about to do the most epic show in the history of camming. I was about to reach the ultimate height of fame. I was about to make the Internet hurt me as much as you could hurt a person. They were going to kill me.
I placed my computer on the floor in the center of the room, and I knelt facing it, turning on the monitor and the large tower. I pressed the buttons slowly, deliberately. I turned on the webcam and my external mic for the last time. I navigated to MyFreeCams.com. Every click was sacred. I waited to sign on, first checking my image in the video feed: arranging my hair, my lipstick, my rose. I stared at my glass of wine, then back at the letters on the wall.
Commit.
A few feet behind my computer was a prop Colt .45 I had bought on Etsy. I felt like I had practiced a hundred times: I’d drunkenly pull the mic cord right before we hit the count but pretend I didn’t notice because I was so drunk and distraught. Then I’d put the gun in my mouth and pull the trigger.
Commit. I could do this
I had practiced the recoil. I’d knock my camera with my arm and fall to the ground. The camera would show Jesus, the cross, the freshly fucked dildo. A perfect shot to end a perfect show. Then, I’d vanish. Una was gone. She belonged to me. She was mine. And she was dead.
I was ready. I signed on. My feed went live.
Commit.
Wild_West: Hi Una!
Unas_bee: Hi! How are you!
1NerdyGuy: woah wait is there a dildo on that cross
I set my status:
Model: TheOnlyUna
Status: Online
Room Topic: 50 tokens = 1 sip, 100 tokens = stop/start reading
Countdown: 2000 until I fuck Jesus
Once we hit the cumshow count, I’d set the count for dying: 20,000. I had agonized over that amount, looking back at my highest earning shows. They knew I was nearing two years sober, and I hoped that tipping me to fall off the wagon would satisfy the lurkers who liked watching the world burn.
I sat, silent. Waiting for something to happen.
RomeoTurtle tipped 50 tokens: what are we drinking, Una?
I reached over mechanically and took a sip of wine. It was hot, burned my throat. Tasted like vinegar. I blinked in surprise.
Unas_bee: una what is that
1NerdyGuy: Blood of Christ?
“It’s wine,” I said simply.
Wild_West: Wine? Actual wine?
Bastianhorro tipped 50 tokens: drink up pretty girl
Bastianhorro tipped 50 tokens: drink up pretty girl
Bastianhorro tipped 50 tokens: drink up pretty girl
1NerdyGuy: no, stop, she’s sober
I gulped the wine, it slid hot and thick down my throat. It was sweet. My head spun immediately. Fuck. I forgot how good wine felt.
Private Message from BombNo.20: hey what’s happening right now
I took another sip and eyed the candles next to me. If I relaxed my eyes, the flames blurred together into an orange glow. “Thank you, Bastian.” My voice was slurring already, quick work on a sober body.
Bastianhorro tipped 50 tokens: No problem, nice to meet you
Unas_bee tipped 5 tokens: Una are you okay
1NerdyGuy tipped 100 tokens
“We are reading, today, from a sermon. A hate sermon.” I took the pages and held them out in front of my face. “Or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul? Mark 8:37,” I began.
Private Message from Demon9: is it okay if I stop by?
No, Demon, it’s not. I ignored him.
Private Message from Demon9: I heard this show is insane!
I smirked. Demon. Jealous that you don’t get the inside scoop on my shows anymore?
Rex213 tipped 100 tokens: no chu
rch please my wife forces me to do that enough lol
I stopped reading, the tip turning me “off.” Bastian tipped me to sip more. I took a gulp, then refilled the glass off camera. My teeth were purple already. The wine was heavy. Everything felt warm, fuzzy, surreal.
“I can read something different.” I was slurring. It was happening too fast. “If you prefer.” I smiled, trying to slow down the spinning.
1NerdyGuy tipped 100 tokens: what else?
“There are these two young fish swimming along, and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says, ‘Morning, boys, how’s the water?’ And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes, ‘What the hell is water?’” I began the David Foster Wallace. “Now, if you expect me to––” The ding of a loud tip interrupted my crescendo.
FunnyGuy tipped 2500 tokens
Private message from FunnyGuy: Una I sent you an email please respond when you have a moment thank you.
I glanced at his tip, annoyed. This wasn’t the time or the way to apologize. He was interrupting my reading. Plus, I realized he had killed the cumshow count before I even got to read. Funny always knew exactly how to mess up my timing.
1NerdyGuy: whoot cumshow. This is gonna be weird
Wild_West: xD that was so fast
Private Message from Demon9: I know you wanted me to give you space and I can leave but just tell me you’re okay first
“Okay, cumshow, then. Thank you, Funny. Getting us there quickly.” I couldn’t turn my brain off. “As quickly as my Jesus dildo.” I laughed, too loud. It was right there, thinking. Remembering.
I pulled the cross over to the middle of the room, knocking over a candle. The flame flicked out, wax seeped into the carpet. I thought about a rough beard. The dark. A breath.
The wood of the cross pushed a splinter into my thumb.
“You can tip to read more, when I ride.” Stubble. Heavy breathing. “So just tip to read, on and off, the same as before.” I paused, waited. Stop thinking. “Okay, so, someone tip to start.” My voice was shrill, high.
Rex213 tipped 100 tokens: what’s happening
“We’re doing the cumshow, duh,” I snapped. I didn’t mean to snap. Fuck, I was drunk.
A hand.
A hand. A hand.
A hand.
“Sorry, just, okay. Rex tipped to start so I’m gonna read again. I was reading, uh…” I searched my papers for the “This Is Water” speech. Stop. Stop it. Stop thinking.
“Stop,” I said aloud. Shit. Okay, find the page. Crushing. Crushing feeling.
I grabbed the page, grabbed the cross and dragged it in front of the camera, moved my underwear to the side. “I mean, tip me to read more. More Bible. Or whatever. It’s fine, just go.”
Wild_West: didn’t Rex tip to start reading again?
Private Message from Unas_bee: una talk to me let me help you
Private Message from RomeoTurtle: hey are you okay
Demon9: Yes, I believe Una was going to start reading again from the David Foster Wallace
“Okay, right. Sorry. Right. Sorry, sorry, sorry.” I took another gulp of wine to try to steady myself. Don’t puke. Panic. I was explaining—no, I was gagging. I was gagging too much. Stop explaining the art. Don’t puke.
“Okay, tip to read, or whatever, should I start?” Why was I narrating this? The letters on my wall blurred in front of my eyes. Commit. Stop. That forearm. I knew that forearm.
I didn’t bother lubing up the dildo. What did it matter anyway, really? What difference did it make? I hovered over it. My eyes were open, blank. Panic. That arm. It’s too heavy. The air is too heavy. Yes, that was it. My eyes were having trouble. It felt like one of them was blinking. One was blinking and then the other was blinking, and then one before the other one.
A heavy sense of darkness closed in around me. My chest. Pinned down. Why am I pinned down? The air was warm. Too warm. It was thick, heavy, wet. Stupid fucking idiot fucking stupid idiot. The air was drowning me. I closed my eyes.
“Focus, focus,” I murmured aloud. “Focus. Focus.” I blinked my eyes open. I stared into the camera, my eyes wet, my mouth fuzzy, my vagina poised over the dildo, the cross, Jesus in the corner, my Bible. The chats, the guys, the tokens, hands, it was all such a lie. It was all just a mask. Just say it, idiot. Just say it.
“I can’t say it. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry,” something whispered,
whispered into me.
I moved my mouth, trying to make the words less sticky. “I’m sorry.” I reached over to my mouse. “I’m sorry.” Tears rolling down my face. “I’m sorry. I can’t, I’m sorry.” I was sobbing, and I couldn’t make it stop. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
I stared into the camera. The camera stared back. Just say it.
“Please,” I pleaded with it. “Please, I’m sorry, please.” I wanted to go back. It was too late. That breathing. Go back.
Something was BREATHING
in my ear. I asked it to stop because it was too loud.
Stop breathing in my ear, please. It’s too loud.
I tried to end the broadcast, but I couldn’t see the screen because my hands hand hand.
MY HANDS were shaking.
I hit “end broadcast” I think.
I let my body fall sideways on the floor, and I reached for the bottle of wine and I chugged it, all of the wine.
Please please please please please please please. My teeth hurt. Too much pressure on my teeth. It was too late.
My phone buzzed next to my head. The music dripped into focus. The heavy bass. Someone screaming in agony in Japanese. My phone buzzed again. I picked it up and stared at the texts bleakly.
Bomb: are you okay?
Demon: Hey are you okay, what happened? Was that planned?
Bomb: Isa?
Demon: Isa?
Bomb: Hey, please talk to me…
I laughed. Who were these idiots? Worried about me? As if I were their friend. It was so silly. Men, from the Internet. Concerned. I laughed and wine trickled out of my mouth and onto the carpet. I let out the mouthful of wine. It ran down my body like blood. I pulled my knees into my chest. I laughed and I laughed and I laughed.
I remembered now.
And the breath, and the hands, and the darkness, and the light, and the smell that never
Went
Away.
×××
When I chose to get sober before going into sex work, I was unconsciously protecting myself from something. Years later, people would tell me I had told them over and over and over again when I was drunk. When I was blacked out. When I couldn’t remember the next day.
The time I spent as a sober camgirl helped me process it. It helped me bring it to the surface. And when I drank that night, the protective coating of Una fell away leaving just what was there. What had been there all along. The feeling of hands on my thighs. Of suffocating. It was the thing I didn’t want to say. It was the thing that had made me quit on eight different therapists, walk out when it got too real to handle.
It was the thing a psychic had asked me months ago.
“Were you sexually abused as a child?”
She wasn’t even reading the cards. She was reading me. She heard the secret my insides were screaming at her.
“Were you sexually abused as a child?”
Her words were a fist reaching into my mouth, down my throat. Fingers wrapping around my innards, yanking them out by the roots. Her words, words I already knew, words I had already told myself a thousand times when I was drunk, words I spent years fighting off, pushing down, pushing away. Words that I didn’t want to be true. Words that couldn’t be true, but words that nevertheless settled into my chest and sat there, refusing to
leave.
“Were you sexually abused as a child?”
I had stood up from her table abruptly and pushed it aside. How dare she. How dare she say that. I shoved her words deep down and held them there in a choke hold. But then, that night of my show, as I lay sideways on the floor, they poured out of me over and over again.
Those words made sense of all the times I acted crazy. Sobbing in the hotel in Vegas after my show with Ginger. Sobbing in Jonah’s bed. Time after time after time after time. The panicked blackness closing in around me when I was having sex with Bomb. Megan, trying to pull me into the closet. The darkness: a trigger. Ginger unexpectedly putting the panties in my mouth: a trigger. Jonah’s stubble: a trigger. Bomb’s forearm: a trigger.
I hated being touched. I hated my body. The compulsion. The deep-seated, visceral need to take off my clothes in front of people. The need to be liked, wanted, worshipped. It wasn’t a hobby. It wasn’t a personality quirk. There was a little voice inside my head demanding I do it in an attempt to repair myself. Screaming danger when there was none, screaming for power when it felt I had none. I needed to regain control over my body because that control had been taken away from me when I was young, and I never felt like I got it back.
In East of Eden, Cathy is portrayed as a monster. She is called a soulless psychopath who ruins lives. She seduces men, breaks their hearts. She jumps from man to man and job to job. She feeds on power, feeds on control. She is never satisfied. It’s never enough.
When Cathy is ten years old, her mother finds her tied up in a barn with two boys. Her underwear is off. The two boys claim it was Cathy’s idea. They say she tricked them. They say they didn’t want to do it, didn’t know what they were doing. The narrator, and therefore the reader, believes the boys. Cathy told the boys to tie her up. She told them to touch her. She got them into trouble. She got them into trouble on purpose.
Looking at this story, I wonder. Even if that were the case, how did a ten-year-old know to tell those boys to tie her up? How did she know to tell them where to touch her? Unless someone else had already shown her. Unless someone had done that to her. When Cathy killed her parents, when she set fire to her house, was she killing just her parents? Or something else, too? Was she trying to kill that thing inside her that we shared?