Stripped to the Core by Danielle Chapter 3: The Weight of Words 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.