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We each feel trapped for our own reasons and while the bottle is my escape, my lens seems to be theirs.It is Wednesday, I think. The days all start to blend together. I am staring blankly at my reflection in the vanity mirror. My palms press against the cool granite supporting most of my weight while my world is spinning. ‘Who am I?’ Below the exterior, below that dim glow of my pale skin, below the success. ‘Why can’t I fucking see you?’I squint at the mess of purple ombre hair on my head and then down to my bare chest, skipping my face altogether. Tits barely big enough to fill an A-cup. Pinkish red areolae dotting my blanched canvas. I change the angle, cocking my head to one side and wonder, ‘What time is it?’My phone buzzes and breaks the trance; a text. The banner notification on the lock screen reads, Robert M. Robert is a two-time Oscar-winner that I photographed years ago. My mind swirls with thoughts of what he could want. ‘Same as what they all want.’ I swipe the screen. In their senior year, Christine and Alan's relationship had been on the rocks. Alan had asked Becky out and she had accepted. They went out for a few weeks and she finally gave her virginity to him. He dumped her a couple weeks later and went on to other conquests. Christine had blamed Becky for her breakup with Alan.Christine continued, her voice soft, even and sultry: "I want you to remember his touch, Becky. Remember how it felt when he kissed you."Becky had drank her second highball too quickly, and was feeling weird again. Unbeknownst to her, both drinks had been laced with a combination of aphrodisiac and muscle relaxant, and it was doing its job. Becky relaxed, her mind floating into the scenario Christine presented.Alan was a tall, handsome art major with short dark hair and a winning smile. Becky remembered how their first kiss had caused butterflies in her stomach.Christine's voice went even lower: "Remember how he touched your body, Becky. Remember how it.
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