Nancy stops caring about the camera

It is day... something. Five, maybe?

I stare blankly at the ceiling of my cell. I'm not even on the bed: the white tiles cool my back through my sundress.

The dress is noticeably more yellow than white now. I had imagined that new clothes would come through the hatch one day, but no luck there. What's strange is that there had been a box of tampons left with the previous meal. I hadn't needed any yet—tying a couple together for something to throw about the room—but clearly somebody is taking my hygiene into account.

I can see the camera in the corner of my eye. Is the person feeding me the same as the person watching me? Is it more than one person? Is it someone I know? I doubt it. No one I know would have the budget—nor I hope the motivation—to manage all this.

The camera seems to peer into my soul. Is has done all day, every day. Despite utter isolation, privacy is not one of my very few luxuries. The lights never go out; the cubbyhole is too small to crawl into.

I can feel my brain slowly turn to mush with the boredom. My thoughts just seem to go around in circles. I did manage the origami swan by the way: far faster than I had expected. It is scrunched up in my hand.

I have tried to keep my brain stimulated the best I can, but I am all out of ideas. I am ****. There is only one thing I haven't resorted to. Until now, I didn't think I could.

'Do it.'

I furrow my brow. I look around to confirm that there is nobody else in the room. It was definitely a woman's voice...

'You can do it.', I hear again.

There are no speakers in the room. The voice, clear as day, couldn't be coming from through the hatch or door.

'You know you need it.', says the voice.

Or did I say that?

'Fuck.', I say out loud. That was definitely me.

I do need it. I have needed it for days. I even tried breaking the camera with a food tray so I could get it, but failing that: the urge has been building up inside me.

I sit up, staring at the camera. I feel my face flush with heat, not just from the embarrassment, but from the knowledge that I’m about to give in. I’ve held back for days, pushing the thought down, trying to suppress the need. But the voice won’t stop.

'Just do it.'

My skin prickles with frustration and anticipation. My heart pounds in my chest as I shuffle onto the bed. The damn camera in the corner seems to loom larger, as if it’s leaning in, eager to witness my humiliation.

'You can do it. You deserve this.'

I bite my lip, squeezing my eyes shut, wishing the camera would blink away, disappear. But it gazes on. I know they’re watching. I imagine faceless people sitting behind a screen, observing every moment of my captivity, every breakdown, every little crack.

A sharp, needy ache coils through me, and I clench my fists in frustration. My rational mind tells me to hold on—to keep control—but the other part, the part whispering softly, is louder now. There’s no dignity left to lose. I’ve been stripped of everything else.

With trembling fingers, I slide my hand beneath the thin fabric of my sundress. I hesitate, just for a second, glancing one last time at the camera. My pulse quickens as I let my legs fall open.

'This is my body. You can't take this from me.'

The words echo in my head, and I feel a wave of anger mix with the desire. It feels like a small rebellion, but it's also terrifying. My fingers move slowly, tentatively, as if testing the limits of my own shame. My breath hitches, and I shudder as I give in.

For a moment, nothing else exists. The bright, sterile light. The cold tiles beneath me. The blinding white walls. They fade away. It’s just me, trying to hold onto something that’s still mine, something they haven’t stripped from me.

But as I move, my mind wanders back to the camera. I imagine the lens recording every moment. The thought of it makes me tense for a second, my fingers hesitating. I hate that it’s there, watching me. I hate that someone could have their eyes glued to my every move, waiting to see me at my most ****. A shudder of disgust creeps up my spine.

Yet, despite the discomfort, my body doesn’t want to stop. I can feel the desire pulsing through me, stronger now, even as the thought of the camera lingers. I grit my teeth, trying to ignore it, trying to focus on the sensation, on the need that’s been clawing at me for days. There’s a war inside me—a part of me that wants to give in and another part that despises the fact that I’m doing this under their gaze.

I try to focus on the pleasure, shutting out the cold, sterile room, the ever-present lens. My breath catches as I move, my touch more deliberate now, my body giving in despite the nagging discomfort. I can’t help it. I don’t want to help it. The pleasure building inside me is undeniable, and I refuse to let them take this away from me too.

The shame is there, gnawing at the edges of my mind, but the growing intensity overrides it. A moan escapes my lips, and I clench my jaw, trying to stay quiet, trying not to give them the satisfaction of hearing me as well. My fingers quicken, and the pleasure floods through me, drowning out the unwanted thoughts.

I hate this. I hate whoever is watching me, but I need this. I need the release, the feeling of control, even if it’s fleeting. Even if it’s happening under that unblinking eye.

My body takes over, pushing me closer, despite my resentment. The tension in me builds, and the sensations intensify, sweeping me away from the cold reality of the room. I want to pretend it’s not happening here. I want to believe I’m somewhere else, alone, free, untouched by their gaze. But I can’t escape the knowledge that they might be watching, and somehow that only sharpens the feeling, heightens the urgency.

I squeeze my eyes shut, refusing to look at the corner of the room where the camera sits. The pleasure surges through me, undeniable, unstoppable, and I give in, letting my body take what it needs. My breaths come quicker, my movements more frantic, as I chase the release. The thrill of it takes over, even as the shame lingers in the back of my mind. I want to lose myself in this moment, to forget everything else. And for a second, I almost do.

The release hits me hard, a wave of pleasure that leaves me breathless. I gasp, my body trembling as the sensation washes over me. For a few seconds, the world falls away, and it’s just me, lost in the intensity of it. My muscles relax, my breath slows, and for a brief moment, I feel free.

But the moment fades too quickly. As the pleasure ebbs, reality rushes back in. The camera is still there. The room is still the same. I stare at the ceiling, panting, my body still humming with the aftershocks of what I’ve done.

My fingers are slick, and my body is warm with shame and exhaustion. A tear slips down my cheek, and I wipe it away quickly, as if someone can see even that.

I pull my dress back down and curl up on the bed, facing the wall, away from the camera. There’s no relief, only a hollow, empty feeling in my chest. The victory I thought I might feel—some small reclaiming of my body—wasn’t there. Instead, I feel more watched, more trapped than ever.

'Is this what you wanted? Are you happy now?'

Time slips by, minutes or hours, I can’t tell. The tension that had been building inside me for days is gone now, but it’s been replaced by something darker, heavier. I can feel my sanity slipping further, like water draining through my fingers.

I stare at the wall, my body numb, my mind even more so.

'Maybe tomorrow...', I say. 'I’ll break that fucking camera for good.'