Amy

I have always immersed myself in the texts I read aloud. For me, reading aloud is not just a mechanical activity, but a deep emotional process. Every word, every sentence has meaning, and it is my job to grasp and convey that meaning in all its depth. When I read a text, I feel it. I let the thoughts and emotions of the characters seep into me as if they were my own. This is my strength – but at this moment, it becomes my greatest weakness.

Now I sit here, the text in front of me, and I feel my heart tighten. The first lines flicker on my screen, and with every word I read, a knot in my chest tightens more and more.

“I lie naked, tied to the bed, and wonder how I ended up in this situation.”

My voice trembles slightly as I read the first sentence. I can’t help but put myself in the character's shoes – it’s my instinct to do so. But this time, it’s different. This time, I don’t just feel the character’s thoughts; I also feel my own, mixing with those of the protagonist. How did I get myself into this situation? What awaits me here?

“My name is Amy, and I’m on a class trip in the girls’ room. Everyone is looking at me expectantly.”

I feel like Amy myself, tied not to a bed but to the text I have to read aloud. The expectant gazes of the imaginary audience in my mind bore into my soul. My throat tightens as if someone has placed an invisible hand around my neck. Can I really go through with this?

“Someone had mentioned something about a tunnel game. My excitement rises, and doubts creep in.”

Doubts creep into me as well, and the excitement that is usually so liberating now feels like a burden. My heart beats faster, just like Amy’s, and I feel the tension throughout my body. What am I doing here? How did I get into this situation?

“The mixture of thrill and uncertainty permeates my body. My skin tingles with anticipation, and I feel my nipples harden.”

I feel my face flush, a burning sensation on my cheeks betraying me. How can I speak these words without being at a loss for words? The intimacy of the text invades my thoughts and confuses me. I am not Amy, but in this moment, I feel her uncertainty, her doubts, as if they were my own.

“Slowly, doubts start creeping into my mind. Was it wise to get involved in this game?”

My own question pushes to the forefront: Was it wise to get involved in this competition? What if I can’t do it, if I break down? The line between me and the character I’m reading begins to blur. I feel the vulnerability she feels, and at the same time, my own. How did I end up here?

“Suddenly, I feel a gentle touch on my skin. A hand strokes my thigh, and I flinch.”

My hand trembles as I continue to read. I can almost feel the touch on my own skin, not real, but imagined, born from the words. My imagination, which usually brings me so much joy, becomes a trap, drawing me deeper into the text than I want to go.

“The restraints on my wrists and ankles cut slightly into my skin, but the pain quickly disappears into a sea of fear and rising desire.”

The restraints I feel aren’t real, but they are there in my mind. The pressure of responsibility, the text before me, all of it binds me. The fear that overwhelms me mixes with the duty to continue, with the knowledge that I cannot stop. I am trapped in this text, in this role that I could never have imagined. And yet, I have to keep going.

“The other girls watch me with hungry eyes, as if they’re enjoying my naked vulnerability.”

The hungry eyes of my imaginary audience bore into me. Every mistake, every hesitation would be noticed. I am Amy, naked and ****, trapped in a text I never wanted to read aloud. But I keep reading. I have to. For my listeners. For my friends. But above all, because there is no way out.