The good bad girl (2)

I couldn’t go back to the apartment that night.

Not yet.

The blanket he’d wrapped around me still smelled faintly of fake blood and his skin. I sat on the cold floor beside him for what felt like hours, knees drawn up, breathing slowly. 

My body hummed. Every muscle ached in the best way, like I’d run a marathon and won. The good girl inside me was curled up somewhere small and quiet, stunned silent for the first time in my life.

He didn’t push me to talk. He just sat there, back against the wall, one knee bent, watching the red lights flicker across the ceiling. Eventually he offered me water from a sealed bottle. I drank like I’d been dying of thirst.

“So, are you ready for the next session?” He asked.

I shook my head. “I need… air. Space. To think.”

He nodded. No disappointment creased his face. He didn't try to pressure me as well. Instead, he helped me dress. When I slipped the coat back on, he pressed a small black card into my palm.

“No name. Just a number. Text if you want another session. Or if you need to talk. No judgment.”

I tucked it into my bra like contraband.

Outside, the Los Angeles night hit me hard—light flashing everywhere. People still walking about. My thighs sticky as I walked the short distance to the bus stop instead of ordering a ride. I smiled to myself, wincing from the pain of lips that were still swollen from biting them to keep from screaming too loud. Every step I took reminded me what I’d just done.

I felt filthy.

I felt alive.

By the time I got back to my apartment, it was just as I left it: dishes in the sink, research papers scattered across the dining table like dead leaves. 

I ignored them all and stepped in front of the mirror afterward, examining myself. I looked different.

Not better. Not worse. Just… undone. Mascara smudged into faint raccoon rings. Lips bruised dark. A small hickey blooming under my collarbone like a secret signature. I touched it. Pressed until it hurt again.

I stripped in the hallway, left the lingerie and boots in a pile, and walked naked to the bathroom.

Hot water stung the faint welts on my thighs. I watched fake blood swirl pink down the drain until it ran clear. Then I stood under the spray until it turned cold.

I didn’t sleep.

Instead I sat cross-legged on my bed in an old T-shirt, laptop open, staring at the Gory Room website again. There was a members’ forum now—hidden behind login. I created an anonymous account: InitiateE26.

The threads were raw.

One woman wrote about her first time: how she cried the whole drive home, not from regret but from the sudden absence of pain. Another posted photos (blurred faces) of rope marks that looked like lace. Someone asked if anyone had gone back the same week. 

Replies flooded in: Yes. Twice in one night. Three times in a month.

I typed a post. Deleted it. Typed again.

“First session tonight. I think I broke something inside me. Not sure if I want to fix it.”

I hit send before I could overthink.

Replies came fast.

“Welcome to the other side, sister.”

“That crack? It’s where the light gets in. Or the dark. Depends what you feed it.”

“Book again soon. The second time is when you really start to feel it.”

I closed the laptop, lay back, abd stared at the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number.

I almost didn’t answer. Then I did.

“You home safe?” I recognized the voice instantly. It was from the man in the gory room, who had given me the pleasure of a lifetime.

“Yeah.”

Pause.

“You regretting it?”

I laughed—short, surprised. “No. That’s the problem. I don’t regret any of it.”

Another pause.

“Good.”

“I keep thinking about the knife,” I said quietly. “Not even touching me. Just… the threat of it.”

“You liked the edge.”

“I liked feeling like I could fall off it. And that someone would catch me if I did.”

He exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh. “That’s the game. Controlled danger. You decide how close to the drop you get.”

I rolled onto my side, phone pressed to my ear. “When can I come back?”

“Whenever you want. But don’t rush. Let this one settle first. You’ll know when the itch starts again.”

It was already starting.

A low, insistent throb between my legs. Not just physical. Something deeper. Hungrier.

“I’ll text you,” I said.

“I’ll be here.”

He hung up first.

I didn’t move for a long time.

Morning sunlight sliced through the blinds in harsh gold bars. My phone pinged. I grabbed it, noticing instantly that it was work email from the lab head. 

“Eunice, we missed you at the meeting yesterday. Everything okay?”

I stared at it.

Then I typed: “Taking personal time. Will update next week.”

Sent.

No apology. No explanation.

I got up. Made coffee the way Mom used to—strong, no sugar, boiled on the stove instead of using the machine. Drank it black while standing at the window, watching cars crawl through morning traffic.

The card was still in my bra. I pulled it out and ran my thumb over the embossed number. I wasn’t sure what came next.

A second session? Maybe a third.

Maybe I’d try something harder, like ropes, blindfolds, more blood. Or maybe I’d just sit with this feeling for a while. Let it grow roots.