Shame A Novel Novels & Stories

Shameless: (of a person or their conduct) characterized by or showing a lack of shame; barefaced or brazen Sophia’s POV I shamelessly walked backwards and made my way out of the room. I still can’t believe I just watched my boss get off an unfamiliar, strange woman who everyone kept on mistaking as me. Sitting down on the couch downstairs, it was as if a cold water was poured on my head and I felt so ashamed right now. I mentally cursed out at my subconscious self for not advising me or restricting me from walking into that room.

For the first time in my life, I knew what it was like to dread closing my eyes. What had I gotten myself into? No, I knew. I knew exactly how I ended up here. Every mistake I had ever made, every selfish choice, every cruelty I told myself was justified—it had all piled up and brought me to this point. I had made every wrong decision one man could possibly make in a lifetime. I couldn’t even recall the last time I had made a good one. The shame sat on my chest like a stone.

I stood paralyzed under the porch light, the material of Damien’s hoodie clinging like a second skin, underneath my layer of shame. “Miss Nora.” Old man Hugh called, his voice fragile even as he trembled. He stepped closer, holding the umbrella over my head. But the damage was already done. I was soaked in rain, in shame….in pain. “You should head to your room. You’ll catch a cold and something worse if you stay out here.” I didn’t answer. I just walked, allowing him to lead me in. My legs felt heavy, each step a reminder of the heat and friction Damien wrung; a heat that was quickly replaced by the icy, heavy realization that Asher had called me a whore.

“Ha ha ha ha…” “Ha ha ha ha ha…” Joseph Dunn scrunched up his brows at Jane Dunn’s abnormal behavior. “Don’t you feel ashamed at all! This filthy money! Don’t you feel shameful for using this money!” “You’re laughing? Do you even have a sense of shame! How can you even have the nerve to laugh?” “No!” Jane Dunn roared all of a sudden. Her gravelly voice roared, “I’m shameless! Neither do I have a sense of shame! Yes, I’m the prostitute that you say I am!”

He stood there for a second and left the room, closing the door with a bang. The second the door closed my body collapsed to the ground and I started sobbing with anger, hurt, and shame. How can he treat me like this when he has a girlfriend? What does he think about me? Am I going to be his shame forever? I don't want to live like this and I definitely don't want to be a second option.

The digital silence felt like a heavy stone on my chest. I rolled onto my back, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. I felt exposed, fragile, and more awake than I had been in years. The life I was supposed to lead,the football, the family name, Eleanor’s cool, predictable beauty, felt like a costume I could no longer zip up. The shame wasn't about the act; the shame was about the desire. The shame was realizing that the man who held my fate in his hands was the only person who made me feel like I was actually breathing.

But the way her body had answered anyway, the way sensation had drowned out fear for brief, terrible seconds. Not the fear. Not the cruelty. Not the powerlessness. But the intensity… the unbearable need… the relief of each release he tore from her… Shame slammed into her so hard the breath punched from her lungs. It felt like falling through a trapdoor inside herself and landing in something ugly she hadn’t known was there. “No,” she whispered, voice cracking. “No, no, no—”

​I gasped at the sudden emptiness, pulling the messy blankets tightly against my chest as I tried to control my shaking breath. ​Then, out of nowhere, a wave of intense shame crashed over me. Tears gathered in my eyes, burning hot and fast. I felt like a complete fool—an obsessed, foolish girl who couldn't let go of Enzo, no matter how much he tore her apart. I hated myself. I hated that I couldn't say fucking no to him. All he had to do was walk into my room, and I would foolishly wag my tail like a loyal dog, letting him trash me, break my heart, and then use my body whenever he pleased.

Slowly, I lift my eyes to him and a fresh wave of blinding shame washes over me. "It's not. Your shirt is completely ruined." It's smeared with the same red flow. It looks infinitely more glaring and terrifying on him because his fabric is stark white. "And?" "It is on your skin, on the dark leather of this luxury car seat" And it is dripping down my own inner thighs. The shame hits me like a physical blow. The image of Montana: perfect, pristine, and high-society flashes in my mind, making the humiliation cut twice as deep. Even though I loathe her, I'm certain she'd never let this happen. He probably thinks I’m disgusting. He probably wants to push me out of his car right now.

something vaguely masculine and unfamiliar. I splashed cold water on my face, scrubbing at the dried tear tracks until my skin was raw. It didn't help. The fear, the shame, the sense of violation, it was all still there, etched into every pore. My eyes were still red, my lips still trembled, and my hands still shook. I squeezed my eyes shut, taking one last ragged breath. There was no more time. I opened the door and stepped back out into the room. The stark white t-shirt and dark underwear did nothing to hide the bruises or the humiliation. If anything, the simplicity of the clothing made the shame worse.