Novel & Cerita Shame Application

The word felt inadequate for the revulsion churning in my gut, but I had no better way to describe the shame coating my skin like oil. The betrayal stung, sharp and insistent, but the shame was worse.. a deep, corrosive thing that ate at my sense of self. I had prided myself on my intuition, on my ability to read people, to navigate the shark-infested waters of the business world with my instincts intact.

Regret that I had made a very stupid mistake by taking someone's credit card, which landed me in this situation… Regret that I had aided in Jack's death and made his family helpless. And shame, shame that Massimo had reduced me to his play thing, not caring if I were human at all.

“And I know shame only works if you accept it. You shouldn’t.” “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one whose life just imploded.” “You’re right. I’m not.” He pulled a card from his jacket pocket and set it on the bar between us. Simple black card stock with silver lettering. Just a name and a phone number. “But everyone’s life implodes eventually. The question is what you do after.” “And what should I do?” “That’s not for me to decide.” He pushed the card closer to me. “But if you decide you’re tired of carrying shame for something you didn’t do, call me.”

as I am in myself. I straighten my school uniform and mutter as my actions crumble the paper a little. I don't want him to think I tried to hide my shame from him. I would never do that. Suddenly, the paper begins to deteriorate in my hands, and I gasp. I run for his study, but no matter how hard I push my legs I can't seem to move faster. The paper with my shameful marks is almost gone and I won't be able to present my grade to him. He will think I lied on top of falling short.

I should walk down the hall right now and hand him this card and tell him about the parking lot and the phone calls and all of it. But the thought of it — of watching him read this card, of seeing his face while he processed the full picture of who Jeremy was and what he'd done, of knowing that the version of me that had existed during those eight months was now visible to him — it made me feel sick in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with shame. That was the word. The one I'd been circling around for two days. Shame. Not for what had been done to me. I'd been in enough therapy to know intellectually that none of it had been my fault. But knowing something intellec

Shame clings longer than blood. Blood dries. You can scrub it off your skin, hide the stains beneath sleeves, wash it from the floorboards. But shame…it seeps into your bones. Warms your cheeks. You relive it in crowded rooms, in mirrors, in laughter that feels too loud. People forget the mess, but they never forget what you let happen. What you didn’t say. What you didn’t stop. What you became just to survive. That’s the first thought that strikes me as the bathroom door shuts behind him.

According to G****e, a walk of shame is, "an instance of walking back home on the day after an unplanned casual sexual encounter, typically dressed in the same clothes as the previous evening." That's interesting considering I am wearing the same clothes and yet, nobody has ravaged the hell out of my pussy. So why in the hell does this feel like a walk of shame, me, out here on a dark, but warm New York night? Surely, it's not because I had sex. No. I definitely did not do that.

no, this isn't right. My stomach tightens as it plays on. Now what? What do I do with my shame in public? How do I face my colleagues, my boss? And my reputation? I'm now the talk of the town for something shameful. I change the channel quickly to the next, and the next, and the next, but the same news is still on display.

My heart beats chamade, shared between the shame of what I have done and the terror of the future. In my head, only one prayer: that he never see my flaws, that he never learns what I just dirty. Because deep down, I prefer to be plagued from the inside to risk losing it for good.

Crippling shame shudders through me, and it feels as if the ground is ripped from beneath my feet. Xander’s arms wrap around me, and as I sink to the ground, he pulls me against his chest, his body folding over mine as I shatter into a million pieces. I thought I broke when my parents died, but I was wrong. Nothing kills like the shame I’m feeling right now. It strips me of my confidence and makes me feel like a cheap toy that can be used for others' entertainment. As I weep, Xander just presses his face against the back of my neck. He doesn’t try to say anything.