Shame Application Novels & Stories

she greeted me, immediately turning her attention back to her laptop. "Good morning too," I replied. I walked towards my desk, where I immediately put down my bag. I wanted to sit down because of the shame. But I fought that shame even though the way I was moving now was so awkward. I went to her desk and stood there. "Uhm, S-Shane," I called to her, stuttering. She stopped typing on her laptop and looked at me. "I… I-I just want to tell you that I am so sorry for what happened—"

“For the pack.” I stare at the ceiling, my body trembling uncontrollably – not with the lingering echoes of desire, but with a profound and utter shame that seeps into my very bones. The weight of her forced claim settles upon me like a suffocating shroud, a tangible representation of my powerlessness. A silent, desperate prayer forms in the deepest recesses of my mind, a plea that the insidious poison still wracking my system might have rendered this act of violation infertile, a final, desperate attempt to prevent her ambition from taking root within me in the most fundamental way.

The tea steam curled in lazy smokes between us. “I feel dirty,” I said finally. The words slipped out before I could stop them. “Like I’m covered in something I can’t wash off.” “You’re not,” he said. His voice was gentle, but firm. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” I wanted to believe him. God, I really did. But shame is tricky. It sneaks in, even when you know it doesn’t belong to you. It wraps around you like smoke, until you can’t see clearly anymore.

blazed red with bitter irony. In the photo, he looked so upright. But who would guess that underneath that mask of righteousness hid a heart so rotten? The sky grew darker, and streetlights flickered on. Dragging my legs that felt as if they were weighted with lead, I finally reached the entrance of our apartment complex. I swiped my card. The gate alarm beeped, flashing red. Harvey really had changed everything. Even my access to the compound had been revoked. Matt Shepard, the security guard, poked his head out of the security booth, a troubled look on his face.

The way I touched him back. “Fuck.” The word rips out of me, raw and broken before I punch the wall. The pain in my fists does nothing to stop my mind. I brace both hands against the wall, standing under the spray, letting the water scald my skin as if I can wash it all off. But no matter how hot it gets, no matter how hard I scrub, it’s still there. On me. In me. The shame is sharp. Heavy. It settles in my chest like cement.

It has been replaced with concern and worry. The two of us made our way to the den discussing though the link what exactly we were going to tell Dad. All the times we had done things with Heather and been caught, I had never been ashamed of what we had been doing. Embarressed at being caught, oh most definitely, but never ashamed. This? All I feel is shame, disgust and disappointment in myself. Shane POV

I used that pain as punishment for the mistakes I had made. I got to Linda's house, and my car was parked outside. I stood there for a while, just staring at it, my mind completely blank. I wanted to just get in and drive away, far away from this place and the whole city.... I didn't want Linda to see me like this; I must have looked like a mess. My hands shook as I reached for the car keys in my pocket, but I didn’t move. I just stood there on the sidewalk, staring, feeling that sting between my legs with every step I had taken to get here. It was like my body refused to let me forget what had happened, like it wanted me to carry the shame forever.

I could never talk openly about what happened to me to anyone, besides being humiliating; it is embarrassing and shameful. "What point? I just don't want to talk about myself to a person I don't know. You are the mother of the man who sells women and you treat this as if it were normal!” I let out between fruit and sighs, I wanted to feel relieved, but all I felt was shame.

"I was wrong. I was arrogant. I was nonchalant. And I'm ashamed of it." I studied her face. There was no defensiveness. No excuses. No attempt to shift blame. All I could see on her face was shame. Oddly enough, that made all the difference. People often apologized because they wanted forgiveness. People said they regretted things because regret was uncomfortable. But shame was different. Shame meant someone looked back at who they had been and genuinely disliked that version of themselves. It meant growth. It meant awareness. It meant they understood the damage they'd caused.

Better to just forget it ever happened. “You have nothing to be ashamed about. Victims of these types of crimes always feel shame but that’s wrong. You know why?” She shook her head, doubtful but listening. “Because they’re not the ones who should be ashamed. Predators did the crime. They should feel the shame, and only them. You were attacked. You didn’t attack someone. It wasn’t you who did this, therefore you cannot blame yourself. It’s on him. Only on him. He’s gross and unworthy and a foul human being. You are just a woman who fought back. Do you understand?”