Chapter 15
Agatha
I didn’t throw the envelope away.
I didn’t hide it, either.
I put it on my desk in the filming room, right in the spot where the ring light will catch it in the corner of the frame. A little blur in the background. A smudge of cream paper that will mean nothing to most of my audience. But to them? It will be a flare in the dark.
They wanted to dig up my past. Fine, I’ll make them choke on it.
I take my time getting ready. Not the usual lingerie sets.
Tonight I want something that whispers instead of shouts.
I pull on a cropped dove-gray cardigan, soft and clingy, and fasten it with a single button.
Not the button—that’s in the envelope on the desk—but something close enough that it will catch their eye.
Beneath it, just black lace. Sheer in all the right places.
I slip into thigh-high stockings, black with a run down the side. Imperfect and human.
The camera hums when I turn it on. The ring light paints my skin in a warm wash, erasing the faint bags under my eyes. I sink to the floor in front of the bed, leaning back against it with my knees bent and spread just enough. The cardigan slides off one shoulder as if by accident.
The chat starts filling before I even say a word.
DarkRoomDoll: Ohhh she’s giving soft dom victim vibes tonight
GoreSlut420: Girl you look wrecked in the best way
NotACopIPromise: That cardigan is dangerous
GraveyardDaddy: I bet that button would leave a mark if she pressed it into your skin
I smile slowly, like I’ve been holding it back all day.
“Some of you think you know me,” I say, voice low. “You think you’ve seen all the versions there are. The good girl. The bad girl. The girl who screams for you.”
The chat flickers faster. I let it roll by. My eyes are on the lens. On them.
“But here’s the thing about people like me,” I continue. “We keep the best parts hidden. The ones you only get if you earn them.”
I reach up and brush the single button with my fingertips, tugging the fabric open just enough to flash a hint of lace before I let it fall closed again.
Some viewers send tips with eggplant emojis. Others type hearts. I ignore them.
“I used to wear this kind of sweater every day,” I say.
“Back then it wasn’t for anyone. It was to hide what was underneath.
It was to make sure no one could see what didn’t belong to them.
” I pause, let my thumb circle the button again.
“But maybe that was a mistake. Maybe hiding gave people ideas. That they could take whatever they wanted.”
GraveyardDaddy: Ok is this a roleplay or are you mad at someone??
VelvetNoose: Some of us like you better when you’re quiet
SoftlySadist: Whoever pissed her off is gonna regret it
My laugh is soft. “Quiet isn’t my thing anymore,” I say. “And if you think you can take from me, maybe you should be ready for me to take something back.”
The cardigan slips a little more, baring one shoulder. I don’t fix it.
The chat is chaos now, half of them trying to guess the “bit,” half of them leaning in for the tease. I keep my eyes locked on the lens.
“This isn’t a plea,” I tell them. “It’s not an invitation. It’s a reminder.”
I lean forward, letting the camera catch the low neckline, the shadow between my thighs. My hand rests there, lazy, not quite moving.
“You don’t scare me,” I whisper. “You can’t scare someone who’s already survived hell.”
I let the silence hang. Just me, breathing. Waiting. The viewer count ticks higher. Then higher again. It’s not normal. One notification pops up in bright red at the top of the chat.
Anonymous tip. Four figures.
PurpleTights: We’re listening.
My skin prickles. I smile anyway.
“Good,” I say. “Then pay attention.”
I end the stream before the chat can catch up.
It doesn’t take long to figure out where the spike came from. I knew that big of a jump in my followers and viewers didn’t happen organically. Someone had to have leaked my link or name somewhere. Fucking bastards.
VelvetNoose. The one who told me they liked me better when I was quiet. He…she…whoever they are didn’t even pick a different username. Used the same one on Reddit as they do on my site. That’s not a coincidence.
They leaked the link. Screenshots of my stream, pulled mid-pose, tossed up on some sleazy Reddit thread for local whores. They listed me under my state, like I’m a cheap listing on Craigslist. Comments are already stacking up under it. Asshole.
I’m not letting that slide.
The next night I set up early. No music this time, no lingering warmup for the audience. I go live, already pissed, already smiling about it.
“This,” I say, holding up my phone with the thread pulled open, username circled in thick red marker, “is against the rules. Against the club. You don’t out people like this. Not if you want to keep your teeth.”
The chat explodes.
ChurchofAgatha: What the FUCK?
ThighHighPriestess: Not cool velvetnoose.
SnackPackSlut: Shame shame shame
TonyFromAccounting: Get ‘em girl!
I set the phone down and pull out the prop I prepped: a Barbie doll with a printout of VelvetNoose’s profile pic taped to its head.
“This,” I tell them, turning it so the camera gets a good look, “is what I’d do if I knew who you were.”
I start with a lighter, running the flame just close enough for the heat to melt the hair into a long, sticky black clump. The smell of burned synthetic hair fills the air.
The chat’s going wild, the feed scrolling faster than my eyes can keep up.
Sk8erSlut97: Oh shit she’s serious.
QuietInTheBack: This is making me so hot rn.
DaddyIssuesUnresolved: Girl wtf??
GothDaddy69: HAHAHA kill it!
NeedleKing: Now we’re talking.
I pinch the doll’s arm hard until the joint gives and it pops loose from the socket. Plastic grinds against plastic. I hold the arm up like a trophy before tossing it onto the desk.
“You want to know where I learned this?” I keep my voice low, intimate, like a confession.
“I grew up with parents who thought the Bible was the only law worth following. We went to church multiple times a week. Sunday morning service, Sunday night service, Monday Bible study, Wednesday youth group, Friday socials. I couldn’t breathe without them telling me it was wrong.
Every move I made was a sin, and every sin got punished. ”
I pick up a long sewing needle from my prop box. The kind I use for button repairs. The point gleams under the ring light. I push it slowly through the doll’s left ear, angling it until the tip emerges from the right.
The chat reacts instantly.
CrimsonMoth: Ohhh fuck!
User259: JESUS CHRIST
BloodPetal: Omg omg omg omg omg
ThroatCandy: I feel like i should leave but i cant look away.
The needle stays in place as I twist the doll’s head. The pressure makes the plastic squeak. Then, with a quick, deliberate motion, I pull the head free. It comes off with a sharp pop, the needle still skewering it like some fucked-up cocktail garnish.
I hold the clump of hair up between two fingers, long strands knotted and melted together. The head swings slightly in the air, the blackened ends catching the light like frayed rope.
“They made me good at this.”
For a moment, the chat freezes. Just usernames sitting there like blinking eyes. Then the feed explodes.
PurpleTights: Too bad that’s not the real deal. Tell us, Agatha…could you do it?
CreepCreepCreep:Hholy fuck!
VelvetNoose: Only giving what you deserve. Sounds like your parents had the right idea.
DaddyVoid: Do it for real
I stare into the lens until the silence feels heavy enough. Then I let one side of my top lip curl.
“Yes. Death doesn’t scare me. Living does. Living can cause the greatest pain. I escaped hell to get here. I could go back easily. In fact, I’m sure the devil saved me a seat.”
My eyes catch on the name a few down from my fuck and dash stalker. VelvetNoose.
The asshole who leaked my link.
The heat that hits me isn’t embarrassment: it’s rage, hot and sharp, crawling up the back of my neck. I lean closer to the camera, my voice dropping.
“Well, well. Look who crawled out from under their rock.”
BloodandBoudoir: Ohhhh shit!
JasonWasHere: GET OUT NOOSE!!
JennyBean69: You’re not welcome here!
GutterPrince: Bold move coming in here after what you did.
I keep my gaze locked on the screen like I’m staring straight into their eyes.
“You think hiding behind a username makes you untouchable? Cute.”
ThroatCandy: Ban them.
VelvetNoose: Truth hurts, doesn’t it?
DaddyVoid: Ughhh you’re disgusting.
CryptCummin: I’d kill for 5 mins alone with this guy.
I smile, slow, letting it spread without any warmth. “Keep talking, Velvet. Every word’s just making me want to get creative.”
The chat howls; half laughing, half egging me on. But I’ve wasted enough energy on this cunt. I click the block button next to their name and then ban them permanently.
PurpleTights: You could someone?
I wink, slow. “I guess that’s for me to know and you to never find out.”
The chat keeps moving for a few seconds after I cut the stream, messages flooding in like they don’t realize I’m gone yet.
I fire off an email to Lorna letting her know about VelvetNoose so she can find their IP and ban them from Behind the Lens altogether.
I’m not sure how that all works. But all of us cammers know if we have an issue like that to let her know, and she makes sure they never have access to the site again.
I shut the laptop and head down to the kitchen, ready to make myself something to eat.
Downstairs, the quiet feels heavier than it should. I flip the kitchen light on and stand there for a beat, letting the hum of the refrigerator settle around me.
The marinara jar clinks against the counter when I set it down. I pour it into a dented pot, watching the sauce slop against the metal sides, the red too bright under the light. I toss the garlic bread into the oven, twist the dial, and lean my hands on the counter while the heat kicks on.
The Dr. Pepper fizzes loudly when I crack it open. I sit at the table while the pasta softens in boiling water, watching the steam. I take a slow sip from the can, letting the cold bite of carbonation sting the back of my throat.
Every couple of minutes, I get up to check the pot, sliding the spoon through the boiling water to keep the noodles from clumping together.
Steam curls into my face, carrying the faint smell of salt from the pasta water.
I press one against the inside of my wrist the way Debra used to, an old habit I can’t shake even though she never cooked for comfort, only duty.
I drain them, listening to the hiss of the water hitting the sink. The sauce slides in, coating every strand. I stir it until it turns the right shade of deep red, pop the garlic bread out of the oven, and make a bowl of heaping goodness.
I twirl the noodles around my fork and take my time chewing. The tang of the sauce lingers on my tongue, sharp and sweet, garlic and salt cutting through the heat.
Could I kill someone?
The thought isn’t shocking. It’s just there, quiet and certain, like a truth I’ve been circling for years.
I think I could.
Not in self-defense. Not in some heat-of-the-moment accident. I mean, choose it. Plan it. Watch the life leave their eyes and know I took it.
I’m not sure how I’d feel afterward. Maybe the guilt would curl into my stomach and gnaw me apart. Maybe I’d sleep better than I ever have. But in the moment? I think I could do it.
And I know exactly who I’d start with.
My parents. For every bruise they called a lesson.
The pastor. For every sermon that sounded like a threat.
The youth group leader. For hands that stayed too long in the name of “prayer.”
I take another bite, chewing slowly, the heat from the garlic bread burning the roof of my mouth.
The truth sits heavy in my chest, but it’s not guilt. Not fear.
Yes. I could.