Stripped to the Core
by Danielle

Chapter 4A: Exposed Math Equation

As I stepped into the classroom, a palpable shift enveloped the atmosphere. The once-bustling room, alive with the low hum of chatter and the rustle of papers, abruptly succumbed to a profound silence. It was as if time had paused, and the air grew heavy with an eerie tension that made the cold air from the vents feel even more biting against my skin. I stood frozen at the doorway, uncertainty wrapping around me like a shroud, and my heart raced, thundering against my ribcage—a relentless reminder of my vulnerability in this moment.

Mr. Smothers, my Algebra II teacher, noticed my arrival and immediately took control of the room. His deep, commanding voice broke through the silence like a trumpet call. "Class," he announced, rising from behind his desk, "it seems we have something... unusual to address today. As all of you can see, Emma has become a living art canvas for our Graphic Art Living Project.” His words sliced through the tension, spotlighting my insecurities and flaws, and illuminating every fear I had ever harbored. With a sweeping motion of his hand, he beckoned me to the front of the class. "Come up here, please."

Each step I took felt like an eternity, the stares of my classmates piercing me, holding me captive as I made my way toward the front. The heat of embarrassment surged in my cheeks, and I could almost hear my heartbeat, a frantic drum echoing in my ears. The words and drawings scrawled across my body from earlier in the day felt like a mockery, an open display of my shame, an exhibit for all to scrutinize. Whispers floated through the room like dark clouds, the low murmurs barely audible yet painfully clear, as students exchanged glances, dissecting the phrases etched on my arms, legs, and chest. Some stared wide-eyed, filled with confusion or curiosity—or worse, amusement.

"As you can see," Mr. Smothers continued, addressing the class, "laid out on Emma’s body are words written by her peers. Now, the more interesting question—are any of these writings from people in this classroom?"

The air thickened with tension, wrapping around me like a vice as I stood there, feeling utterly exposed—not just in the physical sense but emotionally bare. My palms grew clammy, and my throat tightened at the realization that someone in this very room was responsible for at least a few of those words. My heart raced, urging me to curl inward, to shield my body from their prying eyes, but I forced myself to stand tall.

Then, the voice I had dreaded the most sliced through the silence. "I did," Madison declared, her hand shooting up confidently from the middle of the room. My heart sank as she rose, a sly smile curling on her lips, resembling a cat playing with its caught prey. "I wrote 'brave' on her."

A fog of confusion and disbelief rolled over me, reminding me of the mind-numbing moment when Vice Principal Ms. Blunderbuss had made me endure this humiliation while several students scrawled on my body. The memory sent a jolt of shame through me, the ink burning beneath the weight of their scrutiny. Mr. Smothers nodded, his gaze shifting between Madison and me, the weight of his attention unbearable. "Very well, Ms. Foster. Could you come up and point out where you wrote it on Emma?"

Madison sauntered forward with a confidence that made my skin crawl, her eyes sparkling with satisfaction as if relishing the power of the moment. My skin prickled in apprehension as she approached, her hand brushing dangerously close to my inner thigh—the very spot where she had inscribed her words in large, looping letters earlier that day.

"Right here," she said, tracing the letters with her fingertip, an intimate gesture that felt like an invasion. "I thought it was fitting." Humiliation flooded through me as her hand lingered, a stark reminder of how exposed I truly was, like a specimen displayed under a microscope for everyone to examine. The class fell into a hushed silence, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. My cheeks burned as Madison’s touch lingered, each passing second stretching into a torturous eternity. All I wanted was to disappear, to vanish into thin air and escape this waking nightmare.

"And why did you choose the word 'brave'?" Mr. Smothers asked, his tone calm yet firm as if expecting a thoughtful answer. He paused, then interrupted her before she could respond. “Ms. Foster, looking at the location you chose to write on her body is very intimate.”

Madison hesitated, her confidence faltering as she glanced around the room, but that insidious smile remained on her face. "I think it was more for her than for me," she replied, her voice dripping with insincerity. "Because look at her—she’s standing here in front of everyone, completely exposed. That takes guts, right? I mean, it's brave."

A murmur rippled through the class, a mix of intrigue and judgment. My throat tightened as I struggled to hold my composure, fighting against the tears threatening to spill over. Madison’s words felt like a taunt, a thinly veiled insult wrapped in the guise of a compliment. The eyes of my classmates crawled over me, dissecting every inch of the ink-stained canvas my body had become.

"Brave, indeed," Mr. Smothers said, his tone betraying his disapproval of Madison’s explanation. He sighed and then turned back to her. “I want you to remain before the class.” Then he looked at me, gesturing toward the seats. "Take your seat now."

Relief washed over me as I scurried back to my desk, my heart still pounding like a war drum, a cacophony of emotions crashing over me. The whispers followed me like shadows, and the occasional glances thrown my way felt like daggers, each one a reminder of my vulnerability. My gaze returned to Madison, who stood there, her smug expression a constant reminder that this humiliation was far from over.

“Madison,” Mr. Smothers addressed her again, “please tell the class your reasoning behind choosing that location on her body to write that. Now, before you proceed, I want you to feel what Emma is going through by removing your clothing as you speak your reasoning, long enough to remove your last garment.”

Stunned silence filled the room as we all watched her begin to undress, piece by piece, her bravado slipping away with every discarded article of clothing. Mr. Smothers gathered her clothing and held up a collection of markers, addressing the class while managing the chaos. He looked at me, gesturing for me to come forward again.

"Emma, please come up," he said, the weight of his words sending a chill through me. My heart sank anew, dread coiling in my stomach as I knew what was coming next. I could feel Madison’s gaze boring into me, predatory and hungry for the next opportunity to humiliate me. Each step forward felt heavy, laden with the expectations of my peers.

As I took the marker, I could feel my hands trembling. “Now, Emma, I want you to write math equations on Ms. Foster's skin,” Mr. Smothers instructed, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. The room felt suffocating, Madison’s eyes boring into me, filled with a cocktail of triumph and disdain that made my skin crawl.

I felt her shiver beneath my touch as I wrote the math problems on her skin, my heart racing with each stroke of the marker against her lower thigh—an intimate spot that echoed the humiliation I had felt just moments before. Anxiety crashed over me like a wave as I knelt, fully aware of how exposed I was in front of the class. The sensations overwhelmed me—the coldness of the marker against her warm skin, the weight of the moment pressing down on my shoulders. I concentrated on the numbers, willing myself to block out the whispers that echoed around me. The feeling of the marker gliding against her skin sent a shiver down my spine, but I forced myself to focus on the equations, pushing through the discomfort I saw reflected in her eyes, feeling a small flicker of pride that I wasn’t the only one on display.

Once I returned to my seat, another student, Elijah, took the opportunity to solve the problem I had started, and I felt a slight sense of relief wash over me. However, as the period drew to a close, Mr. Smothers called my name again. "Come up and solve this problem on Ms. Foster's chest," he said. I was taken aback by how much of her body was covered in equations and words meant to guide the solution. The panic on her face was evident, her embarrassment palpable.

Yet, amidst the turmoil of emotions, I welcomed the opportunity. This was my chance to shift my focus to something tangible—numbers and equations, elements of logic and order that felt like a haven compared to the chaos that had enveloped my morning. I approached Madison, my own body still exposed for all to see, but my mind shifted to the algebraic expression awaiting me in the space below her breasts.

As I worked through the problem on her skin, solving it step by step, the classroom fell silent, if only for a moment. For the second time that day, I felt a flicker of control as I leaned over her, ensuring my legs were spread wide as I bent to write, exposing myself to the scrutiny of the class. Numbers were predictable; they didn’t judge or whisper behind my back. They didn’t care about the words written on my skin or the shyness that had gripped me before today. When I finally finished, Mr. Smothers nodded in approval. "Good work," he said, his words a brief balm to my frayed nerves. "Take your seat."

Relief surged through me as I returned to my desk, the weight of the moment finally beginning to lift, but it was mixed with an unsettling cocktail of triumph and defeat. Yes, I had taken control of my body in a way that felt empowering, but it was a small victory amid a sea of humiliation. I clung to that small win as the period ticked down, counting down the minutes until the bell rang and I could escape this environment.

But just as the bell’s shrill chime echoed through the classroom, signaling the end of class, I glanced over at Madison, who remained standing there, surveying her classmates as they filed out of the room. I lingered, still uncertain if she would slip her clothes back on her body or if she would choose to embrace her newfound vulnerability.

Gone was the look of malice and smug confidence that had characterized her earlier demeanor; instead, her expression was more subdued, almost humble. Mr. Smothers caught my eye, gesturing for me to come closer to his desk while leaving Madison to stand there, visibly shaken. As he lifted the clothes off his desk, I could see the horror wash over Madison’s face at the sight of her garments.

“Could you please take this to the nurse's office so it can be placed in the lost-and-found bin?” Mr. Smothers asked, his voice calm yet firm.

The request hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. I swallowed hard as I gathered my things, feeling the weight of Madison’s clothes pressed against my chest. The chatter around me resumed, a blend of laughter and indifference, but my heart pounded in my ears, drowning out their noise. The fear lingered like a specter, an unwelcome shadow that followed me as I exited the classroom, the hallway stretching ahead like an abyss.

As I walked toward the nurse's office, I took a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was still under scrutiny, the words written on my skin a constant reminder of my exposure. The echoes of laughter and whispered judgments trailed behind me, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Once I entered the nurse's office, I was greeted by the familiar scent of antiseptic and the quiet hum of fluorescent lights. The nurse looked up from her desk, a warm smile breaking across her face. “Hello, Emma! What do you have there?” she asked, eyeing the bundle in my arms.

“Mr. Smothers asked me to bring these to the lost-and-found,” I replied, trying to sound casual, even though my heart felt like it was lodged in my throat.

“Okay, dear. Just place them on the counter,” she said, motioning toward a small shelf lined with abandoned jackets and lunchboxes. I obeyed, feeling a mixture of relief and anxiety as I turned to leave.

I hurried down the hall toward my Biology class, desperate to lose myself in the rhythm of lectures and labs, to find a distraction from the turmoil that had consumed my day. But as I entered the classroom, the familiar smell of disinfectant and the murmur of students filled the air, yet I felt anything but comforted.


Chapter 4B: The Biology of Exposure (New Version)

I stepped into the biology classroom, my heart pounding like a jackhammer in my chest, still reeling from the humiliation of the day. The sharp, sterile scent of disinfectant clung to the air, a clinical reminder of where I was, but it did nothing to wash away the shame that clung to me like a second skin. I scanned the room, desperate to find my usual seat in the back corner by the window, a refuge where I could fade into the shadows. The two guys and three girls at the table were faces I barely recognized—nameless and unimportant to me, and I hoped I was just as invisible to them. Maybe, just maybe, I could survive the rest of the day unnoticed.

But there was no escape.

“Emma!” Ms. Walsh’s voice sliced through the quiet like a blade, piercing my fragile hopes and sending a shockwave of dread through me. My stomach dropped, twisting in fear as her words crashed over me. Not again. Please, not again.

“Come up to the front and help me with today’s lesson,” she called, her tone casual, as if I were simply being asked to hand over a piece of paper. Each word felt like a hammer blow against my already fragile psyche. My legs locked in place, refusing to move, but the weight of my classmates' eyes—hungry, expectant—began pulling me forward, dragging me to the center of the room. My skin prickled under their collective gaze, and each step toward the front felt like a march to my doom. I wanted to scream, to run, to vanish into thin air. But there was no escape.

Ms. Walsh had arranged a stool in the center of the room like some kind of stage, a spotlight I couldn’t avoid. Just looking at it made my legs tremble, but I kept moving. Each step felt like walking into a trap I couldn’t evade. She smiled at me—not a comforting smile, but one that sent a fresh wave of panic through me. This wasn’t about learning. This was about spectacle. About my body being reduced to nothing more than a tool for humiliation.

“Come on, Emma,” Ms. Walsh urged, her tone light and breezy, as though this was no big deal. As though I wasn’t about to be put on display for everyone’s amusement. But it was a big deal. For me, this was hell.

I climbed onto the stool, my whole body trembling, each muscle taut with fear. I gripped the edges of the seat like it was my only lifeline, trying to steady myself against the flood of shame that threatened to drown me. But the room kept closing in, suffocating me under the weight of their stares, their whispers, their judgment. I wanted to be anywhere but here, to disappear completely, to be forgotten.

But my body wasn’t mine anymore. It was a blank slate, a canvas scrubbed clean each day starting tomorrow, only to be defaced again by the hands of my classmates. Every morning after that, I knew what was coming, the dread gnawing at me as I braced for the inevitable. This was my new reality—my classmates' words and actions covering me like scars, their expressions of creativity becoming part of me whether I wanted them or not. I had no say in it, no control. I was no longer a person in their eyes. I was just a tool for Ms. Amberley’s "Living Art Project." To them, it was some kind of twisted experiment, a way to express themselves through my body. But for me? It felt like they were stripping me of my very identity, piece by piece.

“Each of you will have the opportunity to contribute your creativity by adding to the physical representation of Emma,” Ms. Walsh explained, her voice completely detached, as if she were discussing the weather rather than my humiliation. “You’re encouraged to alter any part of her body—even the most intimate areas. Nothing is off-limits if you choose. Remember, this is a biology course, so what you do to her should connect to the subject we’re studying. Think about biological processes, emotional responses, and stimuli. Let your imagination run wild.”

I could feel the blood drain from my face, a wave of nausea crashing over me. Nothing was off-limits. Nothing. My body didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. I was just an empty surface for them to manipulate, to fill with their thoughts, their feelings, their crude expressions of creativity. No one cared how I felt. I wasn’t a person to them anymore. Just a body waiting to be transformed.

As if to further cement my degradation, Ms. Walsh gestured toward a corner of the classroom, where a table had been set up with various tools for this twisted project. “Over here, I’ve provided clippers, body shavers, shaving cream, and scissors to remove any body hair that might get in the way of your expressions. Feel free to use them as you see fit,” she continued, her voice dripping with a false sense of cheer.

The classroom buzzed with excitement as my classmates exchanged eager glances, eyes sparkling with delight at the thought of being able to manipulate my body even further. I could see their minds whirling with ideas—how they could turn me into their canvas, stripping away any barriers to their creativity.

Then, Ms. Walsh continued, her voice slicing through the air with chilling clarity. “And remember, Emma will scrub clean everything that is written on her skin each night after it has all been photographed and documented. We’ll need her to express how each of those actions affected her.”

Panic surged through me. I wanted to scream, to lash out. Those aren’t my words or feelings! I am nothing to anyone. I have no say in what is done to me. I felt trapped, my autonomy stripped away, leaving behind an empty shell for them to fill with whatever they pleased. It was as if she was broadcasting my powerlessness to the whole room, exposing the depths of my humiliation for everyone to witness.

The whispers began again, crawling over my skin like spiders. “What’s she going to say about it? Does she feel that way?” They exchanged smirks and laughter, all while I stood there, heart racing, suffocating under their scrutiny. I could already see the actions they would choose—actions that would cut deep, actions that didn’t belong to me, actions that would stain my skin and my very essence.

Without warning, several students grabbed me, lifting me off the stool like I was weightless, without even bothering to look at my face. I could hear them murmur among themselves, their voices echoing around me. “She’s completely hairless above the neck. Now we need to clean off her hair on the rest of the body.”

The next thing I knew, I was being laid out on the cold, sterile table, my arms and legs spread wide, exposing everything. The chill of the metal pressed against my back, sending shivers down my spine as I lay there completely vulnerable, the attention of the entire class focused on me. I could feel their eyes on my pubic hair and the hair under my arms and legs, and my stomach twisted with anxiety.

I heard the clippers buzzing to life, the sound slicing through the air like a death knell. I was powerless to stop it. The buzzing grew closer, and I realized that several students were focused on my head, eager to begin their alterations. I wanted to protest, to plead for them to stop, but the words lodged in my throat, choking me. I was powerless against the tide of their enthusiasm.

As the clippers met my long hair, I felt the first cut reverberate through me. My hair, once a part of my identity, fell away in long, cascading locks. I wanted to cry out, to feel something—anything other than the numbness washing over me—but my voice betrayed me. Then, without my consent and despite Ms. Walsh’s guidance, several classmates began shaving my scalp clean. The cold metal glided across my skin, a stark reminder of my loss.

While that was happening, I listened helplessly to the girls talking as they cut off my eyebrows, their laughter mingling with the hum of the clippers. “Should we call her name to get her to close her eyes?” one girl suggested, her voice laced with mockery. “It’ll be easier to clip off her eyelashes that way.”

I was powerless as I felt the cold steel edging near my eyes. My heart raced as I shut them tightly, surrendering to the humiliation of it all. The sensation was surreal, like a bad dream that I couldn’t wake up from. As the last of my hair fell to the floor, I felt utterly exposed, stripped of my dignity and my sense of self. The buzzing of the clippers faded, but the weight of their laughter lingered in the air, a cruel reminder of the reality I had been thrust into.

Finally, as the last remnants of my identity slipped away, I felt a wave of nausea wash over me. I was utterly exposed, and stripped of my dignity and my sense of self. The cold metal pressed against my scalp sent a chill down my spine, and the laughter of my classmates rang in my ears like a cruel symphony.

As I stumbled out of the classroom, the sting of tears filled my eyes, a crushing wave of overwhelming loss crashing over me. I was slipping away, and no one seemed to care. I couldn’t bear the thought of facing my classmates in the cafeteria, where the laughter and stares would continue.

I headed to the ladies' room, the only sanctuary I could think of before facing more humiliation. Locking myself in a stall, I leaned against the cool metal door, allowing the tears to flow freely. This was my moment of solitude—a brief respite before I had to face the harsh reality of the cafeteria once more, where the laughter would ring out, and I would be nothing but a target for their cruel amusement. The shame burned like acid in my chest, each sob a reminder of how deeply I had been wounded. As I sank to the floor, feeling utterly defeated, the echoes of their laughter followed me, haunting me, and reminding me of what I had become.