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Static Lenses

Theobe
7
chs / week
The average realized release rate over the past 30 days is 7 chs / week.
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Synopsis
In Static Lenses, the narrator recounts a harrowing experience of psychological and physical trauma through a surreal, dissociative lens. Trapped in a state between consciousness and oblivion, she watches herself from a mental distance as her abuser—once someone who claimed to love her—spirals into panic after realizing the gravity of his actions. Detached from pain and emotion, the narrator becomes a silent observer of his unraveling guilt, fear, and desperation. As he scrambles to erase evidence and concoct escape plans, she remains motionless—until a sudden external trigger jolts her back to life. Her reawakening is visceral and powerful, marked by pain, rage, and a chilling sense of clarity. The story explores themes of trauma, survival, and the haunting power of dissociation. Told in a raw, intimate voice, Static Lenses captures the moment when silence breaks, and the victim reclaims her presence—not with vengeance, but with a gaze that sees everything.
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Chapter 1 - Static Lenses — A Short Story

I didn't know what was happening at first. Everything felt distant, like I was watching a broken television screen—static flickering over reality. I wasn't asleep, but I wasn't awake either. I was somewhere in between, floating in a space I must have created to survive. 

I was still me, I think. But it was like I'd folded myself into a quiet corner of my mind and locked the door. I could see everything, but I wasn't really there. No thoughts. No pain. Just a blank stare and a body that refused to respond. 

He was pacing. The man. The one who used to say he loved me. His frustration was theatrical—arms flailing, fingers pointing, voice rising. He jabbed his index finger into my forehead like he was trying to press a button that would reboot me. When that didn't work, he hit me. Again. And again. I saw it all. I felt none of it. 

He was yelling, but his voice was just a buzzing tone, like I was underwater. I couldn't hear the words. Didn't want to. I laughed inside. At least I didn't have to listen to his bullshit. 

He didn't understand what was happening. That scared him. He shook me, slapped me, screamed in my face. Nothing. I was gone. And that terrified him more than anything. 

I watched him unravel. 

He checked my pulse. Pressed his ear to my chest. I was breathing—barely. My heart was slow, faint. But I was alive. Technically. 

He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at me like I was a broken toy. I could see the gears turning in his head. Panic. Regret. Not for me—for himself. He wasn't crying because he hurt me. He was crying because he knew he'd fucked up. Bad. 

I saw it all. Somehow, I could read his thoughts. Maybe I was crazy. Maybe I'd finally snapped. But it was funny. Hilarious, even. 

He was building scenarios in his mind. No self-defense. No excuse. The bruises on his knuckles matched the ones on my body. The neighbor heard him screaming. The weapons he used were still in the room. And then the worst part—the DNA. He'd left it inside me. That realization hit him like a freight train. 

I laughed. Not out loud. Just inside. But it was real. Dark. Twisted. And satisfying. 

He considered his options. Dismemberment. Burning my tattoos. Dumping me down the garbage chute. No cameras on our floor. Maybe he could buy time before someone noticed I was missing. But someone would. I had children. Family. People who loved me. 

He was screwed. 

He wet a rag and scrubbed my body, desperate to erase himself. I watched him. Let him believe he was safe. Let him think he could clean away the evidence. It was pathetic. 

Then the buzzer rang. 

He jumped like he'd been shot. Ran around the apartment, closing blinds, locking windows. We lived on the third floor. No one could see in. But he was panicking. It was beautiful. 

The buzzer rang again. Long. Loud. Continuous. 

Something snapped. 

I gasped. Air rushed into my lungs like I'd been underwater for hours. Pain flooded in. Every bruise, every cut, every broken piece of me screamed at once. I bolted upright and screamed. 

The lights flickered. He backed away, knocking over furniture. I stared at him. Rage. Sadness. Fury. I let myself feel it all. 

He looked at me like I was possessed. Or maybe just broken beyond repair. 

He thought the cops had come. That the buzzer was the end. But it wasn't. Just some poor soul pressing buttons, trying to get in. 

I laughed. Loud. Hysterical. He stared at me like I was a ghost. 

And maybe I was. 

I'll never forget his face. That sorry, fucking face. Priceless.