It was the same video. My flushed face. My body moving to music in a hotel room surrounded by men.
My skin instantly turned cold, the blood draining from my limbs as a familiar sense of dread swallowed me whole. The nightmare had repeated itself.
Beneath the video, the comments were just as vicious as I remembered.
[Whose daughter is this? Whose wife? If she were mine, I'd strangle her.]
[What a whore. Those men clearly aren't picky.]
[Ugh, look at that tongue. I'd rather have her lick a toilet—wait, no, that'd dirty the toilet.]
[I heard her parents are teachers? Unbelievable. Don't let your kids near them—who knows what they teach at home.]
My full name. Our home address. My parents' workplace. All laid bare in the comments section like some public bulletin board. The doxing was happening again and everything was unraveling.
Then, came the private messages.
[How much to sleep with you?]
[Didn't think you were this wild. Wanna meet next time?]
[Babe, stairwell or copy room—your pick.]
[I've got a buck and ten bros. What do you say?]