You walk into the apartment and toss the manilla folder onto the table next to your favorite chair. You head straight for the medicine cabinet and grab the bottle of old painkillers. You never have been one for pills, when you blew up your knee you pretty much big the bullet and didn't take the prescription, thus the leftovers. You pour a handful into your palm and throw them down your throat, chasing them with a swig of water out of the faucet. They go down hard making you gag and you almost throw up. You wander back out into the kitchen and pull a bottle of wine out of the fridge. You pop the cork out and pull a glass from the cupboard. You stare mindlessly at the dishtowel hanging from the stove handle, letting the reality of the situation break over you like an angry wave in a vicious noreaster. Images of the photographs paired with gruesome live images of the aweful night play through your mind like some morbid independant film. Tears well up in your eyes again and you hear yourself scream and glass breaking as you hurl the wineglass across the apartment.
You stare with a combonation of fright and loathing at the manilla folder laying on the coffee table, its contents spilling out from the edges, exposing small insideous corners and snipets of the contents. You sit down in your chair and place the folder in your lap. It's figurative weight seems to translate in actual heft in your hands. You peel back the cover, hands trembling almost uncontrollably. The first photo. It actually isn't a photograph, it is a printout with an email across the top of the paper. A vivid image of you performing oral on a man you've never seen before stabs into your chest. You pick it up, flipping it over to the opposite side to view the next horrible image. The next photo is of you again, on all 4's with another man penetrating you from behind. Paging through the incredibly lurid photographs it quickly becomes apparent that they all involve different partners. A few of the photographs include Jen. In any of the shots that have a clear image of your face you can see that your eyes are black and lifeless, obviously drugged. You quietly fold the folder back up and sit there, ruminating on the horrific truth. You put your head in your hands, unable to comprehend the gravity of the photographs. You throw your head back and scream. You grab the folder and sling it across the room, sending lude photos fluttering all about the room.