[The path that led me to depravity] (English translation)

What Degraded Me I slammed
my sketchbook shut to keep it from being seen by prying eyes, and my worry for Lizzie
finally subsided. She placed her bag beside me and lit a cigarette.
"Aren't you worried about getting your ass wet sitting here?" she said, sprawling onto the floor. "The grass's wet
."
"If they find out you're smoking again, you'll be suspended." As I reached for the cigarette,
she snatched my sketchbook away.
She flipped to the page I was drawing on and laughed as usual. "Think about how this
will . How will you cope, you little rascal? I'll take care of you, dear Helen. At least you won't forget
what he looks like. You can frame the whole dorm with your sketches as keepsakes.
" "I'm going to Aberystwyth University, not the moon."
"The moon might be better." "
Thanks for making my days pleasant." I gave her the cigarette back and snatched my
half-finished sketch from her. I continued working, soft pencil lines outlining his somber eyebrows. He
was completely absorbed , just like that morning, demonstrating a more refined
pastel mixing technique to the rather unappreciative Harry Sobridge. He was brilliant, intuitive, and intelligent. I covered the perfect contours of his cheekbones, and
a throbbing sensation rose in my lower abdomen as I contemplated these things.
“Maybe you’ll eventually forget about him,” Lizzie said. “There are plenty of
quirky to distract you, and then you’ll find someone you like.”
“I hope so,”
Lizzie Thomas repeated over and over, like some kind of incantation, as if saying it enough times
would make it come true. But it was impossible; it would never happen. I had been
captivated by Mr. Roberts ever since his first day standing across from me in the art room, explaining Salvador Dalí’s
* . Because he
smiled at my doodles in my math book and told me I had a good eye for shadows and colors. Because he held my hand and guided my brush
to paint the perfect curves of an apple on my first still life.
I've been obsessed with Mr. Roberts since I was twelve, and now, at eighteen, I've
left his classroom forever. Even though it's only been a few months, I feel like I'll be obsessed with him for life. Maybe I
'll become a poor old spinster with twelve cats, and
commemorate him with pencil drawings strewn all over the house.
I'm not just conflicted; going to Aberystwyth would be worse than going to the moon, and Lizzie is
right about that. What reason would a weirdo like me, obsessed with this, have to run into her
brilliant ?
Absolutely not,
the disgusting thought was written all over my face.
I'm kidding, you can't possibly not see him in this filthy little town, this tiny town where everyone sees each other
every day .
It's too small, and it's too late.
"Seriously, you will," she gave me a brief smile. "Besides, you know
where he lives. You can take your tracking to a whole new level. You'll be very good at it."
"I'm already very good at it." I closed my book and put my pencil back in my pencil case. “You’ll meet someone before me
. Don’t isolate me when you’re making it big in rock and roll.”
“That’ll definitely happen. They’d be happy to be a burden.” She groaned, rustling her bag.
“If I get to Aberystwyth. Our roommate plan might fall through. And I might
fail ,” she tossed me her test paper covered in red crosses.
“My ultimate goal right now is to pass.”
“You need two Bs.”
“But I might not get them.”
“You will.”
She flicked her cigarette butt in the bushes and peered around the corner. “Sarah Jennings and the jerks are at
twelve.”
“Good.”
Sarah Jennings was born popular. She was a different type from us, and honestly, I was glad. She was the kind of person with big waves, pink lipstick, and a mask. I’d rather be an outcast any day
of the week than one of those jerks. That’s the truth. 　　Lizzie sighed, curled her hair, and pretended to pout. She was pale, haughty, and her hair was too dark, unnatural—it suited her perfectly. Lizzie was Lizzie. Brave, eccentric, and the person I liked. My only true friend. 　　"Hey, can I stay at your place tonight?" she said. She said Mom went to Nan's, and Ray had brought some people along too . 　　"Sure," I said, putting my worries aside. "Is everything alright?" 　　She shrugged, smiling broadly. "Yeah, sure. Same old thing. Just can't be with his neurotic friends. Maybe I can pack my bags this weekend?" I didn't know when Mom would be back. She checked her phone. Damn, biology class with Sarah Beach. " Where are you going after I'm done?" Her mischievous eyes made me blush. "Okay, I'll catch up with you after school. I 'll drag you out of the artsy district, and I'll try to walk slowly on the way." 　　She hesitated until the crowd dispersed, then dashed into the crowd. I watched her leave, her cheerful little run in her winter boots warming my heart. She wore only a skirt she'd worn since seventh grade, with nothing underneath, and her snow-white legs, prickly and white, gave off goosebumps in the October breeze. She wore a pink butterfly clip in her hair, her hair in braids, and had new, shimmering designs drawn on the straps of her backpack. I must say, she was definitely my type. 　　I buried my sketchbook back in my bag, and stood up as the first rain began to fall. 　　In a school of this size, the second year of sixth grade meant a lot of free time. Only five of us were studying A-level art, while the other four didn't care. 　　I was the only one taking it seriously that year, even after I declined to go to the art school at No. 6 Middle School.

When it came to choosing A-levels, this really surprised everyone.
I shook my head, trying to put it all behind me. But now I had no choice; many Alok high schools
closed in Year 6, and I'd be leaving at the end of the summer term.
I'd better make the most of this situation.
I headed to the art building.
*** *** ***
When I entered the art room, Year 8 classes had already begun. The students were gathered around Mr. Roberts's easel, staring at his blank canvas as he sketched out some perspectives
with his squeaking red pen . His hands moved fluidly, his grasp of depth and angle flawless, but few appreciated its value. Most of them were very active, and at most half were interested. 　　This situation that saddened me didn't bother Mr. Roberts; nothing seemed to bother him. 　　Today he wore a well-fitting navy blue tweed tracksuit jacket, a look reserved for special occasions; a blue tie over a white shirt trimmed with a layer of green mist. His disheveled hair clung to his snow-white collar, a faint gray tinge on his temples. Black stubble cast shadows on the hard line of his jaw. His eyes, a bright sea blue beneath thick eyebrows, and his slightly Roman-influenced nose were strikingly prominent, accentuating the lines of his cheekbones. The autumn light streaming in from the window gave his face an elegant glow. 　　Mr. Roberts looked like an artist. 　　A true artist. 　　He looked absolutely perfect. 　　I positioned myself in a distant corner, in my usual spot, my materials arranged in their designated places, a perfect media pyramid covering my easel. I was both shocked and thrilled when I realized how close my private contemplation was to the Muse—a secret thrill I loved most. 　　Even Lizzie didn't know the depth of my desires. She would never know how these filthy, base desires kept me awake at night, nor the hidden . It was a reality she could never touch. When Mr. Roberts finished his painting, everyone scattered, rushing back to their seats in 　　a chaotic scramble . Mr. Roberts looked back, said loudly, and, as usual, silenced the commotion. I liked his voice—deep and authoritative, steady and powerful, commanding the scene with his calm and serene expression. 　　His voice and face were truly harmonious at that moment. 　　I took out my palette, a deep blue board dotted with blood-red droplets on a surface resembling . The painting I was working on was an Impressionist by Picasso, but my movements were more avant-garde, more sinister, more…exuberant. My brush moved freely, sketching a clearer scene against the blurred background. The figures huddled together, both in pain and fear. A panicked warhorse reared up, its mouth agape, staring at the sky. I made the shadows beneath its feet even darker, smearing a pool of blackish-purple paint into jagged lines. 　　"I believe Picasso would greatly approve of your interpretation." 　　His voice made the hairs on my arms stand on end, my heart pounding. I felt his warmth spread across my back, and as he leaned down to comment on my painting, the loose curls falling across my face tickled my cheek. 　　"I really like your style," he said, lightly . "Very artistically expressive." 　　I parted my dry lips and softly uttered two words: "Thank you." 　　He was so close I could feel his breath on my skin. At such close range, I admired his eyes as much as he admired my painting. 　　Just then, a shrill and annoying voice shattered the silence between us. Mr. Roberts! Mr. Roberts! 　　As he left, he gripped my shoulders tightly in encouragement, a gesture that made me feel lightheaded . 　　My heart held onto this feeling, channeling . But my painting had risen to a whole new level, a beautifully realistic one. I felt as if I were standing in the terrifying scene within my painting, I could even smell the fear and despair emanating from the horse's rump, but I was not afraid, for my passion burned. 　　As my mind soared freely, consumed by the yearning of the Muses, I was completely unaware that the eighth-grade students had long since left the classroom, replaced by eleventh-grade students who had quietly entered. 　　The school bell rang, and I barely noticed. Mr. Roberts went to the sink and washed away the forgotten palettes, letting them drain. I felt his gaze sweep over my body and my canvas. As I watched him approach, I hooked my ankles around the stool legs and pulled my shoulders back. As he spoke to me, he tossed the tissues he'd used to dry his hands into the wastebasket. 　　"So much has changed in just a few hours," he said. "Really, Helen, you've breathed life into this painting." 　　I loved his eyes; they truly appreciated art. He pulled up a stool, straddling it with his legs, and sat beside me. 　　"I'll be able to… finish it soon," I said, beginning to add the finishing touches. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and prepared to examine the final result with greater clarity. 　　"Don't move," he said in a very low voice. "You must cherish this moment and remember it. I want you to write about how you feel in your essay." 　　I smiled and said, "Okay." 　　"When you open your eyes, I want you to feel everything about this work, to not miss any detail. I want you to truly recreate this moment. It's a magical moment when creativity blossoms, Helen, you are an artist. I want to know what that feels like, what you feel, and I want to feel it through your writing." 　　I could barely breathe.

Then something unbelievable happened. As he took the pencil case from my sketchbook, I heard
the clatter of it, and my lower body convulsed in terror at the familiar sound of pages turning.
My eyes were wide open as he flipped through the book, desperately trying to clean my sketchbook.
My mouth hung open, unable to utter a word, only letting out a strange scream. I reached out to grab him, trying to
pull him away from my most private fantasies. He was just a few more pages away from my forbidden zone, only a step away from my despicable
humiliation . He instinctively took a few steps back, and my own terror startled me, causing me
to stumble back as well. We watched the sketchbook tumble and fall between us. Time became meaningless in that moment
. The pages rustled like leaves falling in the dead of winter until they slammed to the floor
.
The open sketchbook was turned to the wrong page.
Fate had betrayed me.
A lifelike sketch of my own nude body was displayed before us, yet it seared my eyes.
In the sketch, I knelt, head tilted back, gazing reverently at the shadowy figure before me. My
wrists were tightly bound behind my back, my head tilted upwards, my mouth agape, bracing for
what was to come.
Mr. Roberts's naked body was purely a product of my wild imagination; his face was faithfully drawn.
His face was clear and easily recognizable. His dark eyebrows were shrouded in deep shadow, his eyes burned, and
he held his engorged penis close to my gaping mouth. His lips curved in a smile, and his
hand rested heavily on the back of my head, holding me tightly.
Oh my God! God
! God! God!
I groaned in pain and hurriedly rose from my seat, but he seized the sketchbook
before I could reach for it, glancing at my sordid private parts.
I felt nauseous, and the whole world seemed to be shaking. My face flushed red as I frantically tried to suppress my panic,
hurriedly gathering my things and tossing them into my art box.
"Helen…" he began, but I couldn't see him because I couldn't look him in the eye.
"I'm sorry," I sobbed, "I…I just…I'm so sorry. Oh, God, I'm so
sorry."
"Helen," he repeated, this time extending his hand, his hand burning my wrist
.
"Please, please give me my sketchbook, okay?" I didn't sound like myself. I sounded like
a frightened mouse.
He gently closed the sketchbook and handed it to me without hesitation, which I tossed into
my bag like a hot potato. Then I stood up, ready to leave, my clumsy feet
tripping over each other in my haste, but he called me again, this time his voice firmer.
"Sit back down," he said. "We should talk about this."
I shook my head. "There's no need. I promise it won't happen again. It will never happen again."
"Helen, I'm not trying to apologize or promise anything. I just want to talk to you."
Talking was the last thing I wanted to do. When the door opened and Lizzie's braids came into view from the paint stand
, I could have breathed a sigh of relief and cried.
"I have to go," I said, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "Please?"
He shrugged, unable to keep me. "School's out, Helen, you can go now."
"Thank you," I whispered, and then I left, bumping into Lizzie by the white blackboard. I
grabbed her arm and dragged her out of the classroom without looking
back. I could never look back, never.
In fact, I doubted I could ever see him again.
*** *** ***
Helen
"Ugh... ugh... this..." Lizzie's face said it all,
and burned bright red. She held my sketchbook in her hands, admiring the embarrassing sketches from every angle, while
I wanted to disappear into the ground. "Do you really think he's that good? You at least flattered him—well,
maybe."
"I don't think flattery is the right word; I think embarrassment is more accurate?"
Her eyes flickered. "He won't be ashamed of this, Lun'er. This could be a big deal."
"He's my teacher. He'll be completely, utterly, extremely, thoroughly embarrassed." I
pressed my palm to my cheek; it was still burning. "How can I face him again?"
"This absolutely won't stop you from staring at him," Qi Li said with a laugh. "
Old habits die hard."
"I can't believe you're laughing. This is a complete disaster." Before I could take my sketchbook back, Qi
Li continued flipping through my old sketches, slapping my hand away as I tried to protest.
"Let me see the rest! How much worse can they get?"
Worse.
Worse still.
My shameless, filthy fantasies.
I not only fantasized, but I also drew them, and though it was shameful, I stubbornly drew them anyway
.
Her cute little eyebrows rose on her forehead, her mouth curved into a smile. "Filthy,
slutty woman. I thought you weren't bothered by those weird things anymore?"
"Who are you talking about?"
"We haven't had a proper talk in years." She shrugged. "You know what I mean, let's talk."
"No way," I scoffed. "Let's talk."
"Yes, just not like we used to be." She turned another page. "Wow!"
My stomach cramped. "He didn't see this, I have to give a little praise to God's mercy."
"Shame." Her smile was full of schadenfreude as she held up the page. This was one of my favorites
. I was tied to the bed, limbs outstretched, at the mercy of the person at my feet. He was in the shadows,
ominous but beautiful, and I perfectly captured the outline of his disheveled hair, even though I said so myself. My mouth
Lips parted, eyes dull and expressionless. My back arched high, my shoulders supporting my weight,
my body tense with anticipation of his impending touch. "I think he'll like this."
"He won't like any, Lizzie. He'll think I'm a weirdo." She turned another page,
to my favorite painting. Mr. Roberts was furious, his eyes bloodshot, and shoved me roughly
onto the art bench where I'd spent most of my school days. He grabbed my hair, pressed my
cheek against the wood, and I smeared paint on the half-finished canvas with my outstretched hands. A glass was knocked over,
spilling all the water, the murky wash water meandering past us and dripping into the foreground.
"I think you should drop your sketchbook more often," she chuckled. "I think you might
learn a lot from it."
"Come on, you'll get expelled."
"Don't be so... pessimistic." She stuck out her tongue. "I like them. I love them. Okay,
he's a man, right? He's definitely attracted to these things, Lun. Damn, I'm obsessed with them
." Her expression changed, a sly smile flashing across her pretty face. "Draw one for me too."
"Draw one for you?? Hmm... no way. These drawings have caused me enough trouble today,
forget it." She casually shoved the sketchbook into my hand, then pounced on my bed and struck a pose.
I snorted, watching coldly as she pulled her nipples out of her school uniform's wool shirt, exposing them. "I won't draw
that."
"But I'm too alluring."
I groaned, but I had already reached for my pencil case.
She shouted, waving her fists. “She shot! She scored!! Yeah, you have to make it hot
, the kind that makes you feel hot and bothered.”
“Yes, yes. What do you want? You want to have sex with a weirdo on an electric guitar case?
What does his face look like? No, don’t tell me… I’ll never forget it.”
“Actually, his face is alright.” She held up a finger at me, then shook her head. “I don’t want
you to draw me with Scott, I want you to draw me with Mr. Roberts.” Her eyes
gleamed with an unusual light. “You can also draw yourself in, if you like.”
My stomach churned: “You and Mr. Roberts?”
She nodded. “Come on, Len, it’s just a game! It’ll be fun!”
“You want me to draw you and my whole miserable, tragic, weird teenage love affair?”
Why? Neither of us is out of our minds, are we?”
“Because it’ll be fun!” And we haven’t touched a drop of alcohol yet. She reached for her travel bag and
pulled out a bottle. Hmm! This is a delightful drink from the Ray family cupboard. “
I got it from her. Cheap vodka. You get what you pay for.” I clicked my tongue twice in dissatisfaction,
but still reached for the glass of Coke.
“You’re a bad example, Lizzie Thomas, you’re a really bad example.”
She raised her glass to toast me, and I sighed and clinked glasses. “To Mr. Roberts,” she said. “And to
the magnificent cock you imagine between his legs, may it be real. Amen.” She downed her drink,
blushing, and made a face at me. “Now draw me,” she commanded. “Don’t omit any
details , I want every detail, Helen Palmer, your best work.”
It was on nights like these that Lizzie Thomas and I became best friends. A few glasses of vodka
made us unrestrained, and perhaps another would make us even more indulgent. Dizziness and giggles
numbed my shame, making me feel comfortable, warm, and stinging. The discussion about this unexpected incident
became increasingly relaxed. The conversation about Mr. Robert grew increasingly vulgar, and Lizzie's became more and more shameless. She
talked to me about sex, boys, and all the popular topics in college that I had no interest in, while I kept drawing—
drawing her, drawing myself, and drawing him.
I drew the three of us together, sexy, even though it wasn't quite right, it was absurd, but who cares?
When Mom peeked out the door to say goodnight, I had to slam my sketchbook shut, finally managing to get
it out of my sight. This damn thing was faithfully carrying out its task of embarrassing me, and it wasn't even
doing it well enough. Lizzie glanced at the drawing, then pointed at my cheek and collapsed to the floor laughing,
as if beetroots had sprouted on my face.
"Shut up," I protested. "Shut up, Lizzie. You're awful. Look what you've made me do!"
I held up the drawing to her, and her laughter stopped. Her eyes focused on the drawing, and she reached out and took it, hugging it
tightly . "Have you ever seen me like this before?"
"You are exactly like this." I smiled warmly. "You're beautiful, Lizzie. Of course I
've seen you like this."
The girl in the painting had Lizzie's perfect smile and sparkling eyes. She was mischievous and lively. In
the photo , I held her hand, we were both naked, kneeling on the ground, Mr. Roberts
standing proudly before us with his large penis erect, gently tapping his palm with the ruler in his hand.
"I like it," she said. "You're so cool, Lun, so fucking cool."
She finished her last drink and then took out her pajamas. I smiled at the faded cat print on her vest.
She had only worn a nightgown once since elementary school, the rest of the time she wore pajamas. She quickly
took off , shamelessly displaying a dynamic picture before me. Through my drunken eyes,
I looked with envy at the girl I had perfectly depicted. Her breasts were larger than mine,
the dark nipples standing out against her pale skin. As she ran, her breasts bounced merrily with her
steps . Unlike my small breasts, which I had to fill with stuffing to make them fuller. Her
hips were beautifully curved, her buttocks adorable, and the thick pubic hair between her legs clung softly to her lower abdomen.
The boys had noticed. A rock star. Scott Davis.
She pulled up a pair of white, ruffled panties and admired herself in the mirror on my dressing table.
"The pinnacle of fashion," she said with a smug smile. "Look at me, Len. Aren't I sexy?"
“I’m looking you up and down.” I smiled. “You look so cute.”
“You’re the cute one,” she said. “Nobody would guess what a dirty little cow you are.” She
smacked her lips. “It’s my secret. You have to keep it a secret.”
She reached out and pulled me up, putting her arm around my waist and making me stand next to her. We
stared at each other’s reflections in the mirror. In the light, I looked more innocent than her, with her pointed
braids and smoky eyes.
“I look so pathetic standing next to you.”
“Don’t be like that,” she said. “Don’t act like a nagging woman, Helen, you’re really amazing.”
She brushed the hair from my face; it was a classic shoulder-length chocolate brown curl. My eyes were
light brown , not as bright blue as hers, and my lips weren’t as pouty or attractive as hers.
I have a pretty nose, a pretty enough face, and thick, natural eyebrows—not like Lizzie's
crazy eyebrow-plucking spree—but she's attractive, sexy, and unique. And me?
Well… okay, I'm Helen, the one and only Helen.
Why would someone like Mr. Roberts like an ordinary person? Pretty, yes, I think I'm
pretty enough. But I'm plain-looking, not as charming and outgoing as Lizzie.
"Friends forever," she announced.
"Friends forever," I said with a laugh. "No other way."
She patted my bottom. "Time to sleep."
Her hand reached under my t-shirt, as if she were looking after my drunken state, even though she was just as
unsteady as I was. After Lizzie pulled my t-shirt off my head, I slurred my
clothes off. As I unhooked my bra, grabbed my nightgown, and pulled it on, I noticed Lizzie's eyes were
fixed on me in the mirror.
"Can I get an air mattress?" I asked, looking at Lizzie.
She made a face. “When did I start needing an air mattress?”
I put my arms around her neck and pulled her into a hug. “Thank God I
have a friend like you when I’m so embarrassed, and thank you for the vodka.”
“At your service.”
We showered together in the bathroom, like we’d done a million times, and it felt so good,
so incredibly good. I was so glad she was there for me when I was humiliated; it made me genuinely happy.
As usual, I took the lamp and shone it on Lizzie as she snuggled into bed. Ever since I was a girl who dreamed of living in a princess castle
, I’ve had the same white wooden headboard as hers, with a beautiful butterfly
painted .
“I hope we can do that again in college,” she said.
“Of course, we always will.”
“Do you think you’ll be really sad without him when we get there?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I lied. "Maybe there's a sexy, quirky
art student waiting for me."
"You never thought about having anything happen between you and Mr. Roberts? Like, really, you and Mr.
Roberts ."
I smiled in the darkness, a smile full of sadness. "I did. I really did."
"I'm serious," she whispered. “Why wouldn’t it happen? I feel like his eyes are on
you, you know what I mean? Sometimes it really is.”
“I can’t even imagine how this could happen. Give me a break, don’t let your imagination run wild. He
’s my teacher. He wouldn’t think like that.”
“You’re not him, how would you know what he’s thinking! Besides, he’s your teacher now.
What if he’s not your teacher anymore?”
“I might never see him again. He might have a girlfriend. A charming, pretentious girlfriend.
He might have one, at least one.”
“You know that’s nonsense. You know what those rumors are about.”
“If the rumors are true, then I’m finished!”
“I don’t think he’s gay. I think it’s just kids spreading stupid rumors.”
“I hope not.” I took a deep breath. “But I can tolerate bisexuality. I can
accept almost anything. I like bisexuality. Damn, I’m really drunk.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being bisexual, Lun,” she whispered. "You want him to be a slut,
don't you? A really filthy, obscene kind."
Her tone sent a chill down my spine. I was glad we couldn't see each other's faces in the dark.
"...Imagine this scenario." On a pitch-black night, you're
painting in the art district, and then he comes up behind you...presses down on your back...his warm breath on your neck...
"
Goosebumps rose on my arms.
"...You can feel him...his hard cock against your ass, his fingers tracing patterns on your
thighs , pulling up your school uniform skirt...Mr. Roberts's filthy fingers between your legs..."
I shifted on the bed, and she draped an arm over my waist.
"...I think he's really good at this...I think he knows how to touch you...I think he
knows how to make you orgasm, tremble in his arms, and more than that, maybe he'll make you moan for him, make you
tell him how good it feels." Maybe he'll grab your hair, hold you down, immobilize you,
and then insert his fingers there. Do you think he'd like the rougher way? "I think he'll be
very rough... You want him to be rough, don't you?"
"Yes..." I whispered. "Yes... I want him to be rough... You
know I want him to be rough..."
"I think he'll treat you the most violently. I think he'll penetrate
very deeply and violently during sex. I think he's also very lewd. You can see it in his eyes, he's so... dark...
so... deep... I think he'll make you do all sorts of lewd things..."
Then she gripped me tightly. "What will that be like?" I took a deep breath: "
What do you think he'll make me do?"
Her ankle hooked around my calf. "I think he'll fuck you hard, fuck you until you're in pain. I think
he'll say some dirty things... He'll call you his bad girl... Maybe he'll tie you up...
and then he'll do whatever he wants to you... Maybe he'll make you pay for your dirty thoughts...
Maybe he'll whip you... You'll be on his lap, under your school uniform skirt, your raised buttocks stinging from the beating
... I've seen those steel rulers hanging in the art district buildings, Lun'er..." She
smiled at my neck. "Maybe he'll use one of those rulers... to punish you, you slutty girl..."
I held my breath, the laughter in my throat vanished, disappeared without a trace.
"I know you'll like it... I know you want to be on his lap... I know you want him to tell
you what a slutty girl you are..."
"I'm a bad girl..." My voice was hoarse. “I’m just filthy…”
“You like it,” she teased, spreading my legs apart with hers, and said to me, “You’re always
so slutty… I think he’ll like this kind of thing…”
“Oh God, Lizzie, I want him to want me. I want him to corrupt me…”
“I know,” she whispered, “I know what you want…”
“I love him so much, I love him to death. I can’t accept that he’s never touched me, never
felt him caress me…”
“Imagine his lips…imagine his tongue…damn, Helen, can you imagine his burning
lips around your nipples?” His tongue licking your body…” She giggled, placing her hands on
my breasts, but it wasn’t fun. “It’s okay,” she whispered to me. “Touch yourself, I
don’t mind. We’ll always be best friends, Helen, we can share anything. Anything, I
promise.” Lizzie giggled, coaxing me. “Tell me, what do you want him to do to you…”
I shouldn’t, I know I really shouldn’t. But my hand was already between my legs, slipping inside my panties
.
"Oh God, Liz, I want him to fuck me..."
"Yes..."
"I want him to be rough... I want him to lose his mind... I want him to tie me up until I
can't move... I want to kneel down and beg him to penetrate me... I want to ejaculate... I want to hear him moan... I want
to taste him..."
"He can train you... train you to become more slutty..."
"Yes... that's what I want... God, yes..." My fingers circled my clitoris
, trying to hide it. "I want to feel his kisses... I want to open my
body ... I want him to see my body... everything about my body..."
"He'll lick your cute little labia, you know? He'll suck your clitoris hard, and you can only orgasm
with his face on your face..."
"That's it..."
"Then he'll violate you... hard... I think he won't even spare your anus... I
think he must think the same way... But if the rumors are true... Damn, can you imagine
the moment you hold his cock and thrust it into your anus?... That must hurt so much it will injure you..."
At this moment, I could do nothing but breathe.
"Would you let him fuck you there?"
I nodded in the darkness, my fingers speeding up the teasing of my clitoris.
"Would you ask him to fuck you there?" Have you ever thought about kneeling and begging him to fuck your ass, or tying you
up so you can't resist what he does to you, just like you expect...?
My breathing quickened, my body throbbed.
"Maybe you want no other choice...maybe you just want him to violate you...whatever he wants
...he'll fuck you hard..."
"Yes..."
"Imagine kissing him, Helen...imagine his tongue in your mouth..."
"I want to kiss him so badly..."
"Let me see...let me see how you kiss him..." Her breath hit my face.
"Pretend I'm him...show me..."
In the darkness, her lips pressed against mine, my fingers caressed my clitoris, and she slipped her tongue into
my mouth. Deep inside, there was shock, shock and tension, and a strange pain. Vodka
relaxed me; under the influence of alcohol, even the most difficult things became the easiest. Lizzie's mouth
became his; her soft lips were so warm, her tongue encircling me. I kissed Mr. Roberts,
as I had always wanted to kiss him, a deep and fierce kiss, my genitals trembling under my fingers. I opened my mouth wide to let
him lick my tongue, the pressure between my legs making me tremble, I was so close to the peak of orgasm...within reach
.
I could feel Lizzie's body trembling. Her legs tensed as she played with her clitoris,
and we both climaxed while kissing. It all happened so quietly, yet
so intensely, leaving us exhausted in the silence.
When it all subsided, Lizzie lay back down as if nothing had happened, adjusting the pillow under her head
.
Then she giggled, a wild, unrestrained laugh.
I laughed too. I didn't even know what we were laughing at, but it was funny.
The vodka was really funny. Lizzie was wonderful.
My realistic thought was that this might have been awkward in the morning, but it was nighttime, and it was
n't Lizzie; it was just a silly indulgence.
For both of us.
Absolutely.
Just a silly little fun.
I held her hand, and she held mine.
*** *** ***
"You're really not going? I thought you were joking. Wow, you must be so embarrassed."
"It's nothing," I lied. "Anyway, I have English homework to do.
I'm going to the library this week, preferably today."
"Yeah, as if he won't even notice." Lizzie dusted off her coat, pulling it up from the guest room where I'd been waiting that morning.
Cat hair piled up in the living room fell out. "I'm better at avoiding trouble now, like not
making things worse by not causing a ruckus all day."
"I can't face him." I sighed. "At least not now."
"Tomorrow will be worse, Lun. You should just walk in and face him."
Absolutely not.
I spent Monday walking around the art building as much as possible because I didn't have art class, which actually
suited me. I took a sick day on Tuesday because I was hit hard by stomach pains, my
first sick day since I took a week off for the flu in ninth grade. I didn't dare go to school on Wednesday either,
so I stayed home and scribbled on the TV in the sunlight. Lizzie called me several times,
but I didn't answer, and after a sleepless night, I finally came back to reality on Thursday.
The thought of this inevitable conflict made me feel terrible because art class was the last one on Thursday
, and I had a whole day to think about it.
If Lizzie hadn't bumped into me in the hallway and pushed me into the art room, I probably would have considered leaving.
My body trembled like a leaf in a storm as I stepped across the threshold. I was late, only
a minute late, but that was enough to draw everyone's attention, including his. I leaned back
on the stool behind Kelly Merrick, glancing around but avoiding his gaze.
I was prepared for a panicked Mr. Roberts to kick me out of his classroom. But he
showed no sign of alarm or panic; in fact, he did nothing unusual
, simply discussing the mock exam with us in his usual calm tone. When we interrupted
our discussion to do our homework, I made sure to sit with my back to him; his presence made me feel his
breath burning my back until the bell rang. I quickly gathered my art supplies, but he had already done so before me. I stopped
when his voice echoed from the other end of the room. 　　"Helen, wait a moment. I need to talk to you." 　　As everyone else left, I stood there like a fool, watching Mr. Roberts clean the whiteboard. My heart was in my throat, and my insides were pounding. I rehearsed my rejections in my head over and over again. But I stammered, at a loss for words, rendering all my preparation useless. It was as if I were back to being twelve, having forgotten which classroom I was supposed to be in. 　　The door slammed shut behind me, leaving me all alone, facing him. 　　He sat down at his desk, stacked some of the work he was grading, and then pointed to the other seat, gesturing for me to sit down. 　　I slowly and reluctantly sat down, my hands clasped together, and lightly tapped my feet on the tiled floor. 　　"Were you sick the other day?" 　　"Stomach problems," I said. 　　"That's not like you, Helen." 　　"I think it might be food poisoning." I stared at his hands on the desk, avoiding his gaze. “Katie, my little sister, she’s sick too, and worse than me.” 　　“I understand.” I could feel him looking at me. “I’m relieved to hear your absence last week wasn’t related to our little incident . I’m sure this wouldn’t make you skip class, right, Helen?” 　　“No, Mr. Roberts, absolutely not.” I blushed. 　　“I’m glad to hear that. If something like this bothers you, I think you should let me know.” 　　“Yes, of course.” 　　“But don’t you really need to talk to me?” His voice was so strong that my fingers kept tapping my thigh. “Helen, look at me.” 　　I forced my terrified gaze to focus on him. I shook my head. “No. I’m fine I mean, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m fine. I’m okay.” 　　He smiled. “If you’re really okay.” 　　“Absolutely sure.” My smile was a little nervous, but it was the best I could do. I felt a wave of relief, a surge of joy, and a dizzying rush through my limbs, but when he stood up to let me go, I felt like I was about to collapse. 　　It's all over. This will never be mentioned again. Let it all fade away. 　　I should be happy, but I can't. Because it proved everything I feared. He was my teacher, that doesn't matter. It was all destined to be for nothing. 　　I turned and stared out the window, the weather changing as rapidly as my mood. A downpour , a torrential downpour. I watched the rain splashing on the windowpane, just as I saw my fear, tension, and madness churning within me. 　　"See you tomorrow, okay? Are you feeling better now?" He packed his things, putting his seventh-grade sketchbook into his briefcase to take home. 　　I nodded. "Okay, Mr. Roberts." 　　"Very good." He held up the box in one hand, a box of crayons tucked under his elbow, and the suitcase in the other: "Please hold the door for me, okay? Don't forget to turn off the light?" 　　I dimmed the room and opened the door. He smiled and stepped out, disappearing into the rain and heading towards the parking lot. 　　I should feel good, I should feel relieved, I told myself. 　　So why do I feel so bad? 　　My emotions escalated. The tension of the past few days, the thinking about how to resolve this awkward situation, were all in vain . Maybe I didn't want this. Maybe I just wanted to ask you some questions. Maybe I wanted to confront you. Maybe I just wanted him to know. 　　Yes, I wanted him to know. 　　I needed him to know. 　　Even if it ruined everything for me, even if it meant living the rest of my life in embarrassment, I didn't care. At least he would know, at least it was a good thing. There are many things more important than this, this embarrassment is nothing. 　　Without realizing it, I followed him into the rain. Crazy, impulsive, ridiculous. 　　I walked to his car. He didn't see me at first; he was bending over in the back seat loading things. When he noticed me, his hair was soaked, raindrops dripping from his messy curls, and so was mine.

Soaked to the bone, it clung to my face, my coat offering no protection from the downpour, leaving
my bare legs shivering.
“Helen?” he asked. “Don’t you have a coat?”
I shook my head, gesturing for him to be quiet before I lost my nerve. “I lied,”
I said. “I lied about the food poisoning, I lied about things I didn’t want to talk about, I’ve been
lying.”
“Okay,” he said.
“I want to talk.”
He nodded. “Tomorrow?”
“Now.” My words sounded frantic. “I beg you. If you agree. If you have time
. I know school’s out, I just…”
He opened the passenger door, my stomach churning. “I have time,” he said.
*** *** ***
Helen
Mr. Roberts’ old Jaguar smelled of pine air freshener and oil paintings, its interior
a jumbled mess . An old rocker blared from the stereo, then he muted it and ejected a
cassette. He tidied up his paintbrush case, notebook, and a stained wooden palette,
made some room for my legs in the footwell, then turned over in his seat and tossed his collection into the back.
"I'm sorry, Helen. I've always been alone."
His casual remark gave me a surge of joy; perhaps Mrs. Roberts never existed. And
there weren't hordes of supermodels lining up for his car every night. I buckled my seatbelt, the engine roared to
life , and he drove us out of the campus and onto the road.
I knew him; I was aware of his presence, his hands gripping
the lever to control the car's speed. I didn't ask where we were going, and I didn't care. Wherever he went
, anywhere was fine. I would follow him to the ends of the earth without complaint. He drove onto a side road,
speeding across open areas, driving parallel to the Albrook River for a while before
making a sharp turn . The car idled, wobbling like a baby on the gravel road. The car
stopped by the wall next to the bank, the window revealing the wet riverbank and the rising tide. It was a good
spot.
"I like it here," he said. "It's good for thinking."
My impulsive courage seemed to vanish. I stared through the windshield at the water winding
its way down, but Mr. Roberts wasn't looking at the river; his gaze was fixed on me, entering my
body , and then passing through it.
"There's a picnic bench over there." I followed his gesture and saw a rickety
table . "But it's not picnic time yet."
I tried to say something, but the question that came out was the lameest excuse in the universe.
"Do you come here often?"
For a moment, his lips curled up slightly as if in a smile. "Yes, I do come
here often. I like water."
"Me too. I mean, I like water, but not this kind. I mean, I do like this water,
but I've never been here before, so..." I forced a breath, knowing my cheeks were burning.
“That’s why I’m going to Aberystwyth, or rather, I hope I can go.” I
met ; his gaze was eager and curious. “For the water. For the sea. And of course, for art.”
“You like water too. Yes, that’s the most important thing.”
“I like boats,” I said. “My uncle has a boat moored in Brixham. He sometimes lets
us go, and I’m fascinated by it. My grandfather used to fish on Sandersford Beach. He used to catch all sorts of fish,
and he was out all day. I think it’s in my nature. My parents didn’t like them; they didn’t like boats. It’s
different from what I like. What I like isn’t boats, or water, but being on the water.” I put my hands on my cheeks.
“I’m sorry. I just… I don’t know.”
“Relax,” he said. “Listen to the rain on the roof, feel the river.” He took a deep breath,
exhaling through his nose in an exaggerated gesture. “Breathe. Can you feel it?”
I felt myself smiling. “Yes, I can feel it. Water is alive.”
“Yes, and emotions, soul, consciousness, the depths of darkness, the source of inspiration.” He rolled down
the window , and I realized how old the car was. It was an antique, custom-made, imbued with a soul. It
suited him perfectly. When he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, I’m sure my jaw dropped
. “Do you mind?”
I shook my head. He lit a candle and blew a wisp of smoke into the rain. I stared at the
way the cigarette billowed from his lips, the way he gripped it, as if he’d done it a million times, unlike
those cool, clumsy kids who'd only smoked ten packs of Marlboros and were trying to act expert.
“I smoke too,” I said. In my mind, smoking was actually pretty cool. Only heaven, earth, you, and I knew,
and I only dared to say this pathetic, childish thing in the car, just as childish and ridiculous as I was.
“Sometimes. Well, not often. I don’t mind, I mean, if you do.”
He laughed, his eyes gleaming as he handed me the pack. “It’s not illegal.
You’re legally smoking.”
His words sent a chill down my spine. Yes. In every important respect, I was of legal age.
My hand trembled and then dropped back to my knees. “I don’t usually smoke whole cigarettes, I only
smoke a few at Lizzie’s. Smoking a whole one makes me cough.” Damn. I must have sounded incredibly stupid.
“It’s a bad habit.” He looked at me as he put the pack back in his pocket, every breath I took clearly
making him uncomfortable. He took a long drag and then offered me the cigarette, but my heart
pounded. “It won’t make you cough, but it looks like you can have mine.”
I took Mr. Roberts’ cigarette with trembling fingers,
my stomach churning at the thought that it had once been between his lips. I puffed on the cigarette, trying to look more attractive, but his cigarette was...
Lizzie's grip was much stronger, burning my throat. Before I could even feel dizzy, I
handed it back. I was stunned when he put his lips back where I'd been holding the cigarette.
"Tell me, Helen,"
I said, forcing myself deeper into the soft leather seat. "I, um… I just… I just don't know
where to begin."
"Start wherever you like."
I smoothed my pleated skirt over my thighs, wiping my damp hands. "Painting. I just
want to say I'm sorry. I should have been more careful."
"Helen, you can forget about this painting. I understand artistic expression, I understand
the passionate . There's nothing to apologize for, and perhaps you should consider being more careful with your personal sketches.
Your peers won't be so sympathetic. I don't want to see your creativity denigrated by those who don't understand it."
"Perhaps you can understand me?"
“That’s for sure. You know, Helen, creative people rarely find their
place .” He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and continued, “Youth is a
mysterious cave full of creative potential, from which intense emotions and unique inspirations burst forth. I think that sketch is
a way of exploring inspiration. And I don’t think that sketch is about me, but more about you, about
you showing your sexuality. That sketch is so full of tension, Helen, that painting is truly perfect,
a mature way of exploration. The painting is technically superb, lifelike. This painting may have something to do with me,
but it’s more about showing everything related to you. In fact, this is a secondary
pursuit . This symbol can be anyone.”
But he was wrong. Before he could finish, I shook my head.
He raised an eyebrow and asked, "You disagree?"
"I agree it's about something deep, something about...sexuality...something about revealing myself
. I understand, yes, my peers might be malicious, most of them
are complete idiots, no, I'm one of them, and it's never been my place. That's
okay, they might be malicious towards my art, but I don't care. I just care that this painting
makes you uncomfortable."
"I've been a teacher for a long time, an artist for even longer. But there aren't many paintings that make me uncomfortable
."
I took a breath, pulled my bag from the footwell, and spat out the words stuck in my throat. "It can't
be anyone else, Mr. Roberts. The man in the painting has never been anyone else." I pulled out my sketchbook and tucked it
between us. Thinking about the incredible. The whole situation was unimaginable.
He stared at me for a long time. "Would you like me to see?"
I nodded. "There's no one else. Only you. It can only be you."
He picked up the sketchbook. I tried not to look at him, so I didn't know when he would finish looking at the sketches.
My stomach was churning, my legs were cramping, and my fingers were fidgeting on my thighs. When I finally heard the pages close,
I recoiled.
"These are all good. I'm honored. Thank you! I insist this is about you, Helen, not
about me." He handed the sketchbook back to me. "You have an incredible imagination, and you have a
lifetime to make the most of it."
His words hurt me, and so did his tone. His indifference to my feelings wounded me deeply, as
if these adult things could never happen between us. "You think I'm a stupid
child, don't you?"
His fingers, gripping my chin tightly, burned, forcing me to turn my face towards him. "I
never thought you were a stupid child. I thought you were an incredible artist, a
vibrant , passionate, and talented young woman,"
I said. "I love you, Mr. Roberts. I really love you."
"I love you too, Helen. Very much."
As he left, my skin grieved at the departure of his fingers, tears stinging my eyes. I used
my tears to release my frustration, shame, and sorrow for this doomed love. "I was just
transferring what I wanted from my mind to paper. I know you want me to be normal, I know you might
think I'm just a child, but I'm not. I know how I feel, Mr. Roberts. I know exactly how I feel about you
. I just wanted you to know all this because I'm going to college next summer, and I might
never have the chance to tell you." My lips trembled, and I cursed myself for sobbing so much: "I
think I've fallen in love with you."
This time, the words seemed to hit him. His eyes softened, and I watched him
swallow . I wiped away my tears with the back of my hand, laughing at my own absurdity.
"Helen, I..."
I raised a hand. "It's okay, you don't have to say anything."
"Oh, but I have to say something. I really need to say something." He took my hand. “Helen, I
am your teacher. I have a responsibility to you, a responsibility to your happiness, and a
responsibility to supervise your education.”
“What if you weren’t my teacher?”
He sighed, sounding somewhat melancholy. At least, that’s how it sounded to me.
“I am your teacher.”
“I know there are prettier girls, Mr. Roberts, but perhaps one day, when you are no longer my
teacher …”
He gripped my hand tightly, so tightly it hurt. “Helen, you are a very beautiful
girl . Intelligent, talented, sweet, kind. You are an artist. A true artist. You
will meet many people in college, and I will only be a memory, I promise. I hope I only exist in your beautiful
memories.”
“You will never just be a memory.” My throat was dry and sore.
He leaned closer, as if to share a secret. “This must be very
stimulating . This sometimes happens in relationships like ours. We can share this innovative vision, which
is a wonderful thing, but sometimes it can be… confusing…”
“Like some kind of transference? But I don’t think it’s transference, Mr. Roberts. I think it is.”
“I believe you will, Helen. I believe this feeling is like everything in the world, and you can use
it. You can use it to create something magical, beautiful. You can use it to connect with your soul.”
I shrugged. “What should I do? How should I use this feeling? It’s consuming me,
this feeling, these thoughts. These are the things I’m thinking. I can’t escape it, I can’t stop it. This feeling is
real.”
“It needs to be expressed. It needs to be explored. It needs to be transformed into creativity.”
God, how I wish he could understand. I poured out the turmoil in my little heart in the passenger seat,
but it all turned into a poetic helplessness. This was a disaster.
I’m not a child.
“Help me,” I whispered.
Two simple words changed everything. Two soft murmurs drained the air from the car and ignited us.
He swallowed hard, his eyes deepening, revealing his soul to me,
churning like the river outside.
“Helen…”
“Teach me. Please. Help me express this. Teach me how to express it.”
He cleared his throat. “That’s not a teacher’s job, Helen.”
“Does it matter?”
“I’m not sure. ”
“Please…” My eyes were fixed on him, drowning in my own exhaustion.
I remained silent until he spoke again.
“Do you keep a diary?” he asked. I shook my head. “You should keep a diary. A diary is a private
dialogue , just the author and their subconscious. It helps to understand things, helps to transform primal emotions into
something you can use.”
“Okay, I’ll start writing something.”
“You can share with me. If you need, I’ll read your diary and guide you. I
’ll help you transform primal power into artistic inspiration. I’ll teach you how.”
“Like a confidant?” My heart leaped at the teacher’s words.
“Like a coach, a teacher, an artist partner. Even like a friend.” His gaze was warm,
lingering on my lips. “I will never judge, I will just be there to guide.”
“So, I should keep a journal, like a journal?”
“Write, sing, paint, film…any way you like.”
“A movie? Like a video blog?”
He smiled slightly at the river. “Yes, that’s an option. I’ll just be very careful with the privacy settings.”
“I have a secret journal account,” I said. “I use it, but I’ve never really used
it properly.” My fingers fiddled with the hem of my skirt. “I can give you the link, just you. You can
comment, or talk, or do anything. About the art I do, I mean, the ideas I talk about
, and other things, like you said, guidance.”
“I like that.” He held out his hand to me, and it took me a moment to realize he wanted me to shake his
. “Coaching partner. Friend.”
Our palms were slightly damp when we clasped together, noticeable with a little attention.
And I did notice.
“Friend,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Well then, friend,” he said. “I’ll take you home.”
*** *** ***
“You can park here,” I said. “There’s an alley in my backyard. Saves you the trouble of going around.”
He drove in, the engine still humming. “Thank you for talking to me… thank you for everything.”
“It’s my pleasure,” he said.
I opened the car door, and before my feet could even touch the rain-soaked ground, a hand grabbed my arm and
stopped me.
“Why are you tied up? Why use shackles, ropes, and handcuffs?” His voice was low.
“Have you done those things, Helen?”
I shook my head, a smile creeping onto my face. “I don’t know why. I just like it. That’s what I
want, even though I try to stop myself from thinking it, it’s no use.” The words I was about to say caught
in my throat, making me gasp for breath. “I’m not that naive.”
“The soul of an artist is rarely like that. Your soul yearns for much of what the artistic spirit seeks,
exploring the duality of joy and pain. It’s a sign of gaining freedom through surrender, submission, and sexuality,” he said, his
gaze heavy. “Be careful, Helen. Your boyfriend might lose control, and this could escalate.”
I rolled my eyes, like the most fashionable clown on the street. “I’ll be careful.”
“Like I said, this kind of coaching relationship isn’t recognized by the education system, and I think we’d better not tell
anyone. Agree?”
I nodded. “Agree.”
His upper body leaned closer to me, and I could feel the heat of his
body . His fingers gripped the car door handle tightly, and with a gentle pull,
he opened the barrier that kept the outside world at bay.
“Goodnight, Mr. Roberts,” I whispered, my breath brushing against his hair.
He turned to me, his eyes dark and bright, like a secret ocean.
"Goodnight, Helen."
*** *** ***
Mark
Oh, just be an ordinary man.
The Jaguar whinnied as I pressed the accelerator, lumbering through the heart of Herefordshire's countryside.
The shadows of the trees swayed on nature's black canvas; brilliant ochre, tan, and paprika, shimmering in the sunlight against the backdrop of
grey rain clouds. I love autumn.
I love autumn memories.
Now, I have a vivid memory.
I can still smell her in the car.
A neurotic girl named Helen Palmer. When she struggled to express her angry hormones,
it was like hypnosis and soothing.
Helen Palmer was undeniably beautiful.
For her own good, I should cruelly tell that beautiful, sweet little thing no, I don't want her. No,
that won't work. Because she's too young, too different, and the teacher-student relationship in our department will never
change.
This is what a good teacher should do. A good teacher will find excuses for themselves to make things normal.
A good teacher will let Helen Palmer be free, free to live her own life,
to find . To make mistakes in free love, to freely engage in mediocre
sex, until she finds her own way of doing things, the way Helen Palmer, this young girl, truly is.

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[The path that led me to depravity] (English translation)

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