THE BLACKMAIL

I am being blackmailed.

It began subtly, an innocuous email, a message from an unknown sender. My curiosity, a fatal flaw, led me to open it. And then, the first cold shock. A single image, a few lines of text. Not a threat but a clear, undeniable demonstration that they held something over me. Something I thought was buried, forgotten, locked away in the most secure vault of my past. It’s not a monumental crime, no blood on my hands, but it is a monumental shame, a raw, exposed nerve of vulnerability that, if laid bare, would unravel the carefully constructed tapestry of my life. My career, my relationships, the very foundation of my identity: all would crumble into dust.

From that moment, my world shifted. The colours seem duller, the sounds muffled. My days are a performance. I smile, I nod, I engage in polite conversation, but behind my eyes, a frantic calculus is always running. How much time do I have? What will they ask for next? Can I afford it? More importantly, can I survive it? The constant vigilance is exhausting. Every unknown number, every unexpected knock, every shadow that lengthens in my peripheral vision sends a jolt of panic through my system. I am no longer just living. I am hiding.

The secret itself is a specter, a moment of weakness, a desperate choice made in a time of profound confusion and vulnerability. It’s something I’ve spent years trying to atone for, to forget, to erase from my own memory. Its exposure would paint me in a light so distorted, so utterly damning, that I believe I would never recover. The shame isn't just for what happened. It's for the agonizing knowledge that someone else now possesses it, wields it like a weapon against me. It feels like a piece of my soul has been ripped out and handed over to my tormentor.

They know exactly how to twist the knife, how to apply just enough pressure to keep me compliant without pushing me to a breaking point where I might lash out, might expose myself to the authorities, might choose utter ruin over continued slavery. They are a master of psychological warfare, and I am their unwitting, unwilling soldier.

Veronica L. is an Italy-based writer with a PhD in Iberian and Ibero-American Languages and Literatures. She has authored several non-fiction books, some published in English by Anglo-Saxon presses, along with works of fiction.Some of her Micro/Flash/Short Fiction works appear in some of the most popular international magazines.For “Adelaide Literary Magazine” has published “The Poor Copy” and “The Lie.”