Chapter 3: Facing the Raw Truth

The alarm blared, shattering the fragile calm of my sleep just past seven-thirty. The sound, relentless and jarring, pulled me from a restless slumber that had barely begun, and last night at the gallery had turned my whole world upside down, stripping away more than I had ever imagined. Jeff’s groggy hand fumbled over me to silence the alarm, but a piercing wail dragged me fully awake. I lay there, acutely aware of the rawness of the sheets against my exposed skin, and I couldn’t help but question why I was still considering this.

The reason I had applied for the job at the gallery was to gain experience, not to overhaul my entire lifestyle. The harsh reality was now inescapable: I was living in a state of complete exposure, a situation I had only agreed to for a month. How had Zara’s voice, with its persuasive tones, convinced me to shed everything last night and lock my expensive clothes away in that safe? Here I was, every nerve and thought magnified in the early morning light, realizing that this level of vulnerability was beyond anything I had previously imagined.

The demands of my new role with the Ethereal Boundaries Foundation, where I was expected to be naked while working at the gallery, seemed understandable. The employment handbook, which I had yet to read thoroughly, revealed that this requirement extended beyond the gallery’s working hours. Zara had driven home the point that I would need to be naked at all times for this troubling month. The gravity of the situation was beginning to sink in.

What was even more daunting was the realization that this requirement would force me to confront my regular job at the leasing office. How could I explain to the leasing manager that, for the next month, I would be showing up not in my usual formal casual attire but in my raw, natural state? The thought of having to navigate this situation while maintaining my other responsibilities was overwhelming. The part-time job at the gallery, intended solely for experience, had quickly upended my entire routine and personal life.

Summoning all my resolve, I pushed myself out of bed before Jeff, who was still sleeping soundly. I began to prepare for the morning, my gaze falling on the closet and the outfit I had planned to wear to work that day. This outfit, carefully chosen and set out on the hanger just yesterday, now seemed like a relic from a different world—a world where I still wore clothes. With Jeff’s quiet presence as a reminder of my internal struggle, I could see that he too sensed the enormity of the shift that this temporary job was imposing on us.

My head was spinning as I moved to my first task: getting Daniella, our two-year-old daughter, ready for daycare. As I lifted her from the crib, my thoughts drifted back to the gallery—specifically, to the two women enclosed in solid display boxes suspended from the ceiling. Despite the strangeness of their situation, they had appeared so comfortable and content. This unsettling image was pushing me forward, making me consider the implications of what Zara had briefed me on from the employment handbook. It had made it clear that going forward, I would be stripped of not just my clothes but also of old photos, altered to depict me as if I had never worn clothes at all.

In the bathroom, Jeff wrapped his arms around my back as I braced myself for the cold shower, a harsh punishment for the path I was considering taking. The icy water cascaded over me, its chill a brutal reminder of my exposure and a jolt to my already heightened anxiety. Each drop felt like a physical manifestation of my discomfort, intensifying my internal struggle.

I struggled to stay on the path Zara had laid out for me, focusing intently on pushing through the relentless discomfort. The water, frigid and unforgiving, mirrored the emotional coldness I felt as I grappled with the implications of my new role. Despite every part of me screaming against it, I knew I needed to be strong, endure the challenge, and see it through—if only to maintain a semblance of control and resolve amidst the chaos.

When I pulled Daniella from her crib, her curious eyes scanned me with a mix of confusion and wonder. Her gaze was pure and innocent, untainted by the complexities of adult judgment. She reached up with tiny, trusting hands, and as I lifted her into my arms, her wide eyes seemed to take in the unusual sight of me in my natural state. Her innocent curiosity offered a small, unspoken comfort amidst the tumult of my own emotions.

I dressed her in her favorite outfit, a cheerful pink dress with little flowers, and she babbled happily, oblivious to the awkwardness of the situation. As we prepared to leave for daycare, I focused on maintaining a calm demeanor, determined to shield her from any signs of my inner turmoil, and kissing Jeff on the lips.

Arriving at the daycare, I managed to exchange a few words with the staff, their faces a blend of professional courtesy and quiet curiosity. I handed Daniella over, my hands trembling slightly as I ensured she was settled in and comfortable. Despite my anxiety, I was relieved when the staff members chose to remain silent on the topic of my lack of clothing. Their professional demeanor and tactful discretion provided a small measure of solace.

As I walked away from the daycare, the weight of the morning’s ordeal began to settle over me. Daniella’s innocent gaze had been a brief but poignant reminder of the simplicity and purity of childhood, a stark contrast to the complex and often harsh realities I was facing.

I arrived at the strip mall, parking my car far from the other vehicles in the lot, outside the coffee and donuts place next to the apartment complex where I worked. The weight of the day pressed heavily on me, and I felt a gnawing sense of dread as I prepared to confront Yolanda Diego, my boss, and the leasing manager.

I took a deep breath, my hands trembling slightly as I dialed her number. My heart pounded with each ring, the anticipation building as I waited for her to pick up. When Yolanda finally answered, her voice was calm and composed, a stark contrast to the storm swirling inside me.

“Hello, Yolanda. It’s Nellie. I wanted to discuss the, uh, clothing policy imposed on me from that part-time gallery job. I’m struggling with not being able to wear anything as that job is asking me to be in the raw while working for you at the leasing office and everywhere else. It wants me to not be a bit embarrassed about it. It’s quite unsettling.”

Yolanda’s response was steady and empathetic. “Nellie, I understand this is a significant adjustment. I’ve spoken with the gallery, Ethereal Boundaries Foundation, and their digital assistant Zara about your situation extending to this job. We expect you to act as if you were fully dressed and conduct yourself professionally, despite your exposure.”

Her words were both comforting and daunting, a lifeline thrown amidst the sea of uncertainty. “Thank you, Yolanda. I appreciate your understanding. I’ll do my best, but this is difficult.”

“Of course,” Yolanda said reassuringly. “We’re here to support you through this transition. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

With her reassurance, I ended the call and made my way into the office. As the day began, the routine of my work provided a small sense of normalcy amidst the chaos. Diana, a colleague, emerged from the back area and, in her haste, accidentally dropped a stack of papers. They scattered across the floor, and instinctively, I hurried over to help.

As I bent down to gather the papers, my entire body was on display, exposed and vulnerable. The sensation of being so completely visible made me feel intensely self-conscious. I forced myself to stay focused on the task at hand, pushing aside the overwhelming discomfort in favor of maintaining professionalism. Despite my unease, I reminded myself that I had to navigate this situation with composure and dignity, no matter how challenging it felt.

Diana’s discomfort was palpable. She stepped back, her face flushed with a mix of embarrassment and surprise. I continued picking up the scattered papers, trying to maintain a composed demeanor despite the intense self-consciousness I felt. Each moment of exposure felt like a spotlight glaring down on me, amplifying my unease.

As I handed the papers back to her, I met her gaze with a reassuring smile, determined to ease the awkwardness. “I’m sorry about that,” I said, my voice steady and calm despite the turmoil swirling inside me. “I didn’t mean to make things uncomfortable, I am always asked to be naked from that gallery job.”

Diana managed a strained smile in return, though her discomfort was evident. “No problem, Nellie. Thanks for the help.”

Her response was polite, but the tension in the air lingered, a stark reminder of the challenging balance I had to maintain between my new reality and the expectations of my workplace. As I resumed my tasks, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of the morning’s events pressing down on me, each interaction a delicate dance of professionalism and vulnerability.

The morning unfolded with a series of professional but awkward interactions as I showed prospective residents around the apartments. Each tour felt like a tightrope walk, balancing the need for professionalism with the sheer discomfort of my situation. I focused intently on providing information about the apartments, using every ounce of my energy to divert attention away from my vulnerability.

Questions from visitors were often routine, but a few were more probing. I answered inquiries about my lack of clothing with brief, carefully controlled responses. “It’s part of the job requirements,” I would say, keeping my tone steady and focused on the apartments. I aimed to deflect attention and keep the conversation centered on the property, not on my exposed state.

Things took a more personal turn when a resident from unit 1083 asked, “I’m curious, why choose to work in the raw? It must be quite an unusual experience.”

Caught off guard, I struggled to maintain my composure. My mind raced as I sought an appropriate response. “It’s part of the job requirements,” I said, trying to keep my voice even and professional. “I’m here to assist with any questions about the apartments.”

Before I could continue, Diana intervened abruptly. “Going to get material at the other property you can hand it,” she said, her voice tinged with frustration. “Let’s keep the focus on the apartments, please.”

With that, Diana gathered her things and left, leaving me to manage the remaining tours on my own for the morning. I felt a pang of disappointment at her sudden departure, but I knew I had to press on. The challenge of maintaining professionalism while exposed was ongoing, and I was determined to handle it with as much grace as possible.

As the morning wore on, I tried to push through the lingering discomfort and stay focused on my duties. Each interaction was a reminder of the delicate balance I had to maintain, and despite the discomfort and personal struggle, I remained resolute in my commitment to navigate this difficult situation with dignity.

The rest of the morning brought a series of new challenges. I had to use the golf cart to transport prospective residents around the property, a task that was supposed to be routine but turned into another test of my endurance. After a particularly long tour, I got up from the cart, only to be jolted by a loud comment from a teenager.

“Hey, there’s a wet spot on the seat!” she exclaimed.

The remark hit me like a physical blow, my face flushing with a mix of embarrassment and shame. I tried to ignore it, but the teenager’s mother, mortified by her daughter’s lack of tact, quickly intervened. “I’m so sorry about that,” she said, her voice trembling with concern. “We didn’t mean to embarrass you.”