The Lives
Copyright© 2026 by R. E. Bounds
Chapter 1: The Student
I twisted my wrists again, sucking in a sharp breath as the metal bit into my skin.
“Take them off,” I snapped.
Jen didn’t even look at me. “No.”
I stared at her, disbelief starting to curdle into anger. “Jen, I’m serious.” My voice came out sharper than I meant, but I couldn’t stop it. “I don’t want to be in these. Just—take them off.”
She finally glanced over, jaw set, something rigid and unyielding in her expression. “You can ask all you want,” she said evenly. “I’m not taking them off.”
“Jen—” My voice cracked before I could stop it. I swallowed hard, frustration burning up my throat. “Come on. What are you doing?”
“Bams isn’t here,” I pushed, trying to turn toward her, but the seatbelt held me in place. “You made your point. You can take them off now. I wasn’t going to say anything.”
She let out a short, humorless breath. “Didn’t seem that way.”
I shifted again, trying to ease the pressure on my shoulders. It didn’t help. “These hurt,” I said, more desperate now. “I mean it. They actually hurt.”
“What happened to, ‘I thought I’d hate these,’”—she lifted a hand, mimicking me—”’but honestly, they don’t hurt at all’?” She dragged out the last words, her tone edged with something sharper than mockery.
“They’re cuffs,” she shot back, side-eyeing me. “They’re not supposed to feel good.”
The car jerked slightly as she took the turn too fast, her hands tightening on the wheel.
I frowned, glancing out the window before looking back at her. “This isn’t the way back to campus.” A pause. My stomach tightened. “Jen ... where are we going?”
She didn’t answer. Her grip on the steering wheel tightened even more.
“You were going to tell them,” she said finally, nodding to herself like she needed the confirmation. Her voice was low, controlled—but something simmered just beneath it. “We agreed—all of us—we don’t talk about that. Ever.”
“That was Bams,” I fired back immediately. “She’s the one who started it—telling them about the Domme. And they asked.”
I shifted again, wincing as I tried to pull my hands to one side, anything to take the pressure off. The cuffs dug into my wrists, into my back.
“And I didn’t say anything. Did I?” My voice rose despite myself. “Do you seriously think I’m that stupid? That I’d just open my mouth about something like that?”
She didn’t answer.
“I don’t even know why she did that,” I kept going, the words coming faster now, tripping over each other. “Why she’d tell them about the Domme—what happened. We got into so much trouble for that afterward.”
I let out a frustrated breath. “It’s like she doesn’t care. Like there are no consequences for her.”
I looked over at Jen. “Why do you think we’re in the trouble we’re in now? She thinks she can do whatever she wants and get away with it.”
With my hands pulled to my side, I managed to turn toward her a little more. “You saw her tonight. You saw what she let Anne do—she let her completely restrain her. And she was just ... fine with it.”
Jen’s eyes flicked to me, something sharp flashing there. “You know why she let her do that. We talked about it.” She glanced at me again. “And you seemed perfectly fine too.”
My chest tightened. “That’s not the same. I tried on cuffs. That’s it. And Anne’s the one who put me in them.”
“Like you didn’t ask for it,” she shot back. “You were holding them—staring at them like you’d never seen cuffs before.” She shook her head. “What was she supposed to think?”
“And it’s not like you fought it.”
She shifted slightly, her voice taking on a mocking edge—not quite making fun of Anne, but close. “‘Those cuffs would look great on you. You’d be a sexy secretary with them on.’”
Then her tone changed, sharper now—aimed directly at me. “‘Oh ... I’ve never been cuffed before. This is my first time.’”
“Just playing the part,” I snapped back. “Isn’t that what we were supposed to do?” I swallowed. “You just said that’s what Bams was doing.”
“And it was just cuffs,” I added again, more defensive now. “Not high-security transport restraints or whatever they called those things.”
“Bams was handling the restraints part with Anne,” she reminded me. “Our role was to ask questions—make it sound like we actually wanted to learn something. Kink club, remember?”
She glanced over at me. “Why do you think I was asking all those questions about sex to Susan?” She took a breath. “You met her. Do you really think she’s ever had sex? Let alone have a guy cuff her to the bed and fuck her until she passed out.”
She sighed. “I’m just glad the power went out so we could get out of there ... before you said anything stupid.”
“At least she didn’t have another set of cuffs,” she muttered to herself. “And you didn’t get me stuck in some, too.”
“I wasn’t going to tell them,” I said again, quieter now, but no less intense. “I was just going to make something up. Tell them one of the other stories.”
“Yeah. Well, it sure as hell didn’t seem that way,” she replied.
I sank back in my seat, my breathing uneven, the faint clink of the cuffs suddenly too loud in the silence.
“Jen...” My voice wavered this time, the anger slipping, something else breaking through. “Please.”
She didn’t look at me. Her jaw was tight, her eyes fixed straight ahead.
“Take them off,” I said again.
No response.
We sat there in silence, the quiet pressing in on me, broken only by the occasional clink of metal when I shifted.
“Jen...” I tried again, my voice smaller now, raw. “Please...”
Nothing. Not a word. Her hands stayed steady on the wheel, her gaze locked on the road as if I wasn’t even there.
Then a neon glow caught in the corner of my eye—red and blue flickering against the dark street. My stomach lurched.
The car slowed. We turned into a narrow lot, the kind that only led to one place.
A sign buzzed faintly above a door:
BAR.
“Why are we here?” I asked.
She finally looked at me. “To come to an understanding,” she said coldly. “I’m not going to prison because you can’t keep your mouth shut.”
I let out a sharp breath. “You put on this innocent, almost ditzy façade—but deep down you’re just this ... this really cold, heartless bitch.”
She looked at me, her face tight, jaw clenched, but it wasn’t just anger. I could see it in the way her hands trembled slightly on the door handle like she was trying to hold herself together. Her shoulders were heavy, hunched, as if everything from the past few weeks was pressing down on her.
“You don’t get it,” she said, voice sharp but uneven. “We’re in some serious shit.”
And then softer, almost a whisper, as if she were trying to breathe through it all, she repeated the same.
“You just don’t get it.”
The words didn’t feel aimed at me—they were aimed at everything, all the chaos and pressure and mistakes piling up behind her eyes.
“Well, this heartless bitch,” she said, composing herself as she opened the car door, voice brittle, almost trembling, “has the keys to your fucking cuffs.”
She stepped out. Her movements were stiff, almost mechanical and not because she was in stilettos. I could see the tension in her back, the way she held herself like she was bracing for something huge—something that had nothing to do with me, but that I had accidentally touched the edge of tonight.
Jen yanked my side open. “Out,” she barked.
I planted my feet, refusing to move. “No. I’m not—”
Her hands shot around me as she reached over and undid my seatbelt.
“I’m serious,” she said. “Out. I’ll drag you if I have to.”
Her eyes were inches from mine, her heavy breath brushing my face. “Look around. See anyone?”
I glanced quickly—empty lot other than one car. She was making her point.
Then she grabbed my arms like a cop moving a suspect and gave a sharp pull.
I didn’t budge.
Frustration flashed across her face. She bent down, grabbed my ankles, and pulled, placing my feet firmly on the asphalt and turning me to face her.
The cuffs bit into my wrists as she twisted me toward the door. Between the restraints, the heels, and the snug skirt, it was almost impossible to maneuver without stumbling.
“Get out!” Jen snapped, voice sharp, eyes flashing with anger and frustration as she pointed aimlessly to the lot.
“I said I’m not!” I shot back, voice tight, gripping the edge of the seat to keep from tipping over.
She reached in and, perching her hand behind my head, grabbed a clump of my hair. Her face was inches from mine.
“I’m serious,” she said slowly, almost calmly. “I will drag you in there. Your choice how you go.”
I yelped as her grip tightened, one heel raising while the other pressed into the asphalt. “You’re hurting me!”
“I don’t care!” she snapped, though the twitch in her jaw and the level of her voice betrayed that part of her did. “Out. Now!”
We argued, shoving and twisting in an awkward tangle of limbs, heels, and tight fabric. Every movement was a struggle. I tried to leverage in the heels, tried to protest without falling, tried to push back against the sheer force of her grip—but Jen was relentless.
Finally, with a sharp pull, she had me halfway out the door. I flailed for balance, nearly toppling onto the pavement. She grunted, adjusting her hold to keep me upright, gripping the chain of the cuffs.
“These heels are impossible to walk in,” she said, mostly to herself. “Who dresses like this ... God, I hate these clothes.”
I shot her a glare. “You’re the one dragging me around!”
She closed the car door, never letting go of the cuffs and hit the clicker.
I gritted my teeth, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity, but the awkward shuffle in high heels and the tight skirt made it impossible. She kept holding the cuffs tightly as she walked me across the lot, moving me like I was weightless yet stubborn—a mix of force and precision, dragging me toward the bar door.
Jen pushed me inside. Literally.
I scanned the room. A bar. Nothing fancy—just the kind you see in movies. A payphone hung on the wall near the bathroom, looking like it hadn’t been touched in decades.
Behind the counter was a woman, maybe in her thirties. Not exactly young, but not old either. Something about her made her seem older than she was. Didn’t matter. Except that she recognized Jen immediately.
“Hey,” she said, smiling as we approached the counter.
“Hey,” Jen replied casually, waving a hand.
“Wow,” the woman said, eyes flicking between us. “Sexy night out?”
Jen shrugged, the anger from earlier gone. “We were in the town over. You know ... the one with the downtown. That museum with the park.”
She nodded. “Yeah, I’ve been there. Reminds me of Placid a little.”
Jen smiled faintly. “Yeah. I guess that’s a nice way to describe it.”
“Last stop?” the woman asked. “Heading back to the university?”
Jen nodded, but the woman’s gaze lingered mostly on me—my hands behind my back, Jen’s hand resting possessively now on my arm.
“Do you still have that bag?” Jen then asked, her tone casual. Like she was trying to figure out how to ask.
The woman hesitated, frowning slightly as if trying to place Jen’s meaning.
“That bag,” Jen pressed, glancing at her as if she knew she’d remember.
The woman’s face lit up with recognition. Then a smile formed. “The one from ... Tim?”
“Oh my God,” she said, nodding, as though recalling a distant memory. “Wow. That’s out of nowhere. Tim...” She sighed not finishing the thought.
“Not one of your better choices,” Jen told her smiling.
She then asked again, sharper this time. “Do you still have it?”
She shrugged. “If I do, it’s in the back. Why?”
Jen jerked me to the side, making sure the woman saw the cuffs.
“Wow,” she said, caught between surprise and uncertainty, clearly unsure what to say next.
“Looks like you two really have been having fun,” she said with a smile.
“Don’t tell me you lost the keys,” she added, raising her eyebrows. “Is that why you’re asking about that bag?”
That’s when Jen raised her eyes. Light flickered in them, like she was fighting back tears—the same look she’d started giving me in the car.
“Let me see if I can find it,” the woman said. “Then you can tell me what’s going on.”
“I’ll be right back. Watch the place, please,” she added, disappearing into a back room—maybe an office or storage area.
“Who is that?” I asked. “How do you know her?”
“She’s my sister,” Jen replied. “Well ... half-sister. My mom had horrible taste in men.” She shrugged, like it barely mattered.
I blinked. I’d known Jen for a few years. We’d lived together in a dorm. But suddenly, I realized how little I actually knew about her—personally, about her family. She knew everything about me. About mine because I always talked about them, but she never shared anything about hers.
“You’re in luck,” Jen’s sister said as she returned to the counter, placing the bag down. “He ... never asked for them back ... and I never threw this thing away.”
She looked at Jen with a mix of curiosity and concern. “So ... what’s going on, sweetie? Why are you both dressed like that? And why is your friend in cuffs?” She then looked at me. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”
Jen just nodded slowly, her face tight but controlled.
The woman gestured to a table. We followed. Jen pulled out a chair for me and helped me sit, her hands firm. Then she began unloading everything—every detail.
The last few months. Everything that had happened with Bams. Where we’d been earlier tonight.
All of it.
“Is that all of it?” her sister asked. “Is there anything else?”
“No,” Jen replied. “Isn’t that enough?”
Her sister let out a deep sigh, as if trying to process everything, letting it sink in. She nodded slowly, thinking it through.
“Why didn’t you tell me all this sooner?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Jen admitted. “I guess I didn’t want you to be disappointed ... that I was exactly what all this made me out to be.”
Her sister reached out, placing her hand over Jen’s on the table. “It’s okay, sweetie,” she said softly.
They talked briefly after that, her sister asking what the authorities already knew, what the school was aware of, and pressing again about the plan Bams had cooked up to try to shift blame—to lessen the blow of everything.
“You need to distance yourself from this,” her sister told Jen. “This plan...” She shook her head. “Sure, it might earn some sympathy. Maybe. But it’s not going to stop things from happening—especially with that girl that was hurt.”
She looked at Jen. “If you step back now, maybe you can skirt the worst of it, at least with the authorities.” She tightened Jen’s hand in hers. “You were simply a bystander. This girl ... Bambi ... she orchestrated all of it. That’s what you tell the authorities. That’s what you tell the school.”
She sighed. “If you’re lucky ... probation. Maybe you won’t get kicked out of school.”
She closed her eyes, shaking her head. “I don’t want you to end up here, like I did. Not the way I ended up.”
“This is why I didn’t tell you sooner,” Jen replied softly. “I knew how disappointed you’d be.”
“I’m not disappointed in you,” she replied immediately.
“Look at me, Jen” she added softly. “I’m not. We’ll figure this out. We’ll get a good attorney. We’ll get through this.”
“I have some money put away,” she added. “For ... emergencies. We’ll use it to get you through this.”
“I need a drink,” she said, getting up and walking behind the counter. She grabbed a bottle of clear liquid and three shot glasses, then came back and set them on the table, filling each glass partway.
She lifted her own, closing her eyes. “Shit,” she muttered. “But the locals like it.”
She then pushed the other two glasses toward us, realizing I couldn’t reach.
“I’m Brie,” she said, introducing herself.
“Trinity,” I replied.
“Okay, Trinity. So ... why are you in those?” she asked, nodding toward the cuffs. “I get the clothes—your friend took you both shopping because of ... the thing tonight. The women at the bookstore insisted you be dressed up. Don’t get it, but sure, whatever.” She looked at me, eyebrows raised. “But what’s with the cuffs?”
I explained it to her.
She nodded slowly. “Were you...” Her tone sharpened. “ ... going to tell those women what Jen just told me?”
I shook my head quickly. “No,” I said. “I wasn’t. That’s not the story I was referring to. I was just going to tell them another story. Really. Bams just thought I was.”
She nodded again. “Okay.” Then looked at Jen. “So ... you’re supposed to what now? Scare her?”
Jen shrugged. “Yeah.”
“And you came here?”
Jen nodded. “I didn’t know where else to go.” She let out a quiet sigh. “I guess ... everything’s ... just so messed up. I—I just came here,” she said softly.
“And those?” Brie asked, pointing to the bag on the counter.
“I don’t know,” Jen replied. “Maybe put Trinity in them? Really scare her. So, she knows what it’s like to be in prison ... so she understands this isn’t a joke.”
“I can just tell her, Jen.” Brie then turned to me, eyes serious. “It sucks. You don’t want to go there. It fucks up your life. Even after you’re out ... it stays fucked up.”
She looked back at Jen. “There.”
“You were in prison?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she replied. “Four years. Federal. Three in Texas, then transferred back here to finish out the rest—place about forty minutes from here.”
“Got out three-four years ago,” she added. She glanced at Jen. “You were what? When all that happened—sixteen?”
“Fourteen,” Jen said quietly. “Mom was still alive.”
A flicker of something crossed her face. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” she said, softer now. “For leaving you alone with her. You had to deal with her toward the end. I ... I know it wasn’t easy for you.”
Then she turned back to me.
“Abetting an armed robbery of a store,” she said, voice flat, edged with dry sarcasm. “I drove the getaway car. Since the idiot actually used a gun, it went federal—and I got four years.” She gave a faint, humorless smile. “He got three and a half. Better attorney, apparently.”
She leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms out slightly. “But,” she went on, the sarcasm settling in, quieter now, “it’s not a complete loss.”
She gestured around the bar. “Mom left us this place. This absolute shithole at the ass end of upstate New York. Where the winters don’t end ... and the only people who come through here are the ones getting out of prison, working on getting back in. Or those running away from something or someone.”
“This place is yours?” I asked.
“Yeah. Hard to believe, right?” she said, nodding. “Well—both of ours. Half of its Jen’s.” She glanced at her. “But I made her go to school. When I got out. She’d been through enough.”
Brie then looked back at me, shrugging slightly. “And since there aren’t a lot of career opportunities for ex–cons ... I take care of this place. Keep it from falling apart.”
“So ... how’d you meet this psycho?” she asked. “Bambi,” she added, like she needed to clarify.
She shrugged. “Who names their kid Bambi?”
“At college,” Jen replied.
Between the two of us, we explained—how we met her in class, how she was always flirting with the younger instructors. How one day she made some offhand comment about starting a club. And somehow ... it just went from there.
Brie stared at us for a second. “And you went along with this?”
Jen shrugged slightly. “She has a way about her.”
I nodded.
She let out a slow breath, rubbing her temple.
“And now you’re supposed to be scared straight?” she asked, looking at me.
“Okay,” she said before I could answer.
She leaned forward slightly. “Boo!” she said laughing.
She gave a faint, tired smile, grabbed one of the glasses, and knocked it back. “Consider yourself scared. Don’t do drugs. Prison’s bad.”
She set the glass down with a soft clink and looked over at Jen. “You can take those off her now.”
“She’s going to want proof,” Jen said quietly.
“Right,” Brie replied. “What you said about that girl ... the pictures. Bambi likes to have stuff to remember things by.”
Jen gave a small, half nod.
Brie stared at her for a second, then sighed—long, exhausted. “Psycho,” she muttered.
She pushed herself up from the chair, walked over to the counter, grabbed the bag, and dropped it onto the table. Then she unzipped it and started pulling everything out, one piece at a time, spreading it across the surface.
“Prison restraints,” she said, glancing at me as the metal clinked against the table. “High security. Used back in the day on the worst of the worst.”
She picked up a pair of cuffs, holding them up near her face like she was inspecting them—almost modeling them. “And they even come in dainty sizes for women,” she added dryly.
“Those are what you had to wear?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “These ... came later.”
She picked up a metal box, turning it over in her hands. “Guy I dated while I was in prison. He was ... good to me. Wrote letters. Visited. Put money in my commissary account.”
She set it down with a soft clink.
“Then I got out and started seeing him.” She gestured at the restraints on the table. “That’s when he got me these. Said he bought them off someone connected to the prison I was in. Old stock. Stuff sitting around in boxes, or whatever.”
“He bought you restraints?” I asked, surprised.
She gave a small, almost amused huff. “Yeah. Turns out Tim had a thing for bondage. Not ropes or anything simple. He was into prison stuff. Full restraints. The same kind of shit I was kept in for four years.”
I just stared at her.
“Thinking about it now, it made sense,” she told me. “Why he was always visiting me.” She shook her head slightly. “He liked seeing me chained up. And where I was ... I had to be in stuff like that.” She reached out, pushing lightly at the pile of metal. “I mean, not these exactly, but ... you get it.”
“Anyway,” she went on, shrugging, “I went along with it. Figured it might be fun. I mean ... I’d had plenty of practice. Wasn’t like it was new. It really wasn’t that big of a deal to be honest.”
She leaned back slightly, thinking. “Moved in with him. Wore them for him. It was ... fun, at first.”
A small pause.
“But then it was more. And more.” She glanced down at the table. “Eventually he wanted me in them...” She trailed off, correcting herself. “When we went out.”
She let out a quiet breath. “So ... I let him take me to work in them. Thinking that’d make him happy. That’d it be enough.”
“I told him it’d be like me being transferred. Brought up the times I’d needed to see a doctor ... when I needed more than what the prison could offer.” She gave a smaller shrug this time. “In the end, I let him have it his way. He’d put all this on me at his place, bring me in, then take it off before he left for work. It went on like that for a while—became our routine.”
She hesitated, then added, quieter, “It was easier. Better than being dragged out somewhere in public like that. This way ... it stayed between us. And it made him happy—kept that itch of his in check, anyway.”
Another pause.
“But then he started putting them on when he came to get me. To take me home. I was ... wearing them to and from work.”
“Why did you let him do that?” I asked. “I mean ... how did that stay between you ... didn’t people see you? How do you hide something like that.”
“You don’t,” she said, sighing. “Yeah. People stared. But you get used to that. You kind of have to in prison.”
She looked down, her voice flattening. “I’d just gotten out. No money. No car. Jen was in school.” She swallowed slightly. “I—I couldn’t ask for help. I couldn’t do that to her. Not after everything.” She shrugged again. “So ... I went along with it.”
Silence hung for a moment.
“But it wasn’t just between here and his place.” Jen said quietly.
“No,” she said. “It was ... other places too. Like I said, he needed more and more.”
“You saw,” she then told Jen. “That day you came home from college. And I wasn’t here. And you assumed I was at—”
She stopped. Yeah, she then replied quietly as if remembering.
Brie paused, like she was replaying it herself.
“It wasn’t until he took me to visit his friends,” she added. “And I spent the night in them—just sitting out on their porch. The guys drank beer while I answered prison questions with the girls.”
Another pause.
“It wasn’t until that night that I realized I couldn’t live like that.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“Nothing, really,” she said, looking at me. “They were ... nice about it. With him bringing me like that. They didn’t make me feel bad or anything. They asked a lot of questions, of course. It was...” She hesitated, searching for the words. “It was one of the girls. She said it was ... cool that I was okay being his prison bitch—being controlled, obedient, knowing my place, doing exactly what I was told.”
She looked down for a second. “That it was cool that I could handle being ... entirely under someone else’s rules, and be okay with it. And that she’d never be able to do that.”
Brie exhaled slowly. “I ended it after that.”
A faint, tired smile flickered across her face. “Don’t get me wrong. He wasn’t abusive. He was nice. Sex was great. But...” She shook her head. “I didn’t want to live like that.”
She looked down again. “Maybe I should have given it more time. I don’t know.”
“Alright. Up. Up,” she said. “Come on. Let’s get you into these so Jen can take some pictures for that psycho.”
“You’re putting me in those?” I asked, trying to hide the tremor in my voice.
“Yeah,” she replied, eyes flicking to Jen. “You need to take those off. These use completely different keys.”
Jen stood, and immediately put her hands on my arm to help me up. She slid the cuffs off and dropped them onto the table with a metallic clink, keys jangling beside them.
I rubbed my wrists, feeling the residual ache, while Brie had already picked up the other set, holding them out, her gaze steady.
“Hands,” she said, gesturing. “Out.”
I obeyed, and she locked them in place, double-locking them.
As I moved my wrists in them, she had picked up the box.
“Their heavy duty,’ she said. ‘Different locking mechanism. Everything.’
She then walked me through the rest of it. Each piece a puzzle that seemed to fit into the next. Until she knelt to lock the leg cuffs around my ankles, threading the long chain that ran down between my legs.
“Five inches?” she asked, eyes sharp as she double-locked them.
“What?” I asked.
“The stilettos,” she repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Five inches.”
“Yeah,” I murmured, voice catching.
She stood, tossing the keys on the table next to the cuffs I’d come in with.
“Very sexy,” she murmured, scanning me up and down. “But not the kind of sexy you want to be in when you’re trapped in these.”
I shivered, a mix of anticipation and nerves coiling tight in my stomach.
She tugged my jacket down, smoothing the fabric over the chains beneath.
“Chains under the jacket,” she said, almost reverently. “Better than the waist chains just running on top.” Her chuckle was low and amused, almost teasing.
“I think those cuffs you were in before—hands behind your back—they pushed your chest out,” she explained as she buttoned another button on my shirt. “Don’t think you need this unbuttoned. Not with your hands where they are.”
I shifted slightly, testing the metal’s hold, and she slapped my hands lightly.
“Don’t,” she said sharply, voice low, almost warning. “You’re just going to make it worse.”
“I just can’t move my wrists like this ... in this box thing. They’re just—”
“You’re not supposed to,” she interrupted. Her tone softened a little, like she was explaining something important. “That box? The guards used to call it a belly box. Some called it a waist box. It locks your handcuffs to your waist, keeps your hands locked tight right where they can’t slip or slide. Makes sure you can’t pull your arms away or hide your hands.”
She paused, glancing at me like she was gauging my reaction before going on.
“It’s about control—total control. When you’re wearing it, you’re not just cuffed, you’re ... completely restricted. You have to move your whole body with your hands stuck right there. No twisting, no turning your wrists, no hiding your hands under your clothes.”
Her voice dropped, almost like a warning. “And trust me, it’s not just uncomfortable—it wears you down. Physically, and mentally.”