What Performs

I'd been doing shadow expression work for eight months when my sister called.

"Maya, I need to talk to you about your job."

"Which one?" I was folding laundry. The apartment was small enough that I could navigate it without counting steps anymore. "The tutoring or the studio work?"

"The studio work."

Something in her voice made me stop mid-fold. "What about it?"

"Can I come over?"

"Just tell me."

Silence. Then: "I saw one of your videos."

"Okay. And?" I was used to this. People got weird about shadow work. Thought it was New Age bullshit or whatever. "Did you think it was good? Bad? I know it's experimental but Gerard says the audience really connects with—"

"Maya." Her voice cracked. "It's not what you think it is."

I sat down on the couch. "What do you mean?"

"The videos Gerard is selling. They're not shadow expression therapy."

"Yes they are. We do three sessions a week. I sit in the studio, he sets up the lighting, and I let my shadow move freely. It's about shadow autonomy. About not suppressing—"

"Maya, listen to me. The site he's selling them on. It's not a wellness site."

My stomach dropped. "What kind of site is it?"

She didn't answer right away.

"Sarah. What kind of site?"

"Shadow porn."

The words hit like cold water.

"That's not possible. Gerard wouldn't— He said we were making therapeutic content. He said people were using it to work through their own shadow management issues. He showed me testimonials."

"I know what he told you. But Maya, I saw the video. I saw the comments. I saw what the site charges per view." Her voice got quieter. "I saw what your shadow was doing."

I couldn't breathe. "What was it doing?"

"I can't— I don't want to—"

"Tell me."

"Things you wouldn't do. Things you probably think about but would never..." She stopped. "Maya, your shadow was performing sex acts. All of them. Everything someone might pay to see."

The room collapsed.

Eight months. Three sessions a week. Gerard positioning me in the chair, adjusting the lights. "Just relax," he'd say. "Let your shadow do what it wants. Don't suppress anything. The whole point is authentic shadow expression."

And I'd sit there. In perfect lighting. Letting my shadow move independently while Gerard filmed.

While I couldn't see what it was doing.

"How long have the videos been up?" My voice didn't sound like mine.

"I don't know. I found them yesterday. There are... Maya, there are hundreds of videos. Different sessions. Different acts. He's been selling them the whole time."

Hundreds of videos of my shadow doing things I'd never done. Things I'd thought about. Things I'd wanted. Things I'd been too afraid, too self-conscious, too damaged by being blind since birth to ever actually try with another person.

My shadow knew all of it.

And Gerard had been selling it for eight months.

"I'm calling a lawyer," Sarah said. "We're going to sue him. This is exploitation. This is—"

"Don't."

"What?"

"Don't call a lawyer."

"Maya, he's been—"

"I know what he's been doing." My hands were shaking. "But if we sue, if this goes public, everyone will know. Everyone will see those videos. Everyone will know what my shadow was showing."

"But you're the victim here. You didn't consent to—"

"My shadow consented." The words came out bitter. "My shadow was showing exactly what I wanted. What I think about. What I..." I stopped. Couldn't finish.

Sarah was quiet for a long time. "So what do you want to do?"

I thought about Gerard. About how he'd found me through a disability services job board. How he'd explained the concept so carefully. Shadow expression therapy. A safe space for people to let their shadows move freely without judgment.

How he'd known exactly what would happen when he put a blind woman in perfect lighting and told her to stop suppressing.

"I want to know how much he's made," I said.

"What?"

"From the videos. I want to know how much money he's made selling my shadow."

Sarah hesitated. "The site shows view counts. Based on the prices..." Another pause. "Maybe forty thousand. Maybe more."

Forty thousand dollars.

From eight months of me sitting in a chair three times a week, thinking I was helping people with shadow acceptance therapy.

While my shadow performed every fantasy I'd ever had. Every desire I'd been too afraid to voice. Every act I'd convinced myself I didn't need because I couldn't see faces anyway, couldn't read expressions, couldn't know if someone was looking at me with disgust or desire.

My shadow knew better.

My shadow showed everything.

"Maya?" Sarah's voice was small. "What do you want to do?"

I stood up. Walked to the window. Put my hand on the glass the way I always did when I needed to orient myself. Needed to feel something solid.

"I have a session tomorrow," I said. "Three PM."

"You're not actually going to—"

I hung up.

Gerard was setting up the lights when I arrived. I could hear him moving equipment. The scrape of the chair across the floor as he positioned it.

"Maya! Right on time. You ready for today's session?"

"Actually, I have some questions first."

"Of course. What's up?"

"What site are you selling the videos on?"

The equipment sounds stopped.

"I'm sorry?"

"The videos of my shadow. What site?"

Silence. Long enough that I could hear my own heartbeat.

"Maya, I don't know what you—"

"Don't lie to me. I know what this is. I know what you've been filming."

More silence. Then: "Who told you?"

"Does it matter?"

"Listen." His voice changed. Got lower. Careful. "I can explain. The content we're creating, it's not what you think. It's about shadow liberation. About people seeing what's possible when shadows move freely. Yes, there's a sexual component, but that's natural. Shadows show desire. That's what they do."

"You told me it was therapeutic."

"It is therapeutic. For the viewers. They're learning to accept their own shadow's desires by watching yours express freely. It's revolutionary work. You're helping people, Maya. Thousands of people."

"For forty thousand dollars."

"The operational costs are—"

"How much have you paid me?"

He didn't answer.

"Gerard. How much have you paid me total?"

"Six thousand. But Maya, you have to understand the overhead. The equipment. The hosting fees. The—"

"Six thousand." I felt something cold spreading through my chest. "You've made forty thousand dollars selling videos of my shadow performing sex acts. And you've paid me six thousand."

"We can renegotiate your rate. I was going to bring it up actually. You're one of our most popular performers. I can offer you twenty percent of—"

"One of?" My voice came out sharp. "How many people are you doing this to?"

"Maya, that's not—"

"How many?"

"Eleven. Currently. But you're special. Your content performs better than—"

I walked out.

I didn't call Sarah back that night.

I sat in my apartment and thought about my shadow. About what it had been showing for eight months while I thought I was helping people.

About every fantasy I'd had. Every desire I'd pushed down because being blind meant people already saw me as helpless, damaged, not sexual. Every time I'd convinced myself I didn't need intimacy because I couldn't have it on equal terms anyway.

My shadow had been screaming the truth the whole time.

And Gerard had been selling it.

The money bothered me. The exploitation bothered me.

But what bothered me most was simpler.

I wanted to see them.

Wanted to see what my shadow had been doing. What it had been showing. What desires it had been performing that I'd been too afraid to acknowledge.

But I couldn't.

That's the thing about being blind.

I could sue Gerard. Could take him to court. Could tell everyone what he'd done.

But I'd never actually know what my shadow revealed about me.

Everyone else could see it.

I never would.

My phone buzzed. A text from Gerard.

"We need to talk. I can offer you a better deal. Full partnership. 50/50 split. You're an incredible performer, Maya. We can build something real here."

I read it twice.

Thought about forty thousand dollars. About eleven other people. About thousands of viewers watching shadows do what their people wouldn't.

About how my shadow had been more honest in eight months than I'd been in thirty-two years.

I typed back: "How much per session at 50/50?"

The response came fast. "Could be $500 per session. Maybe more. You're that good."

My shadow probably already knew what I was going to do.

It had known the whole time.