Page 35 of Shy Girl

I collapse onto the floor of the cage, my body wracked with tremors, the bars cold against my skin. The sobs come hard and fast, tearing through me, echoing in the empty room until the sound feels like it belongs to someone else.

Nathan’s words linger, circling like vultures:You broke a rule.

The silence stretches, unbroken, swallowing me whole.

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The punishment wasabsence. A week of silence that thickened and swelled, folding itself into the corners of the house like mold. It pressed against my skin, filled my lungs, and became a kind of second body I had to wear. The quiet wasn’t still—it groaned and hissed, the house shifting in the cold, the hum of the fridge swelling to a roar in the void. At first, I measured time, trying to carve it into something I could hold. But by the third day, it unraveled, the hours dissolving into a fog where everything stretched and snapped. Time became a creature with no edges, coiling into itself.

When I hear the front door open, it is a knife cutting through the haze. Relief comes first, hot and sick, swelling in my chest until it spills out as tears. I hate myself for it, for the pathetic tremor of gratitude that blooms like rot. Gratitude for the man who had left me here, who had let the silence sink its claws into me. But my body didn’t care about principle. It cared about survival. It wanted food, water, warmth—something, anything, other than the monstrous nothingness of waiting.

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He had left me a bowl of water, and it kept me alive. I rationed it in small sips, imagining it lasting forever, but by the fourth day, it

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was gone, the metal bowl dry except for the bitter tang of its residue. My throat burned, raw and hollow, my tongue thick and useless. I swallowed air like it might soothe the ache.

By the second day, I pissed myself. The shame was distant, a faint sting compared to the gnawing hunger. The cage reeked, the sour stench clinging to my skin. It didn’t matter anymore. My body was a machine failing piece by piece, hoarding every ounce of energy. I hadn’t defecated once. There was nothing left to lose.

By the fourth day, I broke. The dog food sat there, congealed into a rancid, gelatinous heap. At first, the sight of it made me gag, but hunger sharpened me into something unrecognizable. When I finally lowered my head to the bowl, it wasn’t a decision—it was instinct. The taste was metallic and foul, like swallowing rot, but I forced it down, one bite at a time. Each swallow carved me into something less human, but it gave me another hour, another breath.

By the fifth day, I wasn’t a person anymore.

Nathan’s footsteps echo closer, and my heart stutters, caught between relief and dread. I press myself to the bars, weak and trembling, my breath shallow, uneven. The door creaks open, and there he is, his presence swallowing the room whole. He looks the same, untouched by the time that has dismantled me.

Tears streak my face before I can stop them. My chest heaves with the awful realization:He’s back. He’s back.

Nathan doesn’t acknowledge my tears. He opens the cage and pulls me out with a grip that is firm but not cruel. The leash clicks onto my collar, the sound too loud, too final. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t speak, and I don’t dare break the silence. Thequestions sit like stones in my throat, heavy and jagged:Where is Cupcake? What did you do to her?

But I already know. He killed her. Of course, he did.

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As if reading my thoughts, Nathan glances down. His voice is flat, detached. “Took her to a hospital,” he says, the words landing with a hollow thud. “She’s fine.”

I don’t believe him. The weightless way he says it, the way his eyes don’t quite meet mine—it doesn’t match the violence I know that lives inside of him. But I stay silent. There’s no space for questions, and even if there was, my voice is not something I can use.

I stop crawling for a moment, lost in the spiral of thoughts, and the leash snaps taut. He tugs sharply, a reminder that my body is no longer mine. My knees scrape against the floor as I follow, the rhythm automatic, the submission reflexive.

He leads me to the bathroom, where the air is thick and warm, the tiles slick with condensation. Steam rises from the tub as he turns on the faucet, testing the water with his hand. He adds soap to the water and it smells of lavender, a detail so small but it reminds me of my old life back home and it makes me want to scream.

I wait, knees pressed to the cold floor, the silence wrapping itself around us like a noose.

He stands over it, turning the faucet, his hand dipping into the water like a sculptor testing clay.

“Get in,” he says, his voice flat, the edges clipped clean.

The water looks too still, too perfect, like it’s waiting to pull me under. I step in. The heat bites first, sharp and invasive, a punishment in itself. I flinch, gasping, but lower myself further, the water softening into something kind. It wraps aroundme, melting the grime from my skin, clouds of dirt swirling in delicate patterns. For a fleeting moment, I feel human, weightless in the warmth.

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