Page 36 of Shy Girl

Nathan watches without speaking, his presence filling the room. Then he moves. He doesn’t undress fully—just strips to his boxers—and the sight of him climbing into the tub makes my

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stomach turn, though I don’t fully understand why. My hands grip the rim of the tub as he kneels, picking up a sponge.

He begins scrubbing me, his motions steady, detached. It’s not rough, but there’s no tenderness, no connection—just the mechanical efficiency of a man washing his car, inspecting every inch for flaws. His focus is singular, starting with my arms, working down my back. When he reaches my hair, his fingers comb through the tangles with a care that feels almost out of place. The warm water cascades over my scalp, and for a moment, I let myself drift. I imagine this is normal, a scene pulled from someone else’s life, something gentle. He’s my boyfriend, and this is love, a quiet intimacy shared in the steam.

But the silence is loud, and his presence is a weight I can’t escape.

His hands move lower, between my legs. The rhythm doesn’t change—still detached, still efficient—but his eyes meet mine for the first time. They are cold, sharp as glass, and the contact slices through me. “I’m not happy you spoke,” he says, his voice low and flat, like a stone thrown into still water.

The words hit harder than his hands ever could, and my chest tightens. My gaze locks on his, frozen, my lips pressed shut as though any sound might shatter me completely. He waits, his eyes daring me to respond, but I know better than to speak. “Didn’t you learn from last time?” His tone sharpens, each syllable a whip.

I nod, my entire body rigid under his touch. The water, once soothing, now feels like a weight pressing me down, the heat stifling, choking. I drop my gaze to the ripples on the surface, watching them distort the reflection of his hands, trying to anchor myself in their rhythm, trying not to shatter.

The sponge slips from his grip, the sound of it hitting the water breaking the silence. He doesn’t move to pick it up. Instead, the quiet stretches between us, thick and unbearable, the tension clinging to my skin.

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I stay still, submerged, waiting. The water laps at my body, the warmth now a mockery of comfort. At least, for now, I’m clean. At least, for now, I’m still here.

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The weeks foldinto one another, edges blurred, indistinct, their weight pressing down on me in a continuous, seamless stretch of time. I no longer track the days. Light seeps through the windows, pools on the floor, fades to darkness, and returns again, but its rhythm is meaningless. Time is no longer mine. It belongs to Nathan—his commands, his footsteps, the soft click of the leash, the intervals between his movements. Even when he’s not in the room, his presence fills it, heavy and pervasive, as though the air itself carries him.

The dog food comes thick and pungent, spooned into the same dull metal bowl that turns my stomach before it touches my lips. I tell myself I won’t eat it again. Each refusal feels like a small victory until the hunger sharpens, hollowing me out, its edges gnawing at my resolve.

Once, he tossed me a dog biscuit, his lips curving into a faint, amused smile as it clattered to the floor. Another time, a piece of steak fell from his plate—accident or intention, I couldn’t tell. He gestured with lazy authority, his voice soft and mocking.

“Go ahead, girl,” he said. “You’ve earned it.”

I hesitated, caught in the web of his tone, scanning for traps in the way his eyes followed me. When he nodded, I crawled forward, lowered my head, and picked up the steak with my teeth. I ate it quickly, the salt and fat almost unbearable, a bitter reminder of every meal I’ve ever turned down, when I had the luxury of saying no.

The cage is always cold, the thin mat beneath me offering no protection from the chill of the bars. I curl into myself, knees to my chest, arms wrapped tightly around my body, but the cold seeps

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in, steady and relentless. My back aches from the hours spent hunched, my knees burn, and my wrists throb. Every part of me is a reminder of how much space I’ve lost, how my body has been reshaped by confinement.

Sleep comes in shards, shallow and restless. The overhead light drills into my skull, unrelenting, and the muffled sounds of Nathan’s movement in the house pierce the thin veil of rest. Each creak of the floorboards sends a jolt through me, snapping me awake. Even when I drift off, my dreams fracture under the weight of this reality—cages, collars, Nathan’s face looming in the periphery, always watching.

I haven’t spoken since the morning I met Cupcake, since my voice betrayed me. I wanted to ask:Why are you doing this to me? What do you want? Why can’t you let me go?I still think that, sometimes—think that if I could just talk to him, reason with him, I might find some crack in his resolve, some humanity buried deep inside.

But I know better. His punishments are too cold, too exact. The rules are etched into the walls of my mind: speak, and you will suffer.

So I focus on survival, on the small rituals that make me feel human. I drink from the water bowl he leaves, the taste metallic but necessary. I follow his commands—sit, stay, beg—and lower my head when he strokes my hair, the motions automatic. I crawl when he calls, bark when he demands. The sound of my voice turned animal feels foreign in my mouth, yet it passes my lips with practiced ease.

Sex is frequent. Even when I’m dizzy, exhausted, barely able to keep myself upright, he takes what he wants. My body cracks under his weight, my joints groaning in protest, mymuscles screaming for relief. Sometimes I pass out mid-act, my consciousness

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