Page 40 of Shy Girl

Master Nathan’s moods swing like a pendulum. His grin, wide and sharp, is as unpredictable as his anger. On his good days, he lets me crawl into the kitchen for a bowl of lukewarmoatmeal. On his bad days, he locks the door behind him and makes me sit in silence as he lectures me on obedience, his voice slicing the air, sharp and unforgiving.

MIA BALLARD138

––––––––

But it’s not the punishments that hurt the most. It’s the absence of everything else. The way the world beyond this room collapses in on itself, shrinking until it feels like it was never real. It feels like trying to remember a melody I haven’t heard in years—familiar but just out of reach.

I start talking to the stuffed animals on the bookshelf. The rabbit becomes my favorite, its stitched eyes lopsided, its fur dirty and matted. At night, I clutch it to my chest, its small, soft body soaking up my tears.

If I ever get out of here, the first thing I’ll do is call my dad.I whisper it like a prayer, like an incantation.

My voice cracks, trembling under the weight of words I don’t know how to say. I bury my face into the rabbit’s fur, whispering so softly it feels like the room itself is swallowing my voice. “I’ll tell him I miss him.”

Some nights, in the quiet, I think I hear his voice. It comes faint, like a thread stretched too thin, but steady.Gia,he says, low and certain, like he’s standing just outside the door.It’s time to come home.

TWENTY-ONE

––––––––

The first timeI try to escape, it’s raining. The sound is relentless, rhythmic, pressing against the boarded windows like a memory of the world outside, like the world is knocking softly, waiting for me. The rain reminds me that there is something else—something beyond the pink walls and stuffed animals with unblinking eyes.

Master Nathan’s snores rumble from the next room, uneven and thick, like a machine choking on itself. He’s been drinking himself into oblivion for weeks now, his movements slack, his grip on control slipping. Last week, he forgot to

bathe me. He forgot to evenlookat me. In the mornings, he shuffled me to the bathroom, leash dangling loose in his hand, his mind somewhere far away. Then he locked me back in the Pink Room without a word. The neglect wasn’t kindness; it was weakness. A crack in the foundation.

Tonight, his snoring is louder, wetter, the smell of whiskey still heavy in the air, sharp and sour. When he led me back to my room, his hands fumbled with the lock. I held my breath, listening for the deadbolt’s finality—but it didn’t come. He didn’t lock the deadbolt.

SHY GIRL140

––––––––

I sit on the rug, my hands pressed flat to my thighs, staring at the door. The leash is off. The camera blinks in the corner, its red light steady, patient, like it knows I’m always watching it back. I’ve studied its angle, memorized its blind spots—or convinced myself I have.

The snoring continues, deep and rhythmic.

I crawl to the door, my knees sinking into the softness of the rug, my movements slow. My body feels too large, too loud, every creak of my joints amplified in the stillness. When I reach the door, I stand. My legs tremble, my knees crack, the sound sharp in the quiet.

I wait. The snoring doesn’t falter.

The handle is locked. Of course, it’s locked.

I reach for the bobby pin I’ve kept hidden, tucked into the hem of my dress for weeks. My fingers shake as I work it into the lock, the metal cold and unfamiliar. My breath comes in shallow gasps, my mind whirring with failure after failure.

This has to work. This has to work.

The lock clicks open, the sound deafening in the silence. I freeze, waiting for the house to wake. But the snoring continues, and the rain drums on, steady and insistent. I exhale, shaky and uneven, and push the door open just enough to slip through.

The hallway is dark, a nightlight near Nathan’s room casting pale shadows that stretch and bend like they’re alive.

As I pass his door, I hold my breath, counting my movements in my head. One. Two. Three. The door is cracked open, a sliver of light spilling out, but I don’t look inside. I don’t need to. I can feel him there, heavy and oppressive, radiating through the walls.

The front door is ahead. The rain is louder now, closer, the sound pressing against the wood like it’s trying to get in. My fingers graze

––––––––

MIA BALLARD141

––––––––

---