Page 41 of Shy Girl

the frame as I reach for the lock. My entire body trembles, every nerve screaming for me to move faster, quieter, togo.

Then the snoring stops.

The silence crashes down, thick and immediate. My breath catches in my throat, and I freeze, my mind a static hum. I wait for footsteps, for the creak of his door, for the end.

Nothing. Then, faintly, the bed creaks, and the snoring resumes—jagged at first, then falling back into its uneven rhythm.

I let out a silent breath, my hands shaking so hard they slip from the handle. My knees ache, my muscles burn, but I force myself to stay still. My mind spins through the possibilities—the failures. The door will make noise. A rush of air, the hinges groaning, a sound loud enough to pull him from sleep.

But then I see it.

The back door.

It’s ajar, just slightly, a gap so small it’s almost undetectable. My breath catches as I crawl toward it, my body moving without thought. I push it wider, the air rushing in cool and sharp against my skin, carrying the scent of rain and earth.

I step outside.

The grass is slick under my bare feet, the mud pulling at me as if to slow me down, but I move. The rain clings to me, soaks through my nightdress, my hair plastered to my face.The air is too big, too alive, and it steals my breath, my freedom too heavy to hold.

I run.

I don’t know where I’m going. The forest stretches out, endless and dark, but it doesn’t matter. As long as I’m not in that house, it doesn’t matter. The sound of the rain swallows everything, until it doesn’t.

A yell cuts through the night, sharp and guttural, followed by a gunshot that splits the air like a wound.

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I freeze. The sound echoes in my head, reverberating through my body. My legs give out, and I collapse into the mud. The rain pours

down in relentless sheets, mixing with the tears streaming down my face, carving rivers into the earth. I tilt my head back, staring at the sky. The rain blurs the world—trees, ground, the faint silhouette of Nathan in the distance, shotgun in hand.

For a moment, I let myself feel it. The air on my skin. The open sky. The freedom I know I’ll never have again. These are my last minutes of being alive, and I hold onto them, tight, even as they slip through my fingers.

YEAR THREE

TWENTY-TWO

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One day, Nathanbrings me a full-length mirror, its size commanding the space in the tiny room. The frame is intricate, gold filigree twisting like veins, the kind of thing you’d see in a museum or a house too large for one family. He doesn’t explain. He doesn’t even look at me. He props it against the wall with a grunt, adjusts it until it’s perfectly straight, and leaves without a word.

At first, I try not to notice it. I keep my head down, eyes fixed on the floor, the way I’ve been taught. But the mirror is impossible to ignore. Its presence hums, pulling at the edges of my attention, turning the room into a trap of reflections and empty space. It feels alive, as if it’s watching me even when Nathan isn’t.

Days pass. The mirror becomes a weight, an unspoken thing pressing on my chest every time I move. Finally, I give in. I crawl toward it slowly, the way you might approach an animal you’re not sure will bite. My knees burn against the floor, but I barely notice. All I can think about is the mirror and what it might show me.

When I reach it, I lift my head. And there I am.

The reflection knocks the air out of my lungs. This is the first time I am seeing myself— really seeing myself in three years. I don’t recognize myself. My hair hangs in tangled clumps, greasy and matted. My body is hunched, my shoulders caving in like they’re trying to disappear. Bruises spreading up my arms and

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across my back. They look almost purposeful, like a grotesque mimicry of something natural. The pink collar gleams against my skin, snug and unrelenting, a perfect symbol of everything I’ve let myself become.

I reach out, my fingers trembling, and press them to the glass. The reflection blurs under the smear of my hand, but it doesn’t go away. I pull my hand back and let it fall to the floor, my gaze dropping with it. My knees, raw and calloused, stare back at me like an accusation.

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