Page 47 of Shy Girl

TWENTY-FIVE

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The tooth doesn’theal neatly. The hole in my gums is a constant throb, a dull ache that sharpens with every attempt to eat. I don’t dare ask Nathan for anything to soothe it. He’s been walking around with that smug look, like yanking it out with pliers makes him a hero. For two days, I spat blood into the corner of the Pink Room, the metallic tang heavy on my tongue, clinging to everything, making the air taste like rot.

I hear him before I see him—his uneven footsteps, the clink of a bottle hitting the wall, the shuffle of a man coming undone. The smell reaches me next, sharp and sour, spilling through the cracks before the door swings open. Light floods the room, making me squint, and there he is: hulking in the doorway, his silhouette swaying, his grin loose and crooked.

“Shy Girl,” he slurs, leaning against the frame. His smile spreads wide, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, which are glassy and dim, like the bottom of a drained bottle. “Been a while, huh?”

I freeze, my body locking instinctively. Even the ache in my jaw dulls beneath the flood of adrenaline. He doesn’t mean the tooth. We haven’t had sex in almost two weeks.

He stumbles into the room, the door clicking shut behind him. The sound feels final, a closing chapter, a locked fate.

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“Get on the bed,” he says, his voice low and rough, the words cutting through the fog of his drunken haze.

I crawl onto the bed, my limbs trembling, my movements automatic. I arrange myself the way he likes: legs spread, arms limp at my sides, head tilted slightly, eyes fixed on the ceiling.A pose I’ve rehearsed a thousand times, each one erasing a little more of me.

He doesn’t bother with pretense this time. There’s no soft touch, no muttered “Good girl,” no illusion of gentleness. He’s clumsy, rough, his weight pressing down on me like a slab of concrete. His hands grip too tight, his nails digging into the soft flesh of my thighs. When he pushes inside me, I bite down hard on my lip, the taste of blood blooming like an old, bitter friend.

It doesn’t last long, but it feels endless. Each thrust is mechanical, a thoughtless rhythm, his breath hot and erratic against my neck. I fix my gaze on the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the plaster, clinging to anything that pulls me away from the pain, the humiliation.

When it’s over, he collapses beside me, his breathing ragged, his sweat slick against my skin. I stay still, my body aching, my muscles locked as I wait for him to leave. But he doesn’t. Not immediately. Instead, he chuckles, a low, humorless sound that vibrates in my chest.

“The audience has been complaining you’re boring,” he says, his tone so casual it feels surreal. “So I thought I’d give them a little afternoon treat.”

The words hit like a punch, knocking the air from my lungs. For a moment, they don’t make sense. They hang there, impossible, until he sits up, fumbling with his pants. His movements are slow, unsteady, but his words are clear.

“You’ve been good, Shy Girl,” he murmurs, almost tender. “But we’re going to have to make things more interesting.”

SHY GIRL168

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He stands, wiping his hands on his jeans, swaying slightly. Then he’s gone. The door shuts behind him with a quiet click, the deadbolt sliding into place, locking me in but leaving me exposed.

It hits me all at once, the weight of his words crashing over me, pulling me under. My chest tightens, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps.The audience has been complaining.My eyes dart to the camera, the steady red light blinking in the corner of the room.

It’s been there the whole time. I’d trained myself not to see it, to file it away with the rest of the horrors. But it wasn’t just watching. It wasn’t just recording.

It wasbroadcasting.

The realization crawls over my skin, hot and cold, sticky with shame. Every moment. Every humiliation. Every violation. Someone was watching. People were watching.

I retch, my body heaving, but there’s nothing in my stomach. The bile rises anyway, burning my throat as I curl into myself, knees to my chest, arms wrapped tight like I could hold myself together.

The tears come fast and hard, spilling over before I can stop them. They soak into the mattress, into the room, into everything. The sobs are loud and raw, a sound I haven’t let myself make in years. They tear through me, leaving my chest hollow, my body trembling.

The camera blinks on, indifferent, unrelenting, its gaze heavy and eternal. It watches as I shatter, as I fold into myself, as I cry until there’s nothing left but a husk.

The questions claw at me, sharp and endless. How many people? How long? Has it been the entire time? But there areno answers, only the suffocating silence of the room, the weight of the truth pressing down on me. I lie there, staring at the red light, its steady pulse burning into me. For the first time, I feel completely naked. Not stripped of clothes, but of myself, my dignity, my humanity.

And I know, deep down, that nothing will ever feel safe again.

TWENTY-SIX

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