Page 52 of Shy Girl

Let him see it, I think.Let him see what he’s created. Let him see me.

TWENTY-EIGHT

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Master Nathan isnot happy with me. The bathroom feels smaller with his anger in it, his displeasure radiating in tight, controlled waves. He grips my arm harder than he needs to, yanking me toward the tub like he’s pulling a piece of furniture. The faucet hisses, spitting out steam, the heat fogging the mirror and blurring my reflection into something abstract.

“Get in,” he says, his voice sharp enough to cut, and I lower myself into the water without hesitation. It’s scalding, biting at my skin, but I don’t flinch. The warmth loosens the dried blood, letting it slough off in thin, diluted ribbons. The water turns pink almost immediately, swirling around me like some macabre watercolor.

He doesn’t waste time. He grabs the sponge, the cheap, stiff kind that scratches more than it cleans, and starts scrubbing.“What is wrong with you?” he mutters, the words low and clipped, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “Bad girl. Bad.”

I don’t respond. He scrubs harder, the sponge rough against my arm, and I watch the pink water deepen into red, slowly blooming outward.

“Do you have any idea what kind of disease you can catch?” he growls, his nose wrinkling as he works at a particularly stubborn patch of dried blood.

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The irony is almost funny. Diseases are exactly what I wanted. I hoped for them, begged for them, something invisible and insidious to rid me of the thing inside me. But I keep that tomyself. I just watch the water, the way the blood moves in soft, hypnotic spirals before disappearing into the murk.

His disgust is palpable. He doesn’t look at me—just at the mess, the streaks of dried blood and dirt he’s trying to erase, as if scrubbing me clean will fix whatever he thinks is broken. His lips press into a thin, pale line, and his grip on the sponge tightens. And then, out of nowhere, the thought comes, sharp and electric, cutting through the monotonous rhythm of water and sponge.

I want to rip him open.

The idea is immediate, visceral, so vivid it makes my teeth ache. I imagine leaning forward, sinking my teeth into his arm, tearing into his flesh the way I tore into the rat. The image blooms in my mind like a sickness: blood pooling in thick, rich streams, spilling over my lips, warm and metallic. His skin splitting cleanly beneath my teeth, the soft give of muscle, the crunch of tendon.

It’s overwhelming. The thought loops, spiraling tighter and tighter until it’s all I can think about. I imagine his chest cracked open like a carcass, ribs splayed like a cage, his heart faintly beating before I bite into it. It would be heavier than the rat, meatier, the taste richer, more satisfying. Would his blood taste the same or more bitter because he is evil? The warmth of the idea spreads through me, grounding me, a thrill I haven’t felt in years.

He’s still talking, but I don’t hear him. My mind is elsewhere, chewing on the image, gnawing at the fantasy. I imagine how long his body would twitch before going still, how his entrails would feel on my hands, on my tongue.

I force myself to focus. I stare at the water, the sponge, the repetitive motion of his hand as he drags it across my skin. I count the strokes—one, two, three—like a lifeline, trying to anchor

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myself, trying to keep the thought from devouring me whole. But it’s there, simmering just below the surface, refusing to let go.

Nathan moves to my back, his hand pressing firmly against my shoulder to keep me still. “Don’t ever do something like that again,” he says, his voice tight and cold, like he’s struggling to hold his temper.

I nod, quick and small, my head dipping just enough to appease him. But my mind is still elsewhere, still gnawing on the idea of him torn apart, reduced to something raw and bloody and powerless; to just meat.

The bathwater is murky now, darker than it should be, the faint scent of blood still clinging to the air despite the soap. Nathan pauses, his hand still for a moment, and I glance up to see him inspecting a streak of blood on his wrist, his face twisting in faint disgust.

I look away quickly, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. When he stands and mutters something about getting a towel, I wait until the door creaks open. As soon as he’s gone, I lower my head beneath the surface of the water.

The warmth envelopes me, muffling the world, and I open my mouth. The bloody bathwater rushes in, thick and metallic, sliding down my throat in heavy gulps. It tastes like the rat, like dirt and iron and something faintly bitter, and I swallow it all, letting it fill me.

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A few dayslater I’m in pain. It is relentless, radiating through my body like a warning, like punishment. It’s no longer something I can ignore or compartmentalize. It’s raw, loud, pressing into every nerve, and I’m folded up in the Pink Room, knees drawn tight to my chest, the frilled hem of my dress soaked with sweat. My stomach twists in cruel waves, each one worse than the last, and it feels as though something is alive inside me, something angry, something foreign. Something other than the fetus. I start to writhe on the bed as I claw at my face, my neck, my arms, leaving deep bloody scratch marks on my body.

When the screams tear out of me, it feels like surrender. It’s not intentional; it’s ripped from me, sharp and animal, cutting through the oppressive stillness of the room. The sound of my scream slices through it, clean and bright, and then the door bursts open.

Master Nathan stands there, backlit, his silhouette stark and menacing. His face is tight, etched with frustration, his eyes narrowing as he takes me in. “What is it?” he snaps, crossing the room in two quick strides. “What’s wrong now, girl?”

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