Page 53 of Shy Girl

He kneels beside me, his hands rough as they grab my face, tilting my head up so he can look at me. His grip is bruising, and I can feel the callouses on his fingers scraping against my skin. His expression changes as he examines me, his irritation curling into something sharper, darker.

“My God,” he mutters, his voice dropping low.

I whimper, the sound involuntary, pulled from somewhere deep and raw. Words are impossible—have been for years now—but even if I could speak, I wouldn’t know what to say.

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His eyes stay locked on mine, narrowing as though he’s trying to solve a puzzle. And then his lips curl, his voice turning cold, dripping with venom. “You know what you did when you ate the rat? You stupid, stupid girl.”

Before I can bark, his hand clamps around my arm, dragging me off the bed. The floor is cool against my knees, a brief reprieve from the heat roaring through my body. My limbs feel boneless, but his grip is unrelenting. He yanks me out of the room, dragging me down the hallway, his steps heavy and purposeful. The bathroom is blindingly bright, sterile, the fluorescent light buzzing faintly as he shoves me inside.

“Stay,” he commands, his voice sharp as he pulls open a drawer. His movements are clipped, methodical, as he pulls out a small hand mirror. Its edges are dull, scratched from years of use. He crouches in front of me, holding it up with one hand, the other gripping my chin to force me to look. “See for yourself,” he spits.

I hesitate, my hands trembling as I take the mirror from him. Slowly, I lift it, angling it toward my face. My reflection stares back at me, gaunt and pale, the shadows beneath my eyes stark against my skin. And then I see it.

Behind my eyes, thin white, almost translucent strings shift and writhe, their movements sinuous and alien. They’re alive, burrowing beneath the surface, and the sight of them sends a wave of nausea crashing over me. I scream, the mirror slipping from my fingers, clattering against the tile floor.

Nathan doesn’t flinch. “You gave yourself parasitic worms,” he says, his voice flat, dripping with disgust. “Fucking brilliant.”

I want to claw at my eyes, to rip them out, to rid myself of the invaders crawling beneath my skin. My hands twitch with theurge, but I don’t move. I’m frozen, trapped in the horror of my own body.

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Nathan shakes his head, muttering under his breath. “Hold still,” he barks, pulling a pair of tweezers from the counter. The metal glints under the harsh light. He doesn’t ask permission. He doesn’t warn me. He just moves, gripping my chin again, tilting my head back as he brings the tweezers to the corner of my eye.

The first press of metal against my skin is unbearable, sharp and invasive. I flinch, but his grip tightens, his fingers digging into my jaw. “Stop moving,” he growls. “You want these things out or not?”

I nod, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps. The tweezers slip beneath the edge of my eyelid, and the sensation is worse than pain. It’s a deep, intimate violation, a scraping against something that should never be touched. And then I feel the tug.

The scream rips out of me before I can stop it, raw and guttural, my body twisting in agony. My eye feels like it’s being plucked out, the pain searing and bright. Nathan doesn’t stop. His face is set, his focus absolute, as he pulls. The first worm emerges slowly, inch by inch, pale and glistening, writhing frantically between the metal tips.

He holds it up, inspecting it with a grimace before tossing it into the sink. The metallic clang of its body hitting the porcelain echoes in the silence. “One down,” he mutters, his voice tight.

He goes back in. Each tug is worse than the last, the pain mounting, blood pooling in my eye socket, thick and warm as it trickles down my face. The worms keep coming, each one a grotesque reminder of my own desperation, my own stupidity.

By the time he stops, the sink is gore and horror, speckled with blood and the pale, writhing bodies of the worms. My bodyis trembling, my breaths shallow and uneven. Nathan tosses the tweezers onto the counter with a clatter, wiping his hands on a towel.

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“That’s the best I can do for now,” he says, his voice flat, devoid of sympathy. “I can’t get them all. God knows how many of those things are still crawling through you.” He pauses, his eyes scanning me like I’m a puzzle he doesn’t want to solve. “I’ll get you a dewormer.”

I nod weakly, unable to bark, unable to think. The room spins around me, the air thick with the scent of blood and disinfectant. Nathan steps back, shaking his head as though he’s disgusted with me, with the mess I’ve made of myself.

I close my eyes, the pain ebbing slightly but the horror still sharp. I can feel them inside me still, crawling, alive. The worms. The fetus. Both of them, consuming me from the inside out. My vision swims, the world around me blurring into smudges of pink and white and red.

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When Master Nathanisn’t looking, I eat things I shouldn’t. It’s ritual now—a secret rebellion that’s more desperation than defiance. Each forbidden bite is an offering to the impossible, to the hope that I can rid myself of the thing growing inside me. A thumbtack, small and cold against my tongue, its point pressing sharply before I swallowed it down in one agonizing gulp. An injured fly, its weak, buzzing body crushed between my teeth, wings dissolving into pulp. Anything, everything that might disrupt the fragile life forming inside me.

But the pregnancy hasn’t stopped. Even the worms hadn’t stopped it. I waited, patient and hopeful, for the sharp relief of a miscarriage, but nothing came. It’s been months since the parasites, and still, I feel it inside me—a stubborn, silent growth. Most mornings, I throw up, bile rising hot and acidic in my throat. Master Nathan doesn’t connect it to pregnancy, just treats it like another nuisance he doesn’t want to deal with. My stomach isn’t flat anymore; the slight swell is a warning, a countdown. I can’t let it get further. I can’t let myself start showing.

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