Page 54 of Shy Girl

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One evening, Master Nathan is drunk again. His steps are slow and heavy, his words slurred as he stumbles through the kitchen, a bottle hanging limply from his hand. He drops a glass, the sharp sound of shattering cutting through the air. “Damn it,” he mutters, crouching down unsteadily to collect the larger shards. His movements are clumsy, indifferent. He doesn’t notice the smaller fragments, the ones too fine to see unless you’re looking.

I am always looking.

The shards catch the dim light, tiny edges glittering like stars against the floor. My pulse quickens. I crawl closer, careful, slowly. He’s still at the counter, his back to me, muttering something about work, about money. His tone is distracted, detached, a rare crack in his vigilance.

My hand darts out quick, scooping up a small shard. It’s cool in my fingers, the edge biting into my skin as I clutch it tightly. I glance at him again—still turned away, still muttering to himself. I bring the shard to my mouth.

The first bite is electric. The glass slices into my tongue, sharp and unforgiving, the metallic taste of blood blooming immediately. I chew slowly, carefully, each crunch vibrating through my jaw. The pain is bright, searing, but I welcome it. The glass grinds into smaller pieces, each swallow a calculated agony. It scrapes my throat raw, leaving behind tiny cuts, but I force it down. This pain is a gift, a sacrifice for a greater goal.

The rat comes back to me in flashes—the wild frenzy of its death, the hot burst of blood, the crack of tiny bones between my teeth. It wasn’t just sustenance; it was power, raw and visceral. I need that again. I need to destroy something wild, to feel its life slip away in my hands. I crave the rush of it, the primal satisfaction of devouring.

But the sickness has become my constant companion. The nausea twists through me in relentless waves, but even that isn’t

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enough. Nothing I’ve done has been enough. The fetus remains, defiant and unwelcome, and my time is slipping away. The slight swell of my belly feels like a clock ticking down, each passing moment narrowing my chances.

I wait for the next shard, the next rat, the next moment where I can claw back even a sliver of control. The taste of blood lingers on my tongue, metallic and bitter, and I swallow hard, letting it settle deep in my stomach. For now, it’s the only thing that feels real.

THIRTY

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Finally, one morning,it happens like a knife slipping between my ribs. The pain starts sharp, then blooms outward, radiating through my body in waves that steal my breath. I’m lying on the bed when it hits, my pink nightgown crumpled around me, sticky against my thighs. My hands fly to my stomach, pressing against the source of the agony, as if I could hold it in, as if I could stop it.

I scream, the sound raw and guttural, ripping through the still air of the Pink Room. And then, without warning, I start laughing. It’s a manic, deep and demonic sound, tumbling out of me in bursts I can’t control. The laughter feels wrong in my throat, foreign, but it’s unstoppable. I laugh until I’m choking, until I can taste bile rising.

I reach between my legs, my fingers trembling as they search for confirmation, and when I pull them back, they’re slick with blood. Dark, wet, undeniable. I stare at it, my breath catching, my pulse hammering in my ears.This is it,I think, the realization cutting through the chaos.It worked.

The laughter fizzles out, replaced by another wave of pain that grips me, sharp and merciless. I curl into myself, clutching my stomach as the blood begins to soak through the fabric of my nightgown, staining the pastel pink a deep, violent red. It pools beneath me, spreading out like an accusation, like evidence.

And then the nausea hits. It is violent, immediate. My stomach twists hard, and I barely manage to lean over the edge of the bed before I’m vomiting blood. It spills from my mouth in heavy

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bursts, thick and dark, splattering onto the pristine rug and trailing down my chin. The taste is overwhelming, metallic and cloying, and the smell—the iron tang of blood mingled with bile—fills the room, suffocating and nauseating.

I wipe my mouth with a shaking hand, smearing blood across my face. My stomach lurches again, and I gag, spitting more blood onto the floor, watching it soak into the pink fibers of the rug. It’s everywhere now—the blood, the smell, the suffocating reality of it. My body is a battleground, my insides tearing themselves apart, but I can feel it. I can feel it happening.

Another cramp rips through me, sharper than the last, and I feel something heavy, unnatural, shifting inside me. My body knows what to do, even if I don’t. I slide off the bed onto the floor, the blood warm and sticky beneath my knees, pooling around me as I spread my legs. The instinct to push takes over, ancient and undeniable.

I glance up at the camera, its red light blinking steadily. If there’s people watching, I’ll make sure they see everything. If they think I’m boring, I’ll really give them a show; change the trajectory of their life forever.

I brace my hands against the floor, my fingers slipping in the blood, and I bear down. The pain is white-hot, blinding, carving through me in sharp, relentless waves. My breaths come in ragged gasps, my body trembling violently as I push, the weight inside me slowly shifting downward.

It feels endless, time stretching out and bending under the strain. The room blurs around me, the pink walls and white trim dissolving into a haze of color and light. My entire world narrows to the searing, tearing pressure in my abdomen, the overwhelming sensation of something being forced out of me.

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And then, with one final, desperate push and the help of my hand pulling it out, it’s over.

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