Page 55 of Shy Girl

The thing lying on the blood-soaked floor is small but malformed, its body pale and hairless, its limbs too long and spindly, ending in tiny, clawed paws. The head is canine, unmistakably so—its snout too pronounced, its mouth hanging open to reveal sharp, needle-like teeth. The skin is thin, almost translucent, veins spidering beneath its surface. Its closed eyelids bulge, too large for its head.

I’m too tired to care. I collapse onto my side, shaking, my body spent, my mind teetering on the edge of consciousness. My breaths are shallow, uneven, but they keep coming, each one a small defiance.

It’s there in front of me, surrounded by blood and tissue, a grotesque, fibrous thing that doesn’t look human, but still carries the weight of what it is. What it was. I can’t look away.

The room is silent now, save for my labored breaths and the faint, distant hum of the house. Master Nathan isn’t home. I’ve done this alone. For the first time in years, I feel something like triumph, tangled and bloody, raw and unrecognizable.

The blood doesn’t stop. It seeps from me in steady streams, soaking into the rug, pooling around my legs. My nightgown clings to me, ruined, sticky and damp. The smell of blood and vomit is thick in the air, pressing down on me, making me gag as I try to sit up, to orient myself.

I close my eyes, my head heavy, my body trembling with exhaustion. The pain is still there, dull and insistent, but the worst of it is over. For the first time in months, I feel like I’ve won, even as I lie here in the wreckage of my body, the weight of what I’ve done pressing down on me.

His fetus is gone.

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When Master Nathanfinally comes back home and opens the door to the Pink Room, his face goes slack. It’s a rare, unguarded expression, stripped of calculation or control. Fear, confusion, disgust—they all collide, layering his features like a smudge he can’t wipe away. He doesn’t step inside. He stays framed in the doorway, his knuckles white around the doorknob, as if anchoring himself to the only clean thing in reach.

The room is a crime scene. Blood streaks the floor in erratic, looping patterns, smears climbing the walls like something feral was let loose. I had taken great pleasure in smearing every surface with my blood, knowing he is the one who must clean it up. Vomit mixed with blood pools by the bed, its acidic stench mingling with an iron tang, the air so thick with it that even I feel dizzy. The pink of the room is almost gone, swallowed by red.

“What...” His voice is a rasp, barely audible. “What the fuck happened?”

He doesn’t move. His eyes dart around the room, frantic, searching for something solid to hold onto, but there’s nothing.

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This is my masterpiece, and I’ve taken care to leave no corner untouched.

I’m on the floor, crouched in the middle of the mess, my hands sticky and stained, my dress clinging to me in wet patches. I crawl toward him, slow and menacing, the sound of my knees dragging through the blood making him flinch. His body stiffens, and I see it—the hesitation, the tremor in his hands. It’s in his eyes too, the way they dart back to the hallway, weighing his escape.

I smile, letting it stretch wide across my face, my teeth streaked red. “Woof,” I say, low and steady, my voice dragging the word out, daring him to come closer.

“No,” he snaps, finally stepping into the room. The movement feels forced, like he’s trying to prove something—to himself or to me, I can’t tell. “No, tell me what happened. Right fucking now.”

I tilt my head, slow and exaggerated, mocking the same gesture he’s drilled into me for years. The corner of my mouth twitches, my smile edging toward something feral, and I repeat, “Woof.”

His face twists, the fear bleeding into fury, and he strides toward me. The slap comes fast, his hand cracking against my cheek, sending my head snapping to the side. Pain blooms, bright and hot, but I don’t flinch. I turn back to him, slow and deliberate, my cheek hot with sting, and I smile again.

“Speak!” he shouts, his voice splintering under the weight of his anger. “Speak right fucking now! This isn’t funny, Gia!”

I freeze. It feels like a knife slipped between my ribs, sharp and foreign, the sound of it cutting through me.Gia.It’s beenso long since I’ve heard it that it takes a moment to register. It doesn’t belong to me anymore, not really.

I blink slowly, tilting my head again, and then I crawl to the bed. My movements are slow, the blood-soaked floor slick beneath my hands. His eyes track me, wary and wide, his breath shallow as I

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reach under the bed. My fingers close around it—the bloody mass I’d hidden there hours ago, waiting for this moment.

When I pull it out, the weight of it feels solid, grotesque in my hands. The blood drips down my arms, thick and viscous, pooling at my elbows before splattering onto the floor. I hold it up, letting him see it in all its horror—the shape of it barely human, its limbs twisted and malformed, its head wrong, more snout than face.

His reaction is instant. He stumbles backward, his eyes bulging, his hand flying to his mouth as if to keep from retching. “Is that...” His voice is a whisper, trembling. “Is that supposed to be a baby?”

I nod, slow and steady, holding his gaze. The blood seeps into the carpet, the dark stains spreading outward like ink. He’s staring at the thing in my hands, his chest heaving, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts.

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