Page 56 of Shy Girl

And then, without breaking eye contact, I lower the mass to my mouth. My teeth sink into its gelatinous flesh, the texture soft and wet, the taste metallic and overwhelming. Blood gushes into my mouth, warm and salty, running down my chin in thick streams.

I chew it slowly, savor the delicious morsel.

Nathan pales, his face turning a sickly shade of white. His body jerks as if he’s been struck, his feet stumbling backward until he hits the doorframe. “What the fuck,” he chokes, his voice barely audible. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

I stare at him unblinking, letting the blood drip down onto my dress, my hands, and the floor. I swallow, the taste lingering on my tongue, and I tilt my head at him one last time, baringmy bloodied teeth in a grin. “Woof,” I say softly, and the sound sends him running.

THIRTY-TWO

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The next morning,the door swings open with a sharp crack, and Nathan steps in like he’s holding the room itself accountable. His face is slack, exhausted, with shadows sinking into the hollows of his eyes and the sharpness of his jaw. He looks like he hasn’t slept, the stubble on his face darker than I’ve ever seen it, and his movements are sharp, staccato, like he doesn’t trust himself to stay still.

I’m on all fours on the bed, the blood-stiff nightgown clinging to my skin, the fabric rustling faintly as I shift my weight. My stomach is full—heavy and satisfied. I’d finished the fetus hours ago, and the taste still lingers at the edges of my memory, warm and metallic, giving me energy, giving me strength.

He stops in the doorway, his gaze flicking over me, scanning the room as if he’s trying to take inventory. His face twists in something I can’t name—anger or exhaustion, maybe disgust. But there’s hesitation, too. A crack in the façade that makes my chest tighten.

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“Stand up,” he says, his voice low but sharp, cutting through the heavy air.

I tilt my head, confused.Stand up?

“Stand up,” he repeats, louder now, the edge of his patience showing.

I stay frozen, my hands sinking into the mattress, my body stiff. The words don’t make sense. My body doesn’t know how to answer them. Then I notice what he’s holding—my clothes. The ones I came here in. A black T-shirt and yoga pants, balled up in his hands.

My chest tightens. Is this it? Is this the end? Did I finally push him too far?

The clothes land on the bed with a dull thud, the bundle unraveling slightly to reveal the worn fabric. “Dress,” he says, his voice flat, almost bored. “Meet me out there in five minutes.”

Then he’s gone, the door shutting softly behind him, not with the force of his entrance but with the finality of an afterthought. I sit there, staring at the pile of clothes. The black fabric is dull with age, worn thin in places. It looks too normal, too clean, too real.

My thoughts spiral in endless loops. Is this a trick? A test? Or is he finally done with me?

I take a deep breath, the air heavy in my lungs, and shift my weight slowly, pulling my knees out from under me. My legs crack as I straighten them, my body swaying slightly as I stand upright for the first time in years. The floor feels unsteady beneath me, foreign, like I’ve landed on a planet where gravity works differently.

I peel the nightgown off, the bloodstained fabric stiff and clinging as I pull it over my head. The cold air bites at my skin,and I shiver, the movement awkward and unsteady. I reach for the T-shirt, pulling it over my head. The fabric smells faintly of something old and clean, a scent that doesn’t belong here. It hangs loose over my frame, slipping over my hipbones, which jut sharply

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beneath the waistband of the yoga pants as I pull them on. They sag, too big now for my tiny frame.

I take a step toward the door, my legs trembling, my knees threatening to buckle with the effort. My feet feel too light against the floor, like they’ve forgotten how to press firmly into it. Another step. And another. My balance wavers, each movement unfamiliar, unsteady, the floor tilting slightly with every shift of weight.

The doorknob is cold in my hand, and I press my palm against it, grounding myself before twisting it open. The hallway beyond is dim, the shadows stretching long and narrow. Each step echoes softly, the sound foreign to my ears after years of crawling.

When I get to the living room, he’s leaning against the counter, hands shoved deep in his pockets all casual, like he’s just another man in his kitchen. But it’s all wrong—his posture too still, his eyes too flat. There’s nothing to grab onto in his face, no way to read the silence he’s wrapped himself in. And that silence feels heavier than any of his tantrums, louder than his fists.

My eyes flick to the counter behind him, and that’s when I see it. My purse. My jacket. My shoes. They’re piled there like trash he’s been meaning to throw out, the leather worn, the fabric dulled. But they’re mine. My life from seven years ago sits right there, inert, untouched, like it’s been waiting for me to come back to it.

Something sharp and mean blooms in my chest. I swallow it down.

“Woof?” The sound slips out before I can stop it, instinctive, ridiculous. It feels too small for this moment, a sound that belongs to someone else.

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