Page 18

The punishment was absence. A week of silence that thickened and swelled, folding itself into the corners of the house like mold. It pressed against my skin, filled my lungs, and became a kind of second body I had to wear. The quiet wasn’t still—it groaned and hissed, the house shifting in the cold, the hum of the fridge swelling to a roar in the void. At first, I measured time, trying to carve it into something I could hold. But by the third day, it unraveled, the hours dissolving into a fog where everything stretched and snapped. Time became a creature with no edges, coiling into itself.

When I hear the front door open, it is a knife cutting through the haze. Relief comes first, hot and sick, swelling in my chest until it spills out as tears. I hate myself for it, for the pathetic tremor of gratitude that blooms like rot. Gratitude for the man who had left me here, who had let the silence sink its claws into me. But my body didn’t care about principle. It cared about survival. It wanted food, water, warmth—something, anything, other than the monstrous nothingness of waiting.

MIA BALLARD 120

He had left me a bowl of water, and it kept me alive. I rationed it in small sips, imagining it lasting forever, but by the fourth day, it

SHY GIRL 121

was gone, the metal bowl dry except for the bitter tang of its residue. My throat burned, raw and hollow, my tongue thick and useless. I swallowed air like it might soothe the ache.

By the second day, I pissed myself. The shame was distant, a faint sting compared to the gnawing hunger. The cage reeked, the sour stench clinging to my skin. It didn’t matter anymore. My body was a machine failing piece by piece, hoarding every ounce of energy. I hadn’t defecated once. There was nothing left to lose.

By the fourth day, I broke. The dog food sat there, congealed into a rancid, gelatinous heap. At first, the sight of it made me gag, but hunger sharpened me into something unrecognizable. When I finally lowered my head to the bowl, it wasn’t a decision—it was instinct. The taste was metallic and foul, like swallowing rot, but I forced it down, one bite at a time. Each swallow carved me into something less human, but it gave me another hour, another breath.

By the fifth day, I wasn’t a person anymore.

Nathan’s footsteps echo closer, and my heart stutters, caught between relief and dread. I press myself to the bars, weak and trembling, my breath shallow, uneven. The door creaks open, and there he is, his presence swallowing the room whole. He looks the same, untouched by the time that has dismantled me.

Tears streak my face before I can stop them. My chest heaves with the awful realization: He’s back. He’s back.

Nathan doesn’t acknowledge my tears. He opens the cage and pulls me out with a grip that is firm but not cruel. The leash clicks onto my collar, the sound too loud, too final. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t speak, and I don’t dare break the silence. The questions sit like stones in my throat, heavy and jagged: Where is Cupcake? What did you do to her?

But I already know. He killed her. Of course, he did.

MIA BALLARD 122

As if reading my thoughts, Nathan glances down. His voice is flat, detached. “Took her to a hospital,”

he says, the words landing with a hollow thud. “She’s fine.”

I don’t believe him. The weightless way he says it, the way his eyes don’t quite meet mine—it doesn’t match the violence I know that lives inside of him. But I stay silent. There’s no space for questions, and even if there was, my voice is not something I can use.

I stop crawling for a moment, lost in the spiral of thoughts, and the leash snaps taut. He tugs sharply, a reminder that my body is no longer mine. My knees scrape against the floor as I follow, the rhythm automatic, the submission reflexive.

He leads me to the bathroom, where the air is thick and warm, the tiles slick with condensation. Steam rises from the tub as he turns on the faucet, testing the water with his hand. He adds soap to the water and it smells of lavender, a detail so small but it reminds me of my old life back home and it makes me want to scream.

I wait, knees pressed to the cold floor, the silence wrapping itself around us like a noose.

He stands over it, turning the faucet, his hand dipping into the water like a sculptor testing clay.

“Get in,”

he says, his voice flat, the edges clipped clean.

The water looks too still, too perfect, like it’s waiting to pull me under. I step in. The heat bites first, sharp and invasive, a punishment in itself. I flinch, gasping, but lower myself further, the water softening into something kind. It wraps around me, melting the grime from my skin, clouds of dirt swirling in delicate patterns. For a fleeting moment, I feel human, weightless in the warmth.

Nathan watches without speaking, his presence filling the room. Then he moves. He doesn’t undress fully—just strips to his boxers—and the sight of him climbing into the tub makes my

SHY GIRL 123

stomach turn, though I don’t fully understand why. My hands grip the rim of the tub as he kneels, picking up a sponge.

He begins scrubbing me, his motions steady, detached. It’s not rough, but there’s no tenderness, no connection—just the mechanical efficiency of a man washing his car, inspecting every inch for flaws. His focus is singular, starting with my arms, working down my back. When he reaches my hair, his fingers comb through the tangles with a care that feels almost out of place. The warm water cascades over my scalp, and for a moment, I let myself drift. I imagine this is normal, a scene pulled from someone else’s life, something gentle. He’s my boyfriend, and this is love, a quiet intimacy shared in the steam.

But the silence is loud, and his presence is a weight I can’t escape.

His hands move lower, between my legs. The rhythm doesn’t change—still detached, still efficient—but his eyes meet mine for the first time. They are cold, sharp as glass, and the contact slices through me. “I’m not happy you spoke,”

he says, his voice low and flat, like a stone thrown into still water.

The words hit harder than his hands ever could, and my chest tightens. My gaze locks on his, frozen, my lips pressed shut as though any sound might shatter me completely. He waits, his eyes daring me to respond, but I know better than to speak. “Didn’t you learn from last time?”

His tone sharpens, each syllable a whip.

I nod, my entire body rigid under his touch. The water, once soothing, now feels like a weight pressing me down, the heat stifling, choking. I drop my gaze to the ripples on the surface, watching them distort the reflection of his hands, trying to anchor myself in their rhythm, trying not to shatter.

The sponge slips from his grip, the sound of it hitting the water breaking the silence. He doesn’t move to pick it up. Instead, the quiet stretches between us, thick and unbearable, the tension clinging to my skin.

MIA BALLARD 124

I stay still, submerged, waiting. The water laps at my body, the warmth now a mockery of comfort. At least, for now, I’m clean. At least, for now, I’m still here.

SHY GIRL 125

The weeks fold into one another, edges blurred, indistinct, their weight pressing down on me in a continuous, seamless stretch of time. I no longer track the days. Light seeps through the windows, pools on the floor, fades to darkness, and returns again, but its rhythm is meaningless. Time is no longer mine. It belongs to Nathan—his commands, his footsteps, the soft click of the leash, the intervals between his movements. Even when he’s not in the room, his presence fills it, heavy and pervasive, as though the air itself carries him.

The dog food comes thick and pungent, spooned into the same dull metal bowl that turns my stomach before it touches my lips. I tell myself I won’t eat it again. Each refusal feels like a small victory until the hunger sharpens, hollowing me out, its edges gnawing at my resolve.

Once, he tossed me a dog biscuit, his lips curving into a faint, amused smile as it clattered to the floor. Another time, a piece of steak fell from his plate—accident or intention, I couldn’t tell. He gestured with lazy authority, his voice soft and mocking.

“Go ahead, girl,”

he said. “You’ve earned it.”

I hesitated, caught in the web of his tone, scanning for traps in the way his eyes followed me. When he nodded, I crawled forward, lowered my head, and picked up the steak with my teeth. I ate it quickly, the salt and fat almost unbearable, a bitter reminder of every meal I’ve ever turned down, when I had the luxury of saying no.

The cage is always cold, the thin mat beneath me offering no protection from the chill of the bars. I curl into myself, knees to my chest, arms wrapped tightly around my body, but the cold seeps

MIA BALLARD 126

in, steady and relentless. My back aches from the hours spent hunched, my knees burn, and my wrists throb. Every part of me is a reminder of how much space I’ve lost, how my body has been reshaped by confinement.

Sleep comes in shards, shallow and restless. The overhead light drills into my skull, unrelenting, and the muffled sounds of Nathan’s movement in the house pierce the thin veil of rest. Each creak of the floorboards sends a jolt through me, snapping me awake. Even when I drift off, my dreams fracture under the weight of this reality—cages, collars, Nathan’s face looming in the periphery, always watching.

I haven’t spoken since the morning I met Cupcake, since my voice betrayed me. I wanted to ask: Why are you doing this to me? What do you want? Why can’t you let me go? I still think that, sometimes—think that if I could just talk to him, reason with him, I might find some crack in his resolve, some humanity buried deep inside.

But I know better. His punishments are too cold, too exact. The rules are etched into the walls of my mind: speak, and you will suffer.

So I focus on survival, on the small rituals that make me feel human. I drink from the water bowl he leaves, the taste metallic but necessary. I follow his commands—sit, stay, beg—and lower my head when he strokes my hair, the motions automatic. I crawl when he calls, bark when he demands. The sound of my voice turned animal feels foreign in my mouth, yet it passes my lips with practiced ease.

Sex is frequent. Even when I’m dizzy, exhausted, barely able to keep myself upright, he takes what he wants. My body cracks under his weight, my joints groaning in protest, my muscles screaming for relief. Sometimes I pass out mid-act, my consciousness

SHY GIRL 127

retreating to a safer place. When I whimper, it’s no longer feigned; the sounds of distress slip out, raw and uncontrollable. Either he notices, or he doesn’t care. My guess is the latter; he does not care.

I try to create order from the chaos, dividing my days into fragments: this is morning light, this is evening light, this is his dinner hour, this is his resting hour. But even that slips away. Time bends and warps, its edges frayed. The days stretch, and the nights swallow them whole.

I survive, though. I endure the cold, the hunger, the exhaustion. I tell myself this can’t last forever, that something will break before I do. But when the thought creeps in—that this might not end, that I might stay here, in this cage, in this life, until I disappear completely—the spiral begins.

I bite down on the panic, hard, and anchor myself to the small, mechanical acts that keep me sane: breathe in for four, hold for four, breathe out for four. Repeat.