Page 22

The first time I try to escape, it’s raining. The sound is relentless, rhythmic, pressing against the boarded windows like a memory of the world outside, like the world is knocking softly, waiting for me. The rain reminds me that there is something else—something beyond the pink walls and stuffed animals with unblinking eyes.

Master Nathan’s snores rumble from the next room, uneven and thick, like a machine choking on itself. He’s been drinking himself into oblivion for weeks now, his movements slack, his grip on control slipping. Last week, he forgot to

bathe me. He forgot to even look at me. In the mornings, he shuffled me to the bathroom, leash dangling loose in his hand, his mind somewhere far away. Then he locked me back in the Pink Room without a word. The neglect wasn’t kindness; it was weakness. A crack in the foundation.

Tonight, his snoring is louder, wetter, the smell of whiskey still heavy in the air, sharp and sour. When he led me back to my room, his hands fumbled with the lock. I held my breath, listening for the deadbolt’s finality—but it didn’t come. He didn’t lock the deadbolt.

SHY GIRL 140

I sit on the rug, my hands pressed flat to my thighs, staring at the door. The leash is off. The camera blinks in the corner, its red light steady, patient, like it knows I’m always watching it back. I’ve studied its angle, memorized its blind spots—or convinced myself I have.

The snoring continues, deep and rhythmic.

I crawl to the door, my knees sinking into the softness of the rug, my movements slow. My body feels too large, too loud, every creak of my joints amplified in the stillness. When I reach the door, I stand. My legs tremble, my knees crack, the sound sharp in the quiet.

I wait. The snoring doesn’t falter.

The handle is locked. Of course, it’s locked.

I reach for the bobby pin I’ve kept hidden, tucked into the hem of my dress for weeks. My fingers shake as I work it into the lock, the metal cold and unfamiliar. My breath comes in shallow gasps, my mind whirring with failure after failure.

This has to work. This has to work.

The lock clicks open, the sound deafening in the silence. I freeze, waiting for the house to wake. But the snoring continues, and the rain drums on, steady and insistent. I exhale, shaky and uneven, and push the door open just enough to slip through.

The hallway is dark, a nightlight near Nathan’s room casting pale shadows that stretch and bend like they’re alive.

As I pass his door, I hold my breath, counting my movements in my head. One. Two. Three. The door is cracked open, a sliver of light spilling out, but I don’t look inside. I don’t need to. I can feel him there, heavy and oppressive, radiating through the walls.

The front door is ahead. The rain is louder now, closer, the sound pressing against the wood like it’s trying to get in. My fingers graze

MIA BALLARD 141

the frame as I reach for the lock. My entire body trembles, every nerve screaming for me to move faster, quieter, to go.

Then the snoring stops.

The silence crashes down, thick and immediate. My breath catches in my throat, and I freeze, my mind a static hum. I wait for footsteps, for the creak of his door, for the end.

Nothing. Then, faintly, the bed creaks, and the snoring resumes—jagged at first, then falling back into its uneven rhythm.

I let out a silent breath, my hands shaking so hard they slip from the handle. My knees ache, my muscles burn, but I force myself to stay still. My mind spins through the possibilities—the failures. The door will make noise. A rush of air, the hinges groaning, a sound loud enough to pull him from sleep.

But then I see it.

The back door.

It’s ajar, just slightly, a gap so small it’s almost undetectable. My breath catches as I crawl toward it, my body moving without thought. I push it wider, the air rushing in cool and sharp against my skin, carrying the scent of rain and earth.

I step outside.

The grass is slick under my bare feet, the mud pulling at me as if to slow me down, but I move. The rain clings to me, soaks through my nightdress, my hair plastered to my face. The air is too big, too alive, and it steals my breath, my freedom too heavy to hold.

I run.

I don’t know where I’m going. The forest stretches out, endless and dark, but it doesn’t matter. As long as I’m not in that house, it doesn’t matter. The sound of the rain swallows everything, until it doesn’t.

A yell cuts through the night, sharp and guttural, followed by a gunshot that splits the air like a wound.

SHY GIRL 142

I freeze. The sound echoes in my head, reverberating through my body. My legs give out, and I collapse into the mud. The rain pours

down in relentless sheets, mixing with the tears streaming down my face, carving rivers into the earth. I tilt my head back, staring at the sky. The rain blurs the world—trees, ground, the faint silhouette of Nathan in the distance, shotgun in hand.

For a moment, I let myself feel it. The air on my skin. The open sky. The freedom I know I’ll never have again. These are my last minutes of being alive, and I hold onto them, tight, even as they slip through my fingers.

YEAR THREE