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Master Nathan is not happy with me. The bathroom feels smaller with his anger in it, his displeasure radiating in tight, controlled waves. He grips my arm harder than he needs to, yanking me toward the tub like he’s pulling a piece of furniture. The faucet hisses, spitting out steam, the heat fogging the mirror and blurring my reflection into something abstract.

“Get in,”

he says, his voice sharp enough to cut, and I lower myself into the water without hesitation. It’s scalding, biting at my skin, but I don’t flinch. The warmth loosens the dried blood, letting it slough off in thin, diluted ribbons. The water turns pink almost immediately, swirling around me like some macabre watercolor.

He doesn’t waste time. He grabs the sponge, the cheap, stiff kind that scratches more than it cleans, and starts scrubbing. “What is wrong with you?”

he mutters, the words low and clipped, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “Bad girl. Bad.”

I don’t respond. He scrubs harder, the sponge rough against my arm, and I watch the pink water deepen into red, slowly blooming outward.

“Do you have any idea what kind of disease you can catch?”

he growls, his nose wrinkling as he works at a particularly stubborn patch of dried blood.

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The irony is almost funny. Diseases are exactly what I wanted. I hoped for them, begged for them, something invisible and insidious to rid me of the thing inside me. But I keep that to myself. I just watch the water, the way the blood moves in soft, hypnotic spirals before disappearing into the murk.

His disgust is palpable. He doesn’t look at me—just at the mess, the streaks of dried blood and dirt he’s trying to erase, as if scrubbing me clean will fix whatever he thinks is broken. His lips press into a thin, pale line, and his grip on the sponge tightens. And then, out of nowhere, the thought comes, sharp and electric, cutting through the monotonous rhythm of water and sponge.

I want to rip him open.

The idea is immediate, visceral, so vivid it makes my teeth ache. I imagine leaning forward, sinking my teeth into his arm, tearing into his flesh the way I tore into the rat. The image blooms in my mind like a sickness: blood pooling in thick, rich streams, spilling over my lips, warm and metallic. His skin splitting cleanly beneath my teeth, the soft give of muscle, the crunch of tendon.

It’s overwhelming. The thought loops, spiraling tighter and tighter until it’s all I can think about. I imagine his chest cracked open like a carcass, ribs splayed like a cage, his heart faintly beating before I bite into it. It would be heavier than the rat, meatier, the taste richer, more satisfying. Would his blood taste the same or more bitter because he is evil? The warmth of the idea spreads through me, grounding me, a thrill I haven’t felt in years.

He’s still talking, but I don’t hear him. My mind is elsewhere, chewing on the image, gnawing at the fantasy. I imagine how long his body would twitch before going still, how his entrails would feel on my hands, on my tongue.

I force myself to focus. I stare at the water, the sponge, the repetitive motion of his hand as he drags it across my skin. I count the strokes—one, two, three—like a lifeline, trying to anchor

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myself, trying to keep the thought from devouring me whole. But it’s there, simmering just below the surface, refusing to let go.

Nathan moves to my back, his hand pressing firmly against my shoulder to keep me still. “Don’t ever do something like that again,”

he says, his voice tight and cold, like he’s struggling to hold his temper.

I nod, quick and small, my head dipping just enough to appease him. But my mind is still elsewhere, still gnawing on the idea of him torn apart, reduced to something raw and bloody and powerless; to just meat.

The bathwater is murky now, darker than it should be, the faint scent of blood still clinging to the air despite the soap. Nathan pauses, his hand still for a moment, and I glance up to see him inspecting a streak of blood on his wrist, his face twisting in faint disgust.

I look away quickly, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. When he stands and mutters something about getting a towel, I wait until the door creaks open. As soon as he’s gone, I lower my head beneath the surface of the water.

The warmth envelopes me, muffling the world, and I open my mouth. The bloody bathwater rushes in, thick and metallic, sliding down my throat in heavy gulps. It tastes like the rat, like dirt and iron and something faintly bitter, and I swallow it all, letting it fill me.

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A few days later I’m in pain. It is relentless, radiating through my body like a warning, like punishment. It’s no longer something I can ignore or compartmentalize. It’s raw, loud, pressing into every nerve, and I’m folded up in the Pink Room, knees drawn tight to my chest, the frilled hem of my dress soaked with sweat. My stomach twists in cruel waves, each one worse than the last, and it feels as though something is alive inside me, something angry, something foreign. Something other than the fetus. I start to writhe on the bed as I claw at my face, my neck, my arms, leaving deep bloody scratch marks on my body.

When the screams tear out of me, it feels like surrender. It’s not intentional; it’s ripped from me, sharp and animal, cutting through the oppressive stillness of the room. The sound of my scream slices through it, clean and bright, and then the door bursts open.

Master Nathan stands there, backlit, his silhouette stark and menacing. His face is tight, etched with frustration, his eyes narrowing as he takes me in. “What is it?”

he snaps, crossing the room in two quick strides. “What’s wrong now, girl?”

He kneels beside me, his hands rough as they grab my face, tilting my head up so he can look at me. His grip is bruising, and I can feel the callouses on his fingers scraping against my skin. His expression changes as he examines me, his irritation curling into something sharper, darker.

“My God,”

he mutters, his voice dropping low.

I whimper, the sound involuntary, pulled from somewhere deep and raw. Words are impossible—have been for years now—but even if I could speak, I wouldn’t know what to say.

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His eyes stay locked on mine, narrowing as though he’s trying to solve a puzzle. And then his lips curl, his voice turning cold, dripping with venom. “You know what you did when you ate the rat? You stupid, stupid girl.”

Before I can bark, his hand clamps around my arm, dragging me off the bed. The floor is cool against my knees, a brief reprieve from the heat roaring through my body. My limbs feel boneless, but his grip is unrelenting. He yanks me out of the room, dragging me down the hallway, his steps heavy and purposeful. The bathroom is blindingly bright, sterile, the fluorescent light buzzing faintly as he shoves me inside.

“Stay,”

he commands, his voice sharp as he pulls open a drawer. His movements are clipped, methodical, as he pulls out a small hand mirror. Its edges are dull, scratched from years of use. He crouches in front of me, holding it up with one hand, the other gripping my chin to force me to look. “See for yourself,” he spits.

I hesitate, my hands trembling as I take the mirror from him. Slowly, I lift it, angling it toward my face. My reflection stares back at me, gaunt and pale, the shadows beneath my eyes stark against my skin. And then I see it.

Behind my eyes, thin white, almost translucent strings shift and writhe, their movements sinuous and alien. They’re alive, burrowing beneath the surface, and the sight of them sends a wave of nausea crashing over me. I scream, the mirror slipping from my fingers, clattering against the tile floor.

Nathan doesn’t flinch. “You gave yourself parasitic worms,”

he says, his voice flat, dripping with disgust. “Fucking brilliant.”

I want to claw at my eyes, to rip them out, to rid myself of the invaders crawling beneath my skin. My hands twitch with the urge, but I don’t move. I’m frozen, trapped in the horror of my own body.

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Nathan shakes his head, muttering under his breath. “Hold still,”

he barks, pulling a pair of tweezers from the counter. The metal glints under the harsh light. He doesn’t ask permission. He doesn’t warn me. He just moves, gripping my chin again, tilting my head back as he brings the tweezers to the corner of my eye.

The first press of metal against my skin is unbearable, sharp and invasive. I flinch, but his grip tightens, his fingers digging into my jaw. “Stop moving,”

he growls. “You want these things out or not?”

I nod, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps. The tweezers slip beneath the edge of my eyelid, and the sensation is worse than pain. It’s a deep, intimate violation, a scraping against something that should never be touched. And then I feel the tug.

The scream rips out of me before I can stop it, raw and guttural, my body twisting in agony. My eye feels like it’s being plucked out, the pain searing and bright. Nathan doesn’t stop. His face is set, his focus absolute, as he pulls. The first worm emerges slowly, inch by inch, pale and glistening, writhing frantically between the metal tips.

He holds it up, inspecting it with a grimace before tossing it into the sink. The metallic clang of its body hitting the porcelain echoes in the silence. “One down,”

he mutters, his voice tight.

He goes back in. Each tug is worse than the last, the pain mounting, blood pooling in my eye socket, thick and warm as it trickles down my face. The worms keep coming, each one a grotesque reminder of my own desperation, my own stupidity.

By the time he stops, the sink is gore and horror, speckled with blood and the pale, writhing bodies of the worms. My body is trembling, my breaths shallow and uneven. Nathan tosses the tweezers onto the counter with a clatter, wiping his hands on a towel.

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“That’s the best I can do for now,”

he says, his voice flat, devoid of sympathy. “I can’t get them all. God knows how many of those things are still crawling through you.”

He pauses, his eyes scanning me like I’m a puzzle he doesn’t want to solve. “I’ll get you a dewormer.”

I nod weakly, unable to bark, unable to think. The room spins around me, the air thick with the scent of blood and disinfectant. Nathan steps back, shaking his head as though he’s disgusted with me, with the mess I’ve made of myself.

I close my eyes, the pain ebbing slightly but the horror still sharp. I can feel them inside me still, crawling, alive. The worms. The fetus. Both of them, consuming me from the inside out. My vision swims, the world around me blurring into smudges of pink and white and red.