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When Master Nathan isn’t looking, I eat things I shouldn’t. It’s ritual now—a secret rebellion that’s more desperation than defiance. Each forbidden bite is an offering to the impossible, to the hope that I can rid myself of the thing growing inside me. A thumbtack, small and cold against my tongue, its point pressing sharply before I swallowed it down in one agonizing gulp. An injured fly, its weak, buzzing body crushed between my teeth, wings dissolving into pulp. Anything, everything that might disrupt the fragile life forming inside me.

But the pregnancy hasn’t stopped. Even the worms hadn’t stopped it. I waited, patient and hopeful, for the sharp relief of a miscarriage, but nothing came. It’s been months since the parasites, and still, I feel it inside me—a stubborn, silent growth. Most mornings, I throw up, bile rising hot and acidic in my throat. Master Nathan doesn’t connect it to pregnancy, just treats it like another nuisance he doesn’t want to deal with. My stomach isn’t flat anymore; the slight swell is a warning, a countdown. I can’t let it get further. I can’t let myself start showing.

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One evening, Master Nathan is drunk again. His steps are slow and heavy, his words slurred as he stumbles through the kitchen, a bottle hanging limply from his hand. He drops a glass, the sharp sound of shattering cutting through the air. “Damn it,”

he mutters, crouching down unsteadily to collect the larger shards. His movements are clumsy, indifferent. He doesn’t notice the smaller fragments, the ones too fine to see unless you’re looking.

I am always looking.

The shards catch the dim light, tiny edges glittering like stars against the floor. My pulse quickens. I crawl closer, careful, slowly. He’s still at the counter, his back to me, muttering something about work, about money. His tone is distracted, detached, a rare crack in his vigilance.

My hand darts out quick, scooping up a small shard. It’s cool in my fingers, the edge biting into my skin as I clutch it tightly. I glance at him again—still turned away, still muttering to himself. I bring the shard to my mouth.

The first bite is electric. The glass slices into my tongue, sharp and unforgiving, the metallic taste of blood blooming immediately. I chew slowly, carefully, each crunch vibrating through my jaw. The pain is bright, searing, but I welcome it. The glass grinds into smaller pieces, each swallow a calculated agony. It scrapes my throat raw, leaving behind tiny cuts, but I force it down. This pain is a gift, a sacrifice for a greater goal.

The rat comes back to me in flashes—the wild frenzy of its death, the hot burst of blood, the crack of tiny bones between my teeth. It wasn’t just sustenance; it was power, raw and visceral. I need that again. I need to destroy something wild, to feel its life slip away in my hands. I crave the rush of it, the primal satisfaction of devouring.

But the sickness has become my constant companion. The nausea twists through me in relentless waves, but even that isn’t

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enough. Nothing I’ve done has been enough. The fetus remains, defiant and unwelcome, and my time is slipping away. The slight swell of my belly feels like a clock ticking down, each passing moment narrowing my chances.

I wait for the next shard, the next rat, the next moment where I can claw back even a sliver of control. The taste of blood lingers on my tongue, metallic and bitter, and I swallow hard, letting it settle deep in my stomach. For now, it’s the only thing that feels real.