Degraded Hannah

! This is Part 2!

! Every single character is over 18!

Part 2

Morning of Day 5

The night after the incident at the shopping mall was awful. Hannah cursed herself for ever daring to disobey her parents. She cried, but tears had become normal and had long since stopped working on her once-compassionate parents. It was now 8:15 AM. Hannah lay naked on a bare mattress. During the day, it was almost as hot as it had been last summer, but the nights were still cool. It was perfect weather for hanging out in the evening, but now those words were just salt on an open wound. She lay on her left side, pulling her heels toward her butt. She had woken up at 6:00, as always. Today she was supposed to have four physics lectures and an inorganic chemistry lab. Hannah didn't want to go to college. Yesterday she hadn't even been able to wash up, as her body had dried off from the fountain water on the drive home. The dirt on her toes was still there from yesterday's adventures. Her hair no longer looked rebellious and fresh, looking more like a stray dog's coat. And she likely smelled to match.

Hannah wouldn't be able to look her friends in the eye after yesterday. She was afraid she would attack them with her fists, but even more than that, she was afraid she wouldn't actually dare to. She felt the inner core inside her snap. She would no longer be able to brazenly steal flip-flops from the gym, nor ride the bus barefoot. She wasn't even sure if she was capable of talking, having not opened her mouth since that scene in the car. Her stomach churned as she desperately wanted to drink and eat, having had nothing for a full 24 hours. Why was she lying in bed instead of going to college or at least heading to the kitchen? She was afraid of her parents. It was entirely unclear what they would do with her now. Hannah didn't rule out the possibility that they would send her straight to college just like this, or, if she resisted, with her butt red from spankings. She imagined standing among her former friends. She imagined mixing reagents in a teacher's lab coat over her bare body. It would be the first, and perhaps only, piece of clothing she would be allowed to throw over her trembling frame since yesterday.

Hannah lay motionless for two hours. Her eyes were fixed on the pleasant day outside the window as the sun shone on her bare body, gently warming it. Her ears picked up every sound in the house. There were her parents making breakfast, there they were discussing something, and there they were laughing out loud. Hannah suddenly caught herself thinking that she hadn't heard her parents laugh or seen their genuine smiles in a long time, and at that thought, she pressed her knees even tighter to her chest. Then Mr. Jenkins started the car, while Mrs. Jenkins seemed to turn on the TV. "Mom would have woken me up long ago if I had to go to college. Or at least knocked on the door. But they haven't even come up to the second floor. Maybe they decided to take pity on me?" Hannah thought. This internal monologue had been spinning in her head for two hours. It was worse than torture. She couldn't sleep, couldn't move, and all that was left for her to do was think. Think, remember, analyze. At least she hadn't been deprived of that capacity yet.

Then, as if to spite her, the first footsteps of the day sounded on the stairs. Mr. Jenkins hadn't come back inside yet, so it was likely her mother. "Maybe she forgot something?" Hannah prayed to herself. The uncertainty was exhausting, but she feared what her mother was about to say even more. The last steps were climbed, and the footsteps drew closer and closer to Hannah's door. Hannah raised her head and listened. She didn't try to cover up, mostly because there was nothing left to cover up with. All of her female features were exposed toward the door: her eyes, her nipples, which had turned betrayingly hard at the wrong time, her hair below, and her toes. Hannah sat up on her knees. For some reason, she felt there was less chance of getting in trouble that way. She tried to remain calm, but it was important not to overdo it or come across as self-assured.

Her mother pushed the bedroom door open. Hannah didn't dare look her in the eye and sat quietly on her knees, her palms resting on the mattress and her arms straight down her sides. Behind her, her big toes were fidgeting much like thumb-twiddling when nervous. But the girl worried for nothing. Hannah's mother was in a fantastic mood. Perhaps because it was Friday, perhaps because the cautious choice of posture worked, or perhaps because she had vented yesterday what she had been bottling up for so long. It didn't matter. It was a good sign. "Oh, you're awake?" her mother called out. Her voice was cheerful, though without the exaggerated tone of previous days. Even though Hannah couldn't look her in the face, she could sense a subtle, barely perceptible smile and an overall brightness.

--"Well, don't bother answering. Anyway, your father and I are going to pick up Radcliffe now. Your grandmother agreed, so we'll have an addition to the family."

Hannah met the news with indifference, still looking away from her mother.

--"As for your college..." Hannah's heart sank into her boots.

--"... You won't be able to go there for now, for obvious reasons." Saying this, her mother pointed at Hannah's chest.

--"We don't want any trouble for ourselves, do we? And you clearly wouldn't enjoy it anyway. Though... who knows. But that doesn't mean you'll be slacking off all day. Work, work, daughter, work. Eat what we left on the table for you and clean it up afterwards. You'll find the rest of your instructions on top of the fridge, like the last time. We didn't waste any time, as your father set up an outdoor shower in the yard yesterday so you can wash whenever you want. Oh, one more thing! Because of your terrible behavior, you are temporarily banned from using the house. That means no eating whatever you want, no drinking inside the house, and no walking around with those feet of yours more than necessary. Drink from the yard shower, bathe in the shower, especially if you clean the floors inside, wash your hands in the shower where we left you soap, and eat only what we left out for you. And believe me, I'll know if you disobey me." In those last words, there was a chilling malice, as if Mrs. Jenkins almost hoped Hannah would disobey.

To the question "Is everything clear?", Hannah merely gave a swift nod. Her mother left, locked the door, and drove off with her husband, while Hannah remained sitting on her knees on the bed.

It's worth stepping back from the story for a moment to describe the Jenkins house. It was located in the suburbs, just a five-minute walk from the bus stop, though our barefoot girl wouldn't have made it there in ten. The neighborhood was decent. Burnt-brick houses stood opposite one another, separated only by a narrow road where a single car could barely squeeze through. Almost every house had a front lawn. People usually kept sun loungers there, but the Jenkinses traditionally kept a quirky themed sign. Once, during Halloween, Mrs. Jenkins had left a wooden board on the porch, and Mr. Jenkins, coming home from work, had added some spooky warnings for trick-or-treating kids. The tradition stuck. Right now, it read: "Every flower is a smile of spring."

The sidewalks on both sides of the street were made of rectangular concrete blocks laid end to end. The joints between them had long since grown over with moss, but it actually looked better that way. Flowerbeds lined the sides, the very ones Hannah had hopped along when she was first sent out barefoot. All the neighbors liked greenery. Over at the Cyles' house, wild ivy clung to the burnt brick, while old Mrs. Russo kept beautiful tulips in her windows. Almost everyone had a backyard as well. It was much larger and usually enclosed by a fence. Some had pools and head-high fences, while others had a more modest yard with benches, a table, a grill, and small bushes lining the perimeter. The Jenkinses outdid everyone in the neighborhood. Their yard was enclosed by mature willow trees. No fence was needed, as the willow leaves blocked the view entirely and provided shade in the hot summer.

The rest of the space was dedicated to a barbecue area with a simple grill and three or four chairs, scattered benches, and a flowerbed. In the middle, a small pond lined with small stones had been dug. Decorative lily pads floated on the surface, but the water was mostly clear, and crows and nightingales often drank from it. There was wildlife in the yard, but nobody cared to know what crawled around. The stones, ranging from fine gravel to huge boulders as tall as a person's leg, were the father's idea. He insisted it would be good for little Hannah to crawl over them. The Jenkinses' yard was spacious, and if not for the occasional glimpse of a shed where her father kept all his equipment, one might think a landscape of hills and mountains lay beyond. In reality, a bypass road ran behind it, though almost nobody used it. The Jenkinses preferred to keep the lawn slightly overgrown. Combined with the willows, it created a truly magical look, especially when the evening sun filtered through the foliage.

Sometimes Hannah's mother liked to bring a notebook outside and draw right on the grass. Her father would read books or relax on a bench with his legs stretched out. The yard was remarkably secluded. The willows absorbed all outside noise, making the space feel like a secluded room. There were nine willows in total, three on each side. A few grew into the neighbors' yards, but nobody had complained yet. Wire was strung between the willows on the left and right, and wild vines trailed down it, stopping just short of the ground. Thus, the already private yard was split into two distinct sections. The house itself was much smaller and narrower. The entryway was a small room with a bench on the right and a closet for coats and shoes on the left. Next was the living room, featuring an L-shaped sofa, a TV, and a couple of armchairs. Further along, it connected to the kitchen. There was a small pass-through window in the wall, with a bar counter and tall stools on either side.

The kitchen had everything needed: an oven, a stovetop, a coffee maker, a dishwasher, a sink, a refrigerator, a pitcher of cold lemon water, and plenty of cabinets above and below. In the middle stood a solid, heavy wooden dining table. To the right of the kitchen was the exit to the backyard, consisting of an unassuming, low set of steps with extra-wide treads. On the top step sat a coffee table and a small chair. Heading straight from the entryway brought you to the staircase. Beyond that was a narrow hallway, barely one and a half Hannahs wide. Hannah's room was at the end of the hallway, with the bathroom on the left and the Jenkinses' bedroom on the right, closer to the stairs. Their room opened onto a small balcony with two chairs. It wasn't used often, but every time they sat there, it looked like a scene from a fairy tale. The entire house was covered in beige wallpaper, except for Hannah's room, which had black wallpaper at her request. The flooring was uniform throughout in wooden parquet. It looked beautiful, but it creaked, and to the barefoot girl, it felt as hard as granite. The bathroom and kitchen floors were tiled in a black-and-white checkerboard pattern, which also extended up the wall where Mrs. Jenkins usually prepped food. This cozy little house had become Hannah's prison.

Day 5

Hannah got out of bed. She would have gladly stayed there for another eight hours, staring at the clouds in the sky. But she remembered all too well what happened to a girl who didn't do her chores. She wanted to go wash up in the bathroom, but remembered her mother's words. Real life had begun now. She tiptoed down to the living room, partly to avoid tracking dust on her soles, but also because she didn't want to make unnecessary noise, even in an empty house. Nobody was around. A pleasant smell of her mother's signature pancakes drifted from the kitchen. Hannah carefully sat down on her favorite stool. It was the first time she had sat on it naked. Even after a hot night, and even if her parents were out of town, she had always worn at least panties. But now she had none.

Her wardrobe was an empty box, as the drawers were cleared out, and the hangers hung light, stripped of her blouses and shorts. Even her old phone had somehow disappeared today. All she had left was the uncomfortable sensation of raw wood against her buttocks. She fidgeted slightly, accepted the feeling, and only then noticed the pile of dishes in the sink. "There's no way all of this was used just for pancakes!" Hannah screamed in her head. On the table were two plates and six cups, five empty and one half-full of coffee. The two plates were smeared with jams, sausage bits, and honey. Her parents liked alternating between sweet and savory pancakes, leaving the plates looking like a battlefield. The half-empty cup held cold with unfinished coffee. But Hannah couldn't find her own portion anywhere. She stood up. The black-and-white tile sent a chill through her feet. She hopped on the spot and proceeded to go back on tiptoes. Then she saw something horrifying: all the cabinets were padlocked.

The locks were identical, so her mother would have no trouble opening them after work. Even the fridge and the oven had locks on them. Hannah realized that the scraps on the table were her food. She ran upstairs, no longer caring about the dusty footprints she left behind. Her parents' room was locked, as was the wardrobe inside. Her own room had the same lock on her desk drawer. They had even taken her chair. Moreover, her bed clearly bore the marks of her bare feet, sweat, and moisture. Since there was no bedsheet, it had all soaked into the mattress. She cringed and wanted a shower even more badly. But first, she ran back down to the kitchen. She had no choice, having not eaten in over 26 hours now. She scooped up the remaining jam with her fingers and put it in her mouth, as the forks were locked away, and she felt too disgusted to use the dirty ones. The flavor was surprisingly delicious. The sausage grease and salt blended with the jam into a rich mix.

The leftover pancakes, four halves already coated in honey, went down easily with the sauce. Scraps of sausage followed. She gasped at what was essentially trash. Even so, the Jenkinses didn't usually waste much food, so the plates held only a quarter of what Hannah normally ate for breakfast without a second thought. Hunger had tortured her so much that she began licking the plates clean. Then she started licking the remnants in the sink, taking bits from the cutting board and raw batter. Never had she felt so degraded, yet never had food tasted so divine. She wanted to lie down, but remembered she was forbidden to use the house. Given the padlocks, she could easily imagine her parents finding out if she lied on the couch. Hannah carefully washed the plates. She didn't rush to turn on the tap, licking everything clean first before rinsing them under the water. Even the dishwasher was padlocked. That was how Hannah washed the dishes while satisfying her hunger.

Next was the shower: sticky hair from the fountain water, sweaty armpits, feet smelling after a day of humiliation, and drops of honey and jam on her stomach. All of it needed washing. She stepped outside, naked for the first time in the yard. But she had some experience now. She quickly hopped off the steps onto the grass. This grass wasn't like the grass along the alley. It was sharp yet soft, with a character of its own. Had Hannah started her barefoot journey here, her soles would have been covered in tiny cuts. But now hardened, she stepped through the blades with ease, plucking grass that reached between her ankles and knees. The ground beneath was still damp, but the sun was beating down in full force. She didn't worry about the neighbors. First, she had already posed naked in front of a stranger. Not that she was proud of it, but the boundary had been crossed, and nothing scared her anymore, or so she thought.

Second, the willows hid her naked body from view. Right now, some cute guy from the house on the left might be sitting on his porch, and all that blocked his view was a knee-high fence and willow leaves. But there was a rush to it! Like a ballerina, she began leaping. In mid-air, she pointed her bare toes the way she had been taught in childhood ballet classes, where she had been the best of the best. No point in moping all day, right? She ran like a rabbit in the forest, stepping beneath the branches of the willows. Inside, it felt like a dome, large and uniform. Individual leaves were hard to distinguish, appearing like a solid wall of green wallpaper. Then she lay down. The sun filtered through, but the cool shade invited her to sleep, especially since she had slept poorly. Regardless of the reason, and even though she hadn't been in proper school for a year, it felt good to run around like this instead of sitting in a stuffy classroom.

But sleeping wasn't an option. What would they take away next, her right to speak? She had to get to work. First, though, she needed to wash. The shower was easy to spot. It was a stall made of old wooden boards, lacking a roof and one wall, resembling public beach showers. There was no floor either, just trampled grass. Inside was a slot for a hose and a small ledge for soap. Wait, a hose? Just a hose? Hannah stepped back out. Sure enough, it stretched like a long snake to a tap set into the ground. Her father used it to water the yard when it was very hot. Now it was meant for washing Hannah. Sure, it was already hot outside, and the top of her head was already burning, but not enough to bathe in ice-cold water! Besides, how was she supposed to turn it on? She ran into the kitchen, then up to the second floor. Her heels now were even dirtier than before.

No, the bathroom was definitely locked. No, the lock hadn't vanished. No, no other baths had magically appeared in the house. Hannah considered going to the neighbors, but thought better of it. She found the tap and turned it on. A faint hissing sounded through the hose, and water began to flow steadily. Hannah hurried back into the stall. The water felt surprisingly pleasant, at room temperature. But the longer she stood there, the colder it got. Hannah knew it wasn't her parents' fault, but it felt like one of their petty traps. The water that had been sitting in the hose under the direct sun had warmed up, but once that spilled out onto the ground, freezing water began flowing from deep underground. Within ten seconds, Hannah felt entirely submerged in ice. She squealed, yelled, and swore. Her feet kept moving, as it was the only way to generate any heat. Her heels churned the water into the earth, creating a thick mud that coated her entire feet.

Finally gathering her thoughts, she blindly felt around for the soap. Here came the second problem: the soap was just a thin sliver left over from the bathroom. Hannah barely managed to lather her trembling hands, screaming and gasping, though the willows muffled her voice from the outside world. She washed her stomach, her armpits, and reached down for her feet, but the soap slipped from her fingers and fell straight into the mud. She didn't bother digging for it. She simply ran out of the stall. Visually, Hannah looked cleaner, though her hair still looked strange without her usual products and shampoos. She hadn't dared use the harsh soap on it anyway, and now it was gone. "I'll ask for another piece later!" Hannah thought. She could feel the light breeze against her damp skin. She hurried to turn off the tap, only to realize she was stuck. Her feet were completely covered in thick black mud. She couldn't step back into the house.

And as she ran barefoot from the shower stall to the tap on the other side of the yard, she had managed to collect grass between her toes. She paced back and forth until she realized keeping her feet clean was impossible. They looked more like horse hooves now. She walked up to the kitchen porch, leaving distinct black prints behind her. Water dripped from her head, but her hair hung like a wet rag. Without styling, it looked messy rather than fashionable. Water slowly trickled down her body. Deciding to dry off a bit, she flopped straight onto the concrete steps by the kitchen. She lay across three steps with her legs stretched out, exposing the mess to the world. How was she supposed to enter the house now? Crawl on all fours? It seemed like the only option. She carefully entered the room. Had her parents walked in right then, they would have seen a strange creature on four legs: their daughter crawling on her knees and elbows, taking care not to touch the floor with her feet.

Her soles and palms were raised upward. She reached the fridge. The tile was cold against her skin, though no longer against her feet. But the note was pinned at the very top! Hannah panicked, lost her balance, and flopped onto her right side. The dried mud turned to dust and scattered across the tile. With nothing left to lose, she stood up normally and read the note: "Start weeding the dandelions and wild greens under the willows. They are thick and dark green, unlike the lighter, thin grass. Good luck." It was a brutal task for several reasons. The lawn was thick, the weeds looked remarkably similar to the grass, and their roots ran deep, making them difficult to pull. Nine willows, with dozens of pesky plants under each one. Hannah sighed. She realized there was no getting out of it. She worked clockwise.

Willow number one. She alternated between dropping to her knees and standing back up.

It felt much better than the tile. She even maintained a bit of grace, bending down each time she spotted a weed, pulling it out with her bare hands, and carrying it to the porch so it wouldn't get lost. By the second tree, she broke her first sweat. Her wet hair kept getting in her face. Green stains appeared on her knees. Grass juice wouldn't wash off easily, but Hannah wasn't thinking about that yet. She kept walking with a bent back, finding weeds, digging them out, less actively now, and piling them near the porch. By 2:00 PM, the heat peaked. Even the dense canopy of the willows offered little relief. Under the fourth willow, Hannah stopped standing up altogether, as she was too exhausted. Sweat stung her eyes, her knees were scratched, and her hands grew numb and rough. Hannah had to move like a monkey, clutching weeds in one hand while dragging herself forward on her knees and her free hand.

She would have laughed at herself if she didn't feel so miserable. She wanted a drink, but entering the kitchen was forbidden. So she just kept weeding. By the seventh willow, the once-pleasant smell of crushed grass made her nauseous. She stopped carrying the weeds to the porch by hand, resorting to holding them in her mouth and transporting them like a dog, remaining on all fours the entire time. The heat eased slightly, but it remained relentlessly warm. By the eighth willow, her head began to spin. Regrettably, it seemed she would have to use the shower again, this time just to get a drink. She barely dragged herself to the tap, sat right down in a puddle of mud that hadn't yet soaked into the dirt, and began drinking. She cupped her hands under the ice-cold water and drank. Then she rinsed herself off and pushed her hair back.

Her heels were covered in mud again, but she had grown accustomed to the sensation, as if the earth itself were holding onto her. The eighth and ninth willows went easier than the seventh. She got so caught up in the rhythm that she began tearing out weeds with her feet, as her legs were stronger than her tired hands. Hannah used to push herself hard at the gym, but this was a completely different level of exhaustion. Covered in mud and green stains, tired and hungry, the girl pulled the last weed, clamped it in her mouth, and crawled on all fours to dump it near the kitchen. Having finished, she lay down and slept for several hours right where she fell, on the steps. She woke up to someone lightly kicking her in the ribs. She looked up. Her parents were standing over her. Her father examined the pile of weeds with interest, while her mother stood with her arms crossed in displeasure.

Hannah scrambled up and tried to stand, but her mother gestured for her to stay seated.

--"Why did you ruin my entire kitchen floor?" her mother said coldly.

--"It's... it's impossible to wash your feet in the shower, the ground there just turns to mud!" Hannah stammered, trying to explain herself. She still couldn't look the Jenkinses in the eye.

--"I don't care. I want it clean!"

--"Please, let me wash in the bathroom! I'll scrub the tile clean today!"

--"Not a chance. I don't need barefoot prints upstairs too. Well, you asked for it. It's getting hotter out anyway. Look at you, sleeping on the porch. From now on, you'll be sleeping right here, outside."

No, no, this was too much. Hannah begged her mother, bowing down at her feet, but her mother remained firm. Her father simply walked away. From inside the house came a joyful bark.

Radcliffe had arrived. The beagle was about as tall as Hannah's knee. He was old and kept his owner good company. His long brown ears covered his wrinkled face, with patches of black and light fur alternating over a white belly. Hannah had seen Radcliffe about six times in her childhood when they visited the farm where he used to run around the hills in his youth. Sometimes her grandmother took him hunting, though it was mostly just walking around with a shotgun. Her grandmother hadn't hunted game in years, nor could she see further than ten meters, but the old woman insisted she loved hunting and that Radcliffe was a great help. The dog had outlived Hannah's grandfather and served as her grandmother's companion. They used to bicker, but the next day they'd be out walking in the woods with the shotgun again. Beagles are stubborn and smart dogs, and Radcliffe was additionally experienced and old.

He recognized her parents immediately, jumping off the back seat remarkably fast for his age, running through the living room and kitchen, and finally darting into the yard. He remembered this place from when he was a pup. But lying in his path was a naked Hannah. Without a second thought, he nudged her off the steps and trotted past the willows. Hannah tumbled onto the grass, while her mother merely chuckled and locked the door behind them. Hannah stared at the rustling leaves. Now she had a roommate. But she didn't want to think about him. All she could think was: Is this a joke? It was getting colder. Her damp hair felt especially cold in the faint wind. To an ordinary person, it might have seemed like the best time for a walk, but naked Hannah wanted nothing more than to go inside. She tugged at the door. It wouldn't open. She pulled again.

The door held firm. Hannah began banging on it, but it was useless. Exhausted, the girl sat down, leaned her back against the wooden door, and wept quietly. Bitter tears had become routine, being the only thing keeping her from losing her mind amidst the absurdity. Radcliffe, meanwhile, couldn't have been happier, running back and forth while rustling through the drooping branches. Hannah, now annoyed, walked over to the dog, who was wagging his tail and practically climbing up a tree trunk. It infuriated her that someone could be so happy while she was suffering. "Sit! Sit! Come on! Sit, I said! You're our dog, listen to me!" Hannah lost her temper, her tear-filled eyes glaring at the beagle while her hands trembled with anger. It was the first time all week she could yell at anyone.

The beagle stared back foolishly, then stuck his tongue out again and trotted toward the pond, knocking Hannah off her feet in the process. Truth be told, a light sneeze could have knocked her over right now. She hadn't eaten, had drunk only ice-cold shower water while going into shock, and was still shaking. A full day of hard physical labor had drained her completely. She gave a sad look at the beagle, who was drinking from the pond. She grimaced, as even in a situation like this, Hannah still held onto some standards. Then she lay down and watched the orange sky through the willow branches. The grass poked pleasantly into her back, hugging her whole body like a mattress. She raised her hands. An unpleasant smell reached her nose, as water without soap wasn't very effective, especially when trying to spend as little time under it as possible.

And so Hannah fell asleep, her arms and legs spread wide, a faint smile on her face from the all-encompassing, strangely satisfying ache in her muscles. Green grass stains had pressed deep into her skin. Her knees and elbows were blackened with dirt. Her arms were covered in scratches, the skin already growing rough. Her fingers were still trembling. The hair on her head and pubic area hung matted and tangled, with tiny bits of grass stuck throughout. Her soles had cleaned up a lot, as the grass that had cut her feet just a few days ago had scraped away the dirt between her toes and across most of her feet, leaving only a bit trapped in the micro-cracks on her heels and beneath her nails where the blades couldn't reach.

Day 6

Hannah woke up at 4 AM. It was pitch dark all around. Only crickets sang here and there, reminding Hannah once more that she wasn't alone in the yard. Only a dim light from her parents' room faintly illuminated Hannah as she woke. Hannah was freezing. Terribly so. The tips of her fingers and toes were completely numb. Instinctively, she tried to find a position that would keep her warm longer, but she couldn't. Even a spring breeze felt like a blizzard to Hannah at night. You might think that after a week of gradual clothing deprivation, Hannah would have gotten used to having no protection against the cold. Even yesterday's shower should have taught her to endure it. But cold was probably the one thing Hannah could never get used to, no matter how hard she tried.

At night, she used to cover herself with her favorite heavy blanket. She really disliked showing her bare soles, so even in the summer she tried to hide at least her feet under the blanket. Looking at Hannah now, someone for whom barefoot living had become her true nature and shoes were no longer needed, that was hard to imagine. Even so, Hannah tried to tense every muscle in her body. She tried breathing into her palms, tried blowing on her feet, which only made things worse. The dampness of the grass didn't help at all. She tried hugging her knees, tried tucking her heels under her butt, and even tried going for a short run. It warmed her up, but only for a brief moment. It wasn't even so much about the cold itself, as it wasn't that freezing. Again, the days were getting warmer, and the temperature was practically like summer now. It was the lack of habit.

She could pour liters of ice water over herself during the day and still dry off in half an hour. But here, there was nowhere to hide. Then a thought came to her that would never have crossed her mind in her past life. She found Radcliffe sleeping on the grass near the porch. She tiptoed up to him, lay down, and hugged him from behind. For Radcliffe, this was normal. He was a smart and friendly dog. At that moment, he didn't even feel the light embrace of the shivering girl. Only her trembling might have slightly ruined his sweet sleep. Hannah tried not to think about what was inside his fur. Sure, he wasn't a Samoyed or a Chow Chow, but he had grown a decent coat of fur. He smelled the way old dogs smell when they actively roam the woods by day and trot around the farm by evening. He was cared for, but bathing him every day would have been impossible. Besides, Hannah doubted she smelled any better right now.

She pressed against him as closely as possible and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. At 9 AM, sounds drifted from the kitchen. Hannah woke up later than usual, but usually she didn't spend the entire day pulling weeds. She stood up. Almost every joint in her body cracked. The muscle pain hadn't gone anywhere. Hannah prayed that nothing would happen today, as her legs couldn't hold her up at all. She did a quick stretch, shamelessly forgetting that she was naked. She exposed her groin and rotated her pelvis, not even realizing what it looked like. The kitchen door opened. Her mother caught her daughter, fingers laced, stretching up toward the sun. An unpleasant odor struck the woman's nose. Today, Mrs. Jenkins had no chores for Hannah. It was better to cook lunch and wipe away the dust herself, otherwise her foolish daughter would leave her footprints all over again, making her want to buy her shoes!

But that armpit smell gave her a great idea. Today would be bath day.

--"What a stench, sweetie. Even Radcliffe smells better," her mother said jokingly, waving her hand in front of her nose to wave away the odor.

--"This won't do. Today we're going to polish you up. But first, breakfast. Wait here for five minutes," the mother continued. A pleasant smell of her mother's oatmeal drifted from the kitchen. She cooked it with thick farm milk from grandmother's house, not sparing the sugar or butter. Since there was a free minute on Saturday, why not put in some effort? Hannah, lying on the stairs, couldn't take her eyes off the kitchen. But her mother didn't come back out. Hunger gripped Hannah once again. Those scraps from the sink yesterday morning clearly hadn't filled her up. Mrs. Jenkins still didn't show up. Instead, a conversation between her mother and father could be heard from the kitchen.

Hannah tried to eavesdrop through the door. She thought they were discussing how much longer she would have to endure these humiliations, or at least that they would laugh at her. But no, the Jenkinses were discussing something about computers, telling each other work stories and sharing their impressions of the week. They had completely forgotten about their daughter! Let them, but it was as if they didn't even notice that a naked person had been living in their yard for two days. Her mother told a story about her coworker, and clear laughter followed. Hannah couldn't hear the whole story, as it was hard to hear anything through the door. But she began to laugh too. Not because of the story, but because before college, Hannah and her parents used to sit together on Saturdays in the exact same way, discussing the past week, laughing, and enjoying that delicious oatmeal from her mom.

Hannah couldn't even remember its taste anymore. Maybe a couple of times after starting college she had pulled a bowl out of the fridge, but usually she would sleep in after a Friday night and head straight to the mall. Hannah began to cry again. Not from humiliation, not even from resentment over what she had been deprived of. No, Hannah realized what she had lost. It would have cost her nothing to wake up and have breakfast with her family. But she hadn't done it, as if deliberately drinking herself into a stupor every Friday. Hannah wept quietly, covering her face with her hands, until the door creaked. Hannah looked up at her mother coming out. The woman seemed almost shocked by her daughter's condition. A filthy creature was sitting there, quietly whimpering and crying. She even reached out toward her daughter's head, but seeing the girl's hair, she quickly pulled back.

--"Oh, come on, Hannah! It's Saturday! Today we're finally going to scrub you clean! Here, take some oatmeal, eat up." At her mother's feet was a pot with the remaining half of the oatmeal. Her father's car started up, and he drove off somewhere. Then Mrs. Jenkins thoughtfully placed a bowl down for Radcliffe. It had his name tag on it. Hannah expected a plate to be set in front of her as well, even trying to sit up more comfortably.

--"Hold out your hands." Hannah looked at her mother in confusion. The woman genuinely didn't understand the issue.

--"Like this," the woman showed with her hands, "like a bowl."

--"But how am I going to eat? Right from my hands?"

--"Well, how else? Do you want us to buy you a bowl like Radcliffe's?" She poured two ladles into her hands. Radcliffe quickly dug into his food. Hannah still didn't know what to do.

Suddenly, a light strike from the ladle hit Hannah's hair, just enough to bring her out of her trance. Remnants of the white porridge spilled over her hair. "Well, no worries, we planned to do a lot today anyway. So come on, Hannah, dig in." Hunger knows no pride. Against her willpower, Hannah held out both hands, forming a cup with them. The porridge was poured onto her dirty palms. It was significantly more watery than usual. Hannah had prepared herself for a hot mass and tried with all her strength to keep her hands together, bracing for the temperature. But the oatmeal turned out to be disgustingly cold. "Why do you think it took so long? While your father and I were eating it hot, we waited for the pot to sit in the fridge. You're still going to need your hands," her mother answered Hannah's silent question.

She looked at the murky white liquid. Here and there floated oats, but there were very few of them. The white liquid began dripping from Hannah's hands drop by drop. The taste was even more disappointing. Hannah rushed to drink it as fast as possible before it all leaked out, but sticking her tongue out, she tasted milk that was no longer milk. It was ordinary water tinted white with milk, with just a hint of oats. There was nothing to be done, so she forced herself. Instead of butter and sugar, the only thing felt now was a very faint, sickly sweet taste of milk that made her grimace and gave her no appetite at all. "Yeah, we got a bit carried away and ate more than we should have. There was literally just a bit left at the bottom, so I diluted it with water. And I didn't bother adding butter or sugar, why would I? It would take longer to cool down. Besides, it would be bad for Radcliffe," her mother said, reading the complaint in Hannah's eyes.

Hannah gulped down the first portion. Radcliffe was already as happy as could be. Sticking his tongue out, he waited for a second portion while Hannah was only halfway through her first. "Wait for Hannah, boy, wait. So everyone gets an equal share." Ladle after ladle, portions of this liquid went into her hands. Hannah had no choice. There was a hint of milk and oats, so technically it was food. And the water filled her stomach, making it feel as though Hannah had actually eaten. Mrs. Jenkins squatted in front of the pot with the whitish substance and used the ladle to serve the two inhabitants of her backyard their portion of food. The naked girl sat on her knees, her stomach and pubic hair all smeared with this white mess. Her hands, still dirty, forcefully shoved it into her own mouth.

To her left, the dog, standing on several steps at once, ate without a care in the world, while tears occasionally welled up in the eyes of the creature to his right. The ladle became empty, and suddenly Mrs. Jenkins pulled dog food out of her apron. She began feeding Radcliffe directly from her hand. "Good boy, you earned it, you didn't get full on that anyway," her mother said softly, petting him with her free hand. Hannah's stomach might have been full of water, but she didn't feel satisfied. Crying, she pushed Radcliffe's snout away with her hand and began licking up the last kibbles of dog food. It tasted somewhat like meat, but only partially. "What are you doing, daughter?" her mother pushed her away in confusion. "That's dog food! And it was rude to take food from Radcliffe! Bad daughter!" Her mother swung the ladle and slapped her on the head with it once more.

Then she went inside, closing the door behind her. Through the window she shouted:

--"Be ready in an hour!"

--"W-what about my hands? They're covered in porridge!"

--"Wipe them on yourself, you're taking a bath soon anyway."

In the past, Hannah couldn't imagine wiping anything on her clothes. Where had anyone ever heard of wiping a cafe fork on a skirt, dirty hands on a T-shirt, or wet hands on pants? Every time she saw people wiping things on their clothes, she felt disgust. They would have to walk around in it later, so why not just get napkins? One wonders what the past Hannah would think of the current one. Right now, Hannah had no choice but to wipe her hands on her stomach, smearing the mass all over her body. Her hands remained dirty anyway.

After two days without proper food or water, Hannah looked exhausted. Her aristocratically pale skin was slowly beginning to darken, her hands were already covered in calluses, and her soles were as tough as the leather soles on her father's shoes. Her armpits, along with her pubic area, were completely overgrown. Hannah didn't care. On the contrary, it gave her a sense of at least some coverage. Plus, there would be fewer areas to freeze at night. She wished her legs would grow a layer of hair like Radcliffe's, but a year ago Hannah had gotten full laser hair removal, begging her mother to give her money for it over the course of nearly five months. Her mother had agreed only for her legs. So the only areas she used to shave regularly were her armpits and her pubic region.

Having eaten, or rather drunk, Hannah lay with a bloated stomach on the steps, warming herself in the sun. But fluid was starting to build up from below. Yesterday she hadn't eaten or drunk, and the drops that had gotten into her mouth in the shower were worked off later with the sweat. But now she wasn't working, and she desperately needed to use the bathroom. She began knocking on the house door. But as expected, there was no answer. Her mother was humming something in her room, and her father hadn't returned yet. She didn't have the strength to hold it. She saw Radcliffe pee right on a tree. She couldn't stoop that low, so pressing her legs together, she had to dig a hole near the fence. Now the remnants of the porridge mixed with dirt were all over her, but at least the hole was ready. She sat down and did her business.

This, along with all the other small details, made her less and less of a human. In her habits, she was truly becoming like a dog. People in the city can't pick up a dropped pen with their toes, nor would they allow themselves to use their mouth to grab things. Hannah had nobody to feel humiliated before except herself. This partly explained why she so easily accepted this new stage of her existence. She sat on the steps with her head lowered, trying not to think about what she had done. After a while, a car could be heard pulling up to the house, followed by the door opening, and finally her father and mother appeared together holding a large sack. It fell with a thud near where Hannah was sitting. Radcliffe poked his snout out from under a willow tree somewhere on the right.

"Well, daughter," her father said, trying to hold back the disgust in his voice upon seeing her, "you have to earn a bath. I'm sure you didn't really like sleeping under the open sky yesterday, so today we're going to build you a little house." Hannah's face lit up. It was amazing how something so strange could bring joy to a girl who used to turn her nose up at brand new phones. With those words, her father dumped twelve boards out of the sack. They reached only up to Hannah's waist. She didn't understand what was expected of her. Along with the boards, a hammer and nails fell out. Her father simply pointed a finger toward the middle of the yard, near the pond. Hannah understood. She dragged the first board. The wood turned out to be heavy and dense. Walking like a penguin, she shamelessly spread her legs while her parents waited with indifferent expressions for her to finish.

She threw the second board onto her back and regretted it. Under its weight, not only was she walking like a penguin, but she had to bend down almost parallel to the ground. While dragging the remaining five, she picked up a bunch of splinters, each one bigger than the last. Her whole back was red, and her knees could barely support her, let alone the extra weight. The last board she literally pushed with her hands along the ground, adopting even stranger postures. Then her father tossed her the hammer and nails in a small bag. Hannah, on all fours because she couldn't walk upright, ran to the porch and back. Then came the hardest part. She lifted the boards, getting even more splinters in her fingers. Some had to be loaded onto her back again and pushed along the ground. Then she sank them into the dirt so they would stand. She was sweating worse than yesterday. Maybe she shouldn't have peed in that hole.

Bare footprints remained on the packed earth. Her fingers, bending from strain, tried to hold the boards vertically. There, she had constructed the walls. She was already thinking about how to place the rest on the roof, when all the walls fell down at once. She began digging deeper grooves. Her parents merely shook their heads in disapproval. All of her fingernails turned black. But it bore fruit. The first board went in smoothly, then the second and the third. Now the wall was ready. Next, she had to use the last of her strength to throw the boards up top, climb up there herself, and balance on the boards, which was luckily easier to do barefoot. She carefully lined up each board and nailed it down. Of course, the work wasn't ideal. The gaps were three fingers wide, and the nails weren't even hammered in halfway. But it was her house! Even like this, she didn't have to worry about the wind anymore.

Her parents, thoroughly tired from watching this, decided not to stand on ceremony. They didn't explain anything, but everything was clear without words. Her father pulled out the hose, her mother turned on the tap, and he began spraying his daughter with ice-cold water. She flopped onto the ground, which had already turned into a puddle of mud, trying to protect herself with her palms. Her father shouted at her mother to turn off the tap, walked over to his daughter, and roughly stood her up on her feet without a word. Then he ordered the tap to be turned back on. Hannah tried not to cry, but she couldn't stop screaming. She groaned and begged him to stop, but her father didn't hear her. He sprayed over her groin, then her stomach, her legs, and then an ice-cold jet hit Hannah right in the face.

Then he ordered her to turn sideways and raise her arms. He sprayed all along her side, pausing especially at her armpits. Next was her back. Her hair became covered in fresh mud, but for some reason her father didn't wash it. Hannah was then ordered to lie on her back on the porch and hold her legs up. The girl was already used to the cold in her heels, but it was still unpleasant. Her father, rinsing the dirt off her feet, casually sprayed the lying Hannah once more. Then she was given a little time to dry off. Her mother walked up to the porch and pulled another case out of the sack that held the boards. Something suddenly began buzzing behind Hannah. Turning around, she saw hair clippers right in front of her nose. Hannah wanted to run from the porch, but her father, arriving just in time, knocked her down onto the steps.

Hannah screamed and begged her mother not to cut her hair. Yes, maybe it looked ugly right now, maybe it was dirty, and maybe it got in the way during work, but how would she go to college? Even if they kept her here for a month, her old length wouldn't grow back in such a short time. Nothing worked, so Hannah, against her better judgement, swore at her parents for the first time in a long while:

--"Are you kidding me? What is wrong with you lunatics? I'm working my butt off here, I'm not your slave. I endured your crazy crap, but this is crossing the line! How am I supposed to go to college, huh? How much longer am I going to be here?"

Her father quickly ran to the tap and blasted a jet of ice-cold water into her face again, washing away the hair that had already been shaved.

--"You don't get it, do you? We withdrew you from college on the very first day, Hannah, we took your papers. You won't be going there anymore. You won't be going anywhere anymore. And when will you leave? Hmm... I think next week we might take Radcliffe back to grandmother's. He's not needed here anymore, as I don't think guys will be visiting you," her father said with surprising ease.

Hannah couldn't believe her ears. The last bridge had been burned. Yes, she hadn't wanted to go to college, but now she had no friends, no clothes, and nothing belonged to her. Her parents had completely stopped seeing her as their child. She had become a strange little dog with a bad attitude to them. She had nowhere to go, nowhere to run, and nothing to do except jogg around here and cuddle with a smelly dog at night so she wouldn't freeze completely. She allowed her parents to shave her. In truth, Hannah didn't look any uglier. Her pretty features were actually highlighted by the lack of hair. Only patches stuck out here and there. Besides, for an exhausted, shamed, and humiliated girl who could barely be called human right now, a bald head suited her better than the mop her previous hairstyle had turned into without a proper shower.

"Well, since you're showing off your attitude, we'll teach you something real quick," her father said, finishing shaving the last patches of hair. Then he sprayed Hannah once more to wash away the hair clinging to her, and then pulled a collar out of his sack. This collar covered almost her entire neck. He tightly tied the piece of black fabric around Hannah's fragile neck and attached a padlock so she couldn't take it off, the same kind used to lock everything else. Unaccustomed to it, Hannah thought she was about to suffocate and tried to gesture as much, but her mother went inside for something, while her father attached a leash to the black collar.

Her mother returned. The daughter lay helpless at her father's feet, still not processing what had been done to her. Suddenly, she felt something pressing against her groin. It was the razor, the very one she had stolen, the one she had held in her rear!

Her mother sprayed her mound with the hose. Hannah instinctively covered the area with her hands, but her father quickly yanked the leash. Finally, her mother began lathering it. This was the worst part, as her mother was lathering her pubic hair. Then she slowly began to shave, occasionally washing away the soap, clearing the blade, and lathering again. Hannah tried looking at the rapidly darkening sky.

There, it was all done. Her mother did everything carefully, without leaving a single cut. They dealt with her armpits in much the same way, but her father joined in using the second stolen razor. When that was done too, her father yanked the leash upward. Hannah sat up straight, and her mother began working on her head from behind, lathering heavily and shaving off the remaining patches of hair. Soapy water got into Hannah's eyes, and she tried to rub them with her hands.

"Endure it, will you?"

Then the razor went lower for some reason. With two quick motions, her brows were shaved. Hannah couldn't even say a word before she was kicked off the porch. She plopped onto the ground, and her mother turned on the tap. Her father began spraying her again. Hannah wasn't screaming as loudly anymore. Either her strength had run out, or she was starting to get used to the ice-cold water. Then he led her by the leash. Mr. Jenkins held the leash low, so Hannah had to crawl on her knees, which had only just been washed. He tossed her into her new little house and unclipped the leash. Hannah flopped onto the grass surrounded by the boards and watched her father through the gaps in the wall. He began dismantling the outdoor shower and even took the hose with him, turning off the tap.

Hannah didn't have the time or energy to figure out what was what. Maybe she had accepted her new status. Her shiny bald head felt the same as her body used to feel. The grass embraced her. It was very unusual, like lying on a pillow that sinks in on itself. She lay on her side on her arm, throwing one leg over the other. Her groin stung slightly, and outside the window, night was slowly falling. She only heard, "Today we'll give her time to adapt. Tomorrow she walks on all fours," followed by the door closing. Radcliffe arrived too. She tried to shoo him away, but took pity on him and let him in. There wasn't enough room for both of them, so she stuck her feet outside. Radcliffe fell asleep almost instantly, breathing warm, slightly smelly air into Hannah's face.

Hugging him like a big teddy bear, she tried to fall asleep. But a strange feeling wouldn't leave her. On one hand, she was now a creature without rights, as reminded by the collar that made it hard to even bend her neck. But on the other hand, she had never felt such satisfaction. She didn't have to choose what to wear tomorrow, as she had no clothes and no choices. She didn't think about what to eat. Money was a memory of the past to her. Work to her meant hard slave labor, paid for by being fed in the morning. And yet, she didn't have to make decisions or interact with anything. She had been given the gift of not having to think. Warm yourself in the sun, carry heavy things, pee and poop right into a hole. Does one really need higher thought processes for that? Does one need to cry over breaking up with a boyfriend, or analyze what Leslie said yesterday and what it actually meant? No.

If someone asked a person to introduce themselves without using their name, some would state their job, some their title, their achievements, or simply joke around. Hannah wouldn't even understand the question tomorrow. She is Hannah. That's all she is now.

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Hello, readers! Thank you for reading to the end! This was my first experience writing erotic fiction, and I think it shows. Please leave a comment with feedback, especially if it's critical. I understand my texts are unpolished and probably try too hard to describe everything all at once. I will try to improve in future stories. Again, write down if you like my style or what needs to be changed in it.