The locks of hair lay in the sink like so many dead snakes.
Her little girl’s beautiful hair.
Mom will cry when she sees it.
I raise my eyes and the scissors, heart pounding with impending victory, shaking my spine with each sharp contact of metal against metal. The soft tresses float about my face, caressing me with thoughts of a closer freedom.
I choke back a scream when he knocks on the door. The scissors crash down, leaving a deep scar on the counter. I scramble to my feet and retreat, curling into the bathtub for its superficial protection, shivering against the cold porcelain.
Her little girl is crying.
“Honey? Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” My voice is strangled. “Just a little sick. Cramps.”
He pauses, counting the calendar in his head.
“Well, feel better, okay?”
I hold my breath so I can hear each of his footsteps fade away. When I can finally relax, my muscles ache from the tension of his nearness. Still trembling, I rise from the tub, the carpet of her little girl’s beautiful hair sticking to my bare feet.
My hair is almost as short as a boy’s, ragged and wild. It matches my eyes now. With ears still straining for the sound of his presence, I raise the scissors again.
Her little girl is dying.
Mom can’t ignore this anymore.
Kellie R. England
is an aspiring novelist and student at CSU, Sacramento, where she
studies English literature and synthetic electroorganic chemistry.
Her previous works have been accepted by The
Her chemistry research has appeared in the Beilstein Journal of
Organic Chemistry. She can be contacted at email@example.com.