TW: violence, gore, and allusions to torture.
I reached up to my head. My fingers trembled in the cracked reflection of the filth-caked mirror. I touched my scalp, bald and still raw from the carelessly wielded razor. Tears finally spilled from my eyes.
I didn’t have much to be vain about. The only thing I had worthy of any pride had been my hair, long dark and thick. It could fool people, at a cursory glance, into thinking that perhaps I was beautiful.
But now it lay in chopped tangles at my feet.
I had never been pretty, but at least I hadn’t been ugly.
He didn’t let me out for another week. An unwitting kindness. Perhaps He thought solitude would break me, but instead it gave me the valuable time I needed to accept my new situation.
The shock had worn off, or maybe it had only finally set in, because I hadn’t thought so clearly in days. The tears stopped and so did the feelings.
I asked for a comb and He laughed at me. Then He saw I
wasn’t joking. Perhaps He did think I was going mad, because He had one sent to me anyway.
I spent three days collecting up my hair from where it was scattered around the cell floor. I carefully combed out the knots and gathered up the long black tangles in my fingers, smoothing out the lengths like I was brushing a dolls hair. It had been up to my waist when he’d shaved it off.
At least it would sell for a pretty coin to a wig merchant, I thought grimly.
The scars on my back and shoulders looked like feathers, white and delicate against dark skin. They drifted down my upper arms, fading into fainter, wispier silver slashes like I’d been dusted with snowflakes. They looked beautiful, in a haunting sort of way. If you didn’t look too hard. If you didn’t think too much.