“Is that all? Or do you have something I’d actually give a crap about to tell me?” I say sarcastically.
He grips my hair and yanks my head back until my face is practically staring at his crotch. “It’s your feistiness that gets you in trouble though! Reign it in, or I’ll reign it in for you!” He warns, the threat in his voice loud and clear.
He lets go of my hair and I fall into his lap, hurting my knee as I scramble up not wanting to touch him. He stays watching me for a few more minutes before he gets up and walks out.
I don’t get him, if he wants me dead then why not just kill me and get it over and done with? He’s already beaten me and made me feel like I’m worth nothing.
The door opens back up and I try to take back my statement in my head as he drags me back into the same room he made me strip off my clothes in. There’s a chair sat to the side and beside it, on a small counter, are a pair of hair clippers and a comb. My stomach bottoms out.
No!
I thrash as much as I can in his arms and he laughs. “What? I thought you’d miss hairdressing and I need a cut.” He smiles through his comment and I stop moving to watch him as he sits in the chair and beckons me over. “Well come on then, I haven’t got all day.”
I stay rooted to the spot, wondering what the catch is. When he doesn’t move, I step closer to the hair clippers and pick them up.
“I need scissors, I can’t cut your hair with these,” I state matter-of-factly.
His hair is too long to cut with just these. Of course, I’m not going to cut his hair, I just want those scissors.
“Yeah, I know your game. Use them or you can go back to your room,” he says on a laugh. “And don’t even bother trying anything, or I’ll shoot you in your pretty little head.”
His threat makes my insides turn cold, I may act like I’m strong but self preservation comes before anything. I like to think when the times comes, I’ll embrace death with open arms, but I’m only twenty-four and if I want to live out to see my twenty-fifth birthday in three months, I need to play along with his sick games.
I look down at his head, at the greasy mop sitting on top of it and cringe, I have to touch that. “Fine. I can shave it, that’s all I can do with these.”
I’m just pointing out the facts but he grunts at me.
“Shave it all off and I’ll do yours to match!” He says angrily. “Just get on with it.”
I turn and wrap the blanket around me, securing it with a simple knot and moving it around so the knot is in the back. I turn the hair clippers on and start sectioning off bits of his greasy hair, if I try to use them as scissors this might work. I take a deep breath in, he really doesn’t have a clue about hairdressing and I’m scared of messing this up. I take another breath before grabbing bits of hair and going to town on them.
“You’ve always loved hairdressing, even when you were little,” he says.
I try not to listen to him, it just takes me back to a time where I was just a frightened girl.
“I’m done,” I announce.
It doesn’t look completely awful, but it’s not quite right either. He pulls out a mirror I haven’t realized was by the chair and looks at himself. I wince as he grinds his teeth together and his jaw twitches.
“What the fuck is this!” He demands, pointing to his head.
I take a step back. “I did the best I could with what you gave me. I told you I needed scissors, so don’t blame me for not listening. I think I did a pretty good job considering.”
“You need scissors? I’ll get you scissors,” he drawls in an almost sweet voice.
He gets up from the chair and stalks out the room, it doesn’t escape me that I could try to get away, but knowing he has a gun on him, I don’t want to push it.
He saunters back in the room and stands beside the chair, holding out the scissors to me. He must’ve got them from a first aid box. How stupid is he blatantly handing over a weapon to his victim?
I move to grab them off him with my head down so he doesn’t suspect anything. I should’ve kept my head up.
It’s what I don’t see that’s my downfall.
I don’t see the rope in his other hand and I don’t see the vicious smile slowly work its way over his lips as I shuffle forward, reaching for the scissors.
He grips me by my wrists and pulls me roughly onto the chair, instantly on top of me, wrapping rope around my midsection, tying my arms against my body, my body against the chair.
I struggle against him but he weighs too much for my weak body, and I start to panic.
What is he doing?
He ties the rope in a tight knot and I wince as it cuts off the circulation to my hands.
“I did what you said! You told me to give you a haircut and I fucking did!” I shout.
I feel him pull back my hair roughly. “And now it’s my turn,” he says sounding manic.
I screech and shout, calling him every name under the sun but he just laughs, knowing I can’t get free.