episode 3

The last uneven locks fall to the mattress like dead leaves. Her scalp feels raw where the scissors scraped too close, strands clinging to her cheeks, her damp shoulders, the sheets. Her eyes are swollen from crying — from trying not to make a sound but failing anyway.

He leans back, breathless from the violence, his grin sharp and ugly.

"Not so pretty now, huh?" he spits, flicking a stray hair off his shirt like it disgusts him.

She tries to pull the blanket over her bare shoulders, but he yanks it away again, tossing it to the floor. She’s naked, half-sheared, shame burning hotter than the sting on her scalp.

Then she sees the thought flicker across his eyes — something darker. He stands abruptly, starts rummaging through the dresser drawers. Shirts tumble out, socks, old receipts. He kicks the bottom drawer shut with a curse.

"Where the fuck is it—"

She watches him in mute terror, a single shiver running through her chest like a lightning bolt.

He crosses to the bathroom, flinging the door open so hard it bounces back. She hears him clattering through bottles, the cabinet door banging against the tiles. His curses echo off the bathroom walls — low, vicious, muttering about how she “thinks she’s better than him, thinks she’s pretty, a whore with hair like some fucking queen…”

He comes stomping out, something small and black clutched in his fist — the cheap old trimmer he uses on his beard when he’s too lazy to shave. He flicks the switch — the harsh, mechanical buzz fills the room.

"No—" she gasps, her voice shredded from crying. She backs up until her spine hits the cold wall behind the bed. Her hands fly to her butchered hair — the last tufts left clinging to her scalp like a dying crown.

"Don’t— please— it’s enough— please—"

But her begging only fuels him. He lunges forward, grabs her wrist so hard her bones ache. He drags her forward, throws her facedown on the mattress. She kicks weakly — but he pins her easily, one knee crushing the back of her thighs.

"Stay fucking still."

She feels the vibration before the blades bite — the cold plastic guard pressing into her skin. Tiny teeth rake across her scalp. The low hum buzzes in her ears, rattles through her skull like an electric shock.

He goes slowly — on purpose — so each pass scrapes her skin raw, so she feels the final indignity: every last strand ripped away. Hairs sprinkle across her shoulders, her neck, the pillowcase — hundreds of tiny black needles. She tries to hold still but she can’t stop trembling.

When she squirms, he grips the back of her neck, forcing her cheek into the damp mattress. She tastes salt and fear and the metal tang of her own tears.

"Look at you — just look at you," he sneers, voice vibrating with delight and disgust all at once. “Thought you were too pretty for me? Too pretty for my friends? Who’s gonna want you now?”

She doesn’t answer. She can’t. Her sobs come in hiccups, muffled by the pillow. She watches one last lock drop beside her face — black against white linen, a final piece of the woman she used to be.

The trimmer sputters as it chews through the last stubborn patch. Her skin tingles where the buzzing teeth nick her — tiny pinpricks that sting in the open air. He flicks it off with a snap. The sudden silence is deafening.

He sits back, admiring his work. Her scalp is bare now — raw, pink in places where he’s scraped too close. The bedsheets are littered with dark hair, like feathers torn from a bird.

"Turn around."

She does — slowly, stiffly — her face streaked with tears and stuck hair. She doesn’t try to cover herself anymore. There’s no point.

He laughs. A deep, mean laugh that echoes off the cracked walls.

"Perfect," he says, brushing his fingers over her raw scalp. She flinches. “Now everyone will know you’re nothing but mine. Nothing but a bald, ugly whore.”

He pats her cheek — gentle, almost mockingly tender. Then he shoves her back down onto the stained pillow.

She stares at the hair scattered around her — the last thing that made her feel human. She lets the tears come. But underneath the shaking, the burning, the shame — that tiny spark survives:

Not forever. Not yours forever.

When it’s over, she lies curled on the mattress — naked, hairless, shivering under the bare bulb that flickers overhead. Her breathing comes in ragged little gasps, each inhale scraping her throat raw. Her fingers keep twitching, reaching for hair that isn’t there.

He stands over her, tossing the trimmer back in the drawer. The silence feels alive, thick enough to choke on. She squeezes her eyes shut, hoping he’ll just leave. Hoping she’ll disappear.

But his shadow moves closer. “Get up,” he says, voice flat. “You’re a mess. Go wash up.”

She doesn’t move. She’s not sure she can. Her limbs feel like they belong to someone else.

"Did you hear me?" His tone sharpens — that edge she fears more than fists. She scrambles up, wobbling on unsteady legs, one hand pressed to the wall for balance. He gestures toward the bathroom with a flick of his wrist, like she’s a dog.

She stumbles across the tiny room, feet crunching over loose strands of her own hair. The bathroom door creaks as she nudges it open, bare shoulders hunched.

Inside, the cold white light hums overhead. She closes the door behind her. The mirror above the cracked sink glares back at her — wide, unblinking.

At first, she tries not to look. She turns on the tap, cups her hands under the icy water, splashes her swollen face. But the pull is too strong. She lifts her eyes. And what she sees knocks the air from her lungs.

A stranger stares back. Raw, patchy scalp. Red scratches. Eyes hollow, rimmed with burst blood vessels from crying too hard. Her collarbones jut like broken wings. Her lips tremble, cracked from biting them to stay silent.

This isn’t me, she thinks. This can’t be me.

The buzzing starts in her head — that rushing sound like bees in a jar. Her chest tightens. Her breath snags in her throat, sharp and shallow. The walls close in — too bright, too small. The reflection feels like it’s leaning closer, mocking her.

"No… no… no…" she whimpers, backing away until her shoulders hit the tiled wall. Her fingers claw at her scalp — feeling the bald patches, the tender scrapes, the prickly stubble. The harder she tries to stop, the louder the buzzing gets.

Then the scream tears out of her — raw, guttural, ripped straight from her chest. Her knees buckle. She slides down the wall, hugging her naked knees to her chest, rocking back and forth. She doesn’t even hear the bathroom door fly open.

"Hey — hey! Shut up! What the fuck—" He storms in, his shadow blocking out the light. She’s too far gone to care. She gasps and sobs, eyes squeezed shut, nails digging into her scalp as if she could tear it all away.

He crouches down, grabs her wrists, pulls her hands from her head. “Stop it. Stop it — you’ll hurt yourself.”

Her breaths come in shallow, ragged hiccups. She doesn’t look at him — she can’t. All she sees is that broken girl in the mirror.

He freezes for a second. He really sees her — what he’s done. Her scalp raw, her shoulders trembling, her eyes swollen and wild with panic. And in that tiny moment, his rage flickers into something else: pity. Guilt. Or at least the mask of it.

"Shh… okay, okay. Don’t cry now, baby. Shh…” His voice softens, thick with fake warmth. He pulls her into his chest, her naked skin pressed against his clothes. She doesn’t fight. She just shakes and shakes — silent now, except for the tiny broken hiccups.

"I didn’t mean to scare you so bad. You made me angry. You shouldn’t do that. Look at you… you’re still mine, even without all that pretty hair, huh?" He strokes the back of her raw scalp. She flinches at every touch.

He shifts, scoops her up like she’s made of glass. Sets her on the cold edge of the bathtub. The faucet squeals as he turns it on — warm water now, steam rising.

"We’ll clean you up," he murmurs, guiding her under the flow. His fingers are gentle now — too gentle. He lathers soap through the stubble, washing away the tiny clinging hairs, the dried blood, the grime of fear. He cups water over her shoulders, careful not to get it in her eyes.

She sits there like a broken doll — limp, trembling, eyes unfocused on the cracked tile behind his shoulder. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t sob anymore. The panic has settled into something worse: a dead calm that chills her bones.

"You’re so good for me now," he whispers, rinsing her arms. “So quiet. So clean. You’ll never leave me. You know that, right?”

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t nod. She just watches a trickle of water run from her shoulder, pink from the tiny cuts on her scalp, swirling down the drain.

But in some hidden corner of her mind — a place he can’t reach — that spark still smolders:

One day. Not forever. One day.

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