OMG, I’ve been such a blog slacker lately! I think the pre-sub stress is getting to me (but hey, by the time I actually go on sub, I should be broken in, right? In the meantime, I’ve put in about 14k on a new WIP–which is not this one. I’m contrary like that. This is a snip from an older WIP that’s gathering dust at the moment. Hope you enjoy! (P.S. I swear, I started this novel prior to getting my awesome agent, who is named Taylor like my extremely messed up MC–EEEEK! Sorry, Taylor!)
“Although, you can’t blame them for being jealous. You really do have amazing hair.” He tugs on a strand, letting it slide between his fingers until it falls back into place.
Your hair is amazing, Taylor. You’re so lucky–I wish mine was long and wavy like yours.
Lainey’s voice, filling my ears. Lainey’s fingers, running through my hair the same way.
I stumble back as anxiety claws its way up into my throat, dimming my surroundings. My hair. I can still feel her fingers tugging it, separating it into sections for a braid. I used to love having people play with my hair. Now, I feel like something heavy is trying to suffocate my head, like the strands brushing my neck are trying to choke me. I can’t take it. I can’t—
“I’ve got to go,” I blurt, before scooping up my backpack and dashing for the door. I don’t wait to see what he says, but sprint for the bathroom. Please be empty, please, please.
I burst in, heart hammering, worrying half the school chose this very moment to take a pee break. Luckily there’s no one inside. The panic is nearly drowning me now. I yank at my hair until tears spring to my eyes. Keep yanking, but it won’t come off. I hate it. People see my hair and think they know me. They don’t. Those stupid blond strands aren’t me, not anymore.
I wish mine was long and wavy like yours.
I stare at my reflection blindly. Then, I dig frantically through my backpack for my knife.
The relief hits the second my fingers touch the cold metal, but it’s short-lived. Get it off, I have to get it off. I yank a strand taut with the other hand and start sawing away.
A huge chunk of blond floats to the floor. Followed by another. And another. Once I start, I can’t stop. It’s amazing how every butchered piece releases a little of that rib-grinding pressure from my chest, eases the solidified feeling in my lungs. Pretty soon, the entire floor is littered with hair. It looks like someone buzzed a fucking Golden Retriever in here. I don’t stop, though. I don’t stop until every last strand is gone—and I can finally breathe again.