laughed. Making sense of anything in this place was a joke. A killing kind of joke.
Rictor slowed down. Elena saw a green metal door. On it was the stick figure of a woman.
“A public bathroom?” She could not hide her surprise.
“Locker rooms,” he said. “Our facilities are limited to the basics. Everyone has to share.”
Elena tried to imagine Rictor taking a shower in the same room as the doctor. The image hurt her head. Rictor gave her an odd look, and then pushed open the door, gesturing for Elena to precede him. She did, taking in the surreal normality of white tile and shiny fixtures. Open shower stalls were on her right. Toilets on the left. The air smelled damp, and the floor and walls were slick with moisture. Someone had just been here. She had never been so glad to see a regular bathroom.
“You don’t have to take a full shower, but we will need to do something about your hair.” Rictor leaned against the wall. It was strange hearing so many words come out of his mouth; he did not strike her as a big talker. Of course, what he was saying also made no sense whatsoever.
Elena touched her hair. It was so tangled, her hand bounced. Reaching through to her actual scalp might require a diamond-bit drill. “You a hairdresser? Because hey, if this place is really a salon or beauty school, I think you all kidnapped the wrong chick.”
“You’re funny,” Rictor said, looking about as amused as an overmilked goat. “I haven’t seen funny in a long time.”
“Yeah,” Elena said. “I can tell.”
He ignored that. “Your hair is a mess. The doctor considers it a liability. He wants me to cut it.”
“Your doctor is a crack-ass nutcase. What does he think my hair can do? Reach out and slug someone?”
Rictor held out his hand and showed her a pair of gleaming scissors—a startling reveal, like dealing with a magician. Elena wondered where he had gotten them, and whether she could bring herself to stab him if she got the chance to wrap her fingers around that shiny metal.
Through the eyes and throat. Soft places.
“It might be safer if I do it,” he said, as though reading her mind.
Elena scowled. “Leave me the hell alone. Haven’t you guys already done enough? Besides, that cell is cold. If you take my hair, I’ll die of exposure.”
His jaw tightened. There was no pity in his eyes. “I can make you.”
“You can make me do a lot of things. Everyone in this place can. What’s stopping you?”
“Fine,” he muttered. Before Elena could stop him, he grabbed a handful of her hair and began cutting through it. She cried out, twisting away, but he pinned her hard against a locker and kept cutting. Clumps of hair fell around their feet—ten years of her grandfather smiling over those long brown strands. Elena hooked her sharp nails into Rictor’s neck, raking down. He grunted, but kept on working.
When he finally released her, it was sudden, a shock. Elena stumbled, catching herself against the locker. She touched her scalp. Found that she had nothing left but a short stubble. Her head felt light and cold.
“Better,” Rictor said without emotion. Long red welts covered his neck. The floor looked like the back of a Wookiee. “Go to the sink and wash your head. We don’t have much time.”
When Elena did not immediately move, he grabbed her arm and hauled her over to a deep white sink. He grabbed a bottle of shampoo from the open shower stall and handed it to her.
“I do not want to do this for you,” he said. Elena believed him. She took the shampoo and washed the remains of her hair. It took less than a minute; there was hardly anything left.
When she was done, he handed her a towel. She scrubbed her head—furious, frustrated—and then pointed at it with a shaking hand. “Clean enough?”
“Dry it some more,” he suggested. “There can’t be any moisture.” A specific detail that provided Elena with some idea of why the doctor might believe her ratty hair had to
Rictor slowed down. Elena saw a green metal door. On it was the stick figure of a woman.
“A public bathroom?” She could not hide her surprise.
“Locker rooms,” he said. “Our facilities are limited to the basics. Everyone has to share.”
Elena tried to imagine Rictor taking a shower in the same room as the doctor. The image hurt her head. Rictor gave her an odd look, and then pushed open the door, gesturing for Elena to precede him. She did, taking in the surreal normality of white tile and shiny fixtures. Open shower stalls were on her right. Toilets on the left. The air smelled damp, and the floor and walls were slick with moisture. Someone had just been here. She had never been so glad to see a regular bathroom.
“You don’t have to take a full shower, but we will need to do something about your hair.” Rictor leaned against the wall. It was strange hearing so many words come out of his mouth; he did not strike her as a big talker. Of course, what he was saying also made no sense whatsoever.
Elena touched her hair. It was so tangled, her hand bounced. Reaching through to her actual scalp might require a diamond-bit drill. “You a hairdresser? Because hey, if this place is really a salon or beauty school, I think you all kidnapped the wrong chick.”
“You’re funny,” Rictor said, looking about as amused as an overmilked goat. “I haven’t seen funny in a long time.”
“Yeah,” Elena said. “I can tell.”
He ignored that. “Your hair is a mess. The doctor considers it a liability. He wants me to cut it.”
“Your doctor is a crack-ass nutcase. What does he think my hair can do? Reach out and slug someone?”
Rictor held out his hand and showed her a pair of gleaming scissors—a startling reveal, like dealing with a magician. Elena wondered where he had gotten them, and whether she could bring herself to stab him if she got the chance to wrap her fingers around that shiny metal.
Through the eyes and throat. Soft places.
“It might be safer if I do it,” he said, as though reading her mind.
Elena scowled. “Leave me the hell alone. Haven’t you guys already done enough? Besides, that cell is cold. If you take my hair, I’ll die of exposure.”
His jaw tightened. There was no pity in his eyes. “I can make you.”
“You can make me do a lot of things. Everyone in this place can. What’s stopping you?”
“Fine,” he muttered. Before Elena could stop him, he grabbed a handful of her hair and began cutting through it. She cried out, twisting away, but he pinned her hard against a locker and kept cutting. Clumps of hair fell around their feet—ten years of her grandfather smiling over those long brown strands. Elena hooked her sharp nails into Rictor’s neck, raking down. He grunted, but kept on working.
When he finally released her, it was sudden, a shock. Elena stumbled, catching herself against the locker. She touched her scalp. Found that she had nothing left but a short stubble. Her head felt light and cold.
“Better,” Rictor said without emotion. Long red welts covered his neck. The floor looked like the back of a Wookiee. “Go to the sink and wash your head. We don’t have much time.”
When Elena did not immediately move, he grabbed her arm and hauled her over to a deep white sink. He grabbed a bottle of shampoo from the open shower stall and handed it to her.
“I do not want to do this for you,” he said. Elena believed him. She took the shampoo and washed the remains of her hair. It took less than a minute; there was hardly anything left.
When she was done, he handed her a towel. She scrubbed her head—furious, frustrated—and then pointed at it with a shaking hand. “Clean enough?”
“Dry it some more,” he suggested. “There can’t be any moisture.” A specific detail that provided Elena with some idea of why the doctor might believe her ratty hair had to
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