Post by Deleted on Mar 18, 2017 12:47:42 GMT -5
oh, honey
don't do anything rash
don't do anything rash
"Ka-chan, you've been growing your hair out, right?"
"That's a shame. It was prettier when it was shorter."
"Oh, I know. Let's cut it! Don't worry, we'll make it cute. Short hair is all in the rage these days."
"Don't look like that. We're friends. You trust us, right?"
The girls at school treat her well. When they're not ignoring her, they like to play with her. They call her name and laugh as she startles, give her clothes and laugh as she comes out of the dressing room. It seems, around her, that they're always laughing. She thinks it's good that she can make them happy.
But it's not as if she ever asked for their companionship. Contrary to popular belief, she is a loner by choice. She likes the pervasive feeling of blank around her, as if she is enclosed in a cubic vacuum. Being around the other girls fills the empty space with lurid noise. Sometimes the change of pace is nice, but it's tiring. Unsafe. Yes, it's better for her to be alone.
There's no reason for her to be a charity case. She isn't pathetic. She doesn't mind the solitary way she lives. She isn't someone to be pitied.
Yet they think they're so kind, sparing her attention like they would spare coins for a beggar. They think that she's grateful. So they think, somehow, in some way, that they are entitled to her body. Payment for the selfish kindness she never wanted.
She leans against the crumbling wall of a shabby alley near T·A Academy. The girls had ushered her here, away from prying eyes ("people might take this the wrong way if they see, so let's do it here"). Scattered around her are locks of brown hair, perhaps three or four inches in length. Not too long, maybe, but her hair grows slowly. It'll take a year for her hair to resume its original length.
Slender fingers reach up and card through her hair, where it tapers to points that curl inwards toward her chin. They had made a neat job of it this time, at least. They must have improved since their last impromptu hair salon simulation.
It's been hours since school has ended, so the sun is beginning to dip low into the horizon. Her mother will be worried. But she makes no motion to move, though, her hands falling into her lap and her head craned downwards as if in heavy contemplation. In her left hand, she grasps a pair of sleek dressmaking scissors where the girls had left it. To any onlooker, it would seem that she has cut her own hair in some shabby little alley, without even a mirror to guide her unsteady hands. Just her backpack and a pair of scissors and locks of fallen hair on the ground around her.
The sunlight doesn't reach the alley, so she is cast in shadow. It's just hair, she thinks. It's not a big deal. It's not as if they had shaved her entire head. She even looks nice now, if the opinions of her friends(?) are to be trusted.
No, the hair itself isn't the issue. The issue here is that she let herself be exploited again, like a puppet strung along by fickle hands. It's times like this she feels the most lifeless: not as a corpse, but as a doll.
@open to anyone.
"That's a shame. It was prettier when it was shorter."
"Oh, I know. Let's cut it! Don't worry, we'll make it cute. Short hair is all in the rage these days."
"Don't look like that. We're friends. You trust us, right?"
The girls at school treat her well. When they're not ignoring her, they like to play with her. They call her name and laugh as she startles, give her clothes and laugh as she comes out of the dressing room. It seems, around her, that they're always laughing. She thinks it's good that she can make them happy.
But it's not as if she ever asked for their companionship. Contrary to popular belief, she is a loner by choice. She likes the pervasive feeling of blank around her, as if she is enclosed in a cubic vacuum. Being around the other girls fills the empty space with lurid noise. Sometimes the change of pace is nice, but it's tiring. Unsafe. Yes, it's better for her to be alone.
There's no reason for her to be a charity case. She isn't pathetic. She doesn't mind the solitary way she lives. She isn't someone to be pitied.
Yet they think they're so kind, sparing her attention like they would spare coins for a beggar. They think that she's grateful. So they think, somehow, in some way, that they are entitled to her body. Payment for the selfish kindness she never wanted.
She leans against the crumbling wall of a shabby alley near T·A Academy. The girls had ushered her here, away from prying eyes ("people might take this the wrong way if they see, so let's do it here"). Scattered around her are locks of brown hair, perhaps three or four inches in length. Not too long, maybe, but her hair grows slowly. It'll take a year for her hair to resume its original length.
Slender fingers reach up and card through her hair, where it tapers to points that curl inwards toward her chin. They had made a neat job of it this time, at least. They must have improved since their last impromptu hair salon simulation.
It's been hours since school has ended, so the sun is beginning to dip low into the horizon. Her mother will be worried. But she makes no motion to move, though, her hands falling into her lap and her head craned downwards as if in heavy contemplation. In her left hand, she grasps a pair of sleek dressmaking scissors where the girls had left it. To any onlooker, it would seem that she has cut her own hair in some shabby little alley, without even a mirror to guide her unsteady hands. Just her backpack and a pair of scissors and locks of fallen hair on the ground around her.
The sunlight doesn't reach the alley, so she is cast in shadow. It's just hair, she thinks. It's not a big deal. It's not as if they had shaved her entire head. She even looks nice now, if the opinions of her friends(?) are to be trusted.
No, the hair itself isn't the issue. The issue here is that she let herself be exploited again, like a puppet strung along by fickle hands. It's times like this she feels the most lifeless: not as a corpse, but as a doll.
@open to anyone.