September 13, 2013
She laid on her side, her back right to the edge of her bed. Nearly three feet of carrot orange hair hung down, the very tips of it resting on the floor. She looked disgustingly gorgeous asleep like this, and the smudged eyeliner that she had forgotten to wash off that night added softness to her face in the dark. Her thin frame was covered in sheets and blankets of multiple shades and hues, all of which were left stipped of their color in the nearly pitch black room.

I crouched next to her and slowly gathered her beautiful curls in my left hand, holding them loosely just below the nape of her neck. My other hand held the scissors. I began to snip at her hair, gently sawing through the thick layers of dusty gold. She didn't stir. I knew she wouldn’t. When I reached the last cut, I loosed my grip and the strands fluttered to the ground. She mumbled something and shook her head a little, but did not give me away. I stood up quietly and crept out of the room.

A thought coming roughly from my left shoulder: That’ll show her

A thought coming roughly from my right shoulder: What did I just do?

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