Aunt Hilda’s Wig MAG

January 26, 2014
By Ann Horie SILVER, Surrey, Other
Ann Horie SILVER, Surrey, Other
5 articles 0 photos 0 comments

My head was cold, and I could feel the air dance across my scalp. She used her oversized tweezers to pluck each and every hair follicle out of its tiny home. She then scrubbed my naked head until it was red all over. I felt like a past-ripe tomato tossed into the corner of the garden, forgotten and uncared for.

There was no chance to fight; I caterwauled trying to rip my arms free. I was never able to rid my body from her homemade restraints. The leather dug through my flesh, embedding small bits into my veins.

She paced back and forth, back and forth. Her feet skidded across the scarred wood floors. She talked to herself while spending hours working away, and if I was quiet enough I could hear her breathing. Every once in a while the telephone would ring and her ratty voice blared into the receiver. She picked it up and rudely coughed into it, sending her unpleasant music straight into the listener's ear.

The door creaked open and my breath left my body. She trudged across the room, staring me right in the eye; she is a true psychopath at heart. In her hands she held my hair, woven together in bundles. Her arms came up over my head as she dribbled glue from a fiery hot gun onto my scalp. She then slowly started placing the hairs back on my head, and I knew what was coming.

After it dried, she started tweezing it from my head again. I cried. There was nothing left for me to do.

The author's comments:
I wrote this piece with inspiration from a post card.

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