The wedding would be full of them. White flowers, church light, champagne flutes lifted in toasts. My face, my smile, the camera panning to the groom’s mother, capturing her pride.
And now this. Bald. Stripped. Made into a joke.
The second thought came right behind it, colder than the first.
This wasn’t an accident. This was a message.
My eyes landed on the bedside table where my phone sat facedown. Next to it, my watch. My reading glasses. Everything arranged neatly, the way I liked it. The room looked normal, and that normality made my stomach turn. Someone had come into my bedroom while I slept. Someone had stood over me and done this.
I got up and walked to the bathroom.
The marble under my bare feet was icy. I felt every step like a tap of reality against my bones. The bathroom lights were too bright, almost cruel. They threw my reflection at me without mercy.
The woman in the mirror had my face, my eyes, my navy silk robe, my mouth pressed into a tight line.
But her hair was gone.
Not cut short. Not thinned. Gone.
A slick red scalp stared back under the light, blotchy and irritated, with faint scrape marks that looked like they had been made in a hurry. My skin gleamed as if it had been wiped down. When I leaned closer, I saw tiny nicks near my hairline.
Leave a Comment