Thrown by HeadBoy
You are thrown down a flight of stairs, some sort of punishment he metered out on you when he caught you in bed, his bed, your bed, with another woman. He wasn’t the type prone to rage, he wasn’t even prone to raise his voice. Something about this, however, had made him snap.
You tumble to the basement, she is not far behind, tumbling just as loud and hard. He comes down the stairs, evil in his eyes. Rage.
You are tied, duct taped actually, to a chair, she has her hands and arms tied behind her back with the extension cord that hung on the wall. You watch, helplessly, as he shoves a sock from the drier into her mouth and runs tape around her head. The tears of fear well in your eyes. They don’t last long. The tears of angst and terror and those of pain replace them quickly.
He approaches you, you are frozen. Helpless. He shoves a sock in your mouth too. He turns and grabs the garden shears from the workbench. You look in worriment as he approaches you, opening and shutting them with a precise snip. He is eyeing your long, perfect, blonde hair. It touches your back down below the elbows. He approaches, the precise snips get louder and more ominous. What will he do? Oh God No! He is chopping away at your hair! HE is snipping away with a fevered pitch. He isn’t stopping. He’s cutting at the base of your neck. The back is reduced to something ugly. It is chopped away without ceremony. He keeps cutting. He nicks your ear as he chops the side away. Piles of hair fall into your lap and toward your feet. You work, furiously, to resist. You are trapped. You are getting your pride and joy chopped away while you sit helplessly. You feel the blades sink in at the temples and cut straight across where your bangs once were. They are gone now. Fallen.
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You work to get your hands free. Nothing. He is snipping away like Jose Eber on speed. You look over at her. She is crestfallen. Broken and laying on the floor in a defeated heap. You know it was wrong to sleep with her. You know that he was always a kind man up until now. That doesn’t forgive what he is doing. That doesn’t make this right. That doesn’t make your hatred burn for him any less.
She is on the ground. Your eyes meet. You can tell by the look in hers that this situation is grave. He drops the shears to the ground and leaves. You struggle to get free. The tape loosens, but does not budge or allow you any movement.
He returns with a pack of razors and a can of his shaving cream. What now?
No, not that.
Yes. you are being shaved bald as you sit there. She still has not moved. Not an inch. She is a defeated lump on the ground. You are the recipient of the rage that bubbles inside him. This inhuman act inside the cozy walls of your home together; the home you two built from scratch. After ten years of marriage, you drifted apart slowly. But he was always so kind. Quiet these days, but kind until now. Now, he was an uncaged wolverine. All evil motion and loveless massacre.
Your heart is beating like Charlie Watts on a high hat. You feel the scrape of the first stroke of the razor. They come fast and furious. They come repeatedly as you struggle. They peel the last vestiges of your pride and glory away. You struggle to free yourself. He reduces you to a bald, defeated woman in a matter of minutes. The terror lasted for what seemed like an eternity, but it was over quickly. A lifetime of care and maintenance, gone. Obliterated in a hurricane of insane rage.
He laughs at you. You are “marked”! You are “polluted”. You are many unkind, ugly, words. You are, however, working your hands free as he finishes up the deed. You can sense the last bit of hair ripping away from your head. You know now that you hate him You know now that you will get free and you will kill this bastard. You are like him, a coiled beast. You are now just waiting for your chance.
He pushes your chair over. “One down, one to go,” He says, turning his attention to her. Still on the ground. Still broken. He grabs her by the hair and lifts her, adrenaline still coursing through his veins. He drops her into a chair and reaches for the duct tape. He tapes her to a chair and reaches for the shears. He does not find them.
He turns to find you, standing. Free. With a shovel in your hand. The same shovel that is hitting him in the face. The same shovel that reduces him to a crumpled mass on the floor.
You grab the shears. You see his throat. Open. Exposed. Vulnerable. You approach him with death in your eyes. Dazed, he knows his moments are few. He knows that there is no escape. He feels the shears touch his throat. He feels them leave it too.
The duct tape around his wrists hurts more. More than any quick death you may have inflicted. Your head burns as you dial 911.
“Send… the… police.” you say and hang up as the voice on the other end asks you to calm down.
You cut her free. Cut her free and tell her to leave. You push her up the stairs and tell her never to come back.
You rub the red, burning, dome that used to have brilliant locks of blonde tendrils. It is a sore, cut and bruised thing now. You look in the mirror. It is not you looking back.
You hear the sirens and you go up stairs to meet the police.
“They’ll take care to punish you better than I ever could,” you say as you walk up the stairs to open the door for the cops. Up the stairs and out of his life.
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