Page 242 of Satan's Spawn
I can’t even think of the words without picturing Felix standing over me, forcing himself inside my mouth.
That image will never leave me, and I know damn well Crayton’s images never left him, because his situation was even worse.
The least I can do for the both of us is alleviate one of our monsters, especially since Crayton’s been so on edge since losing his knife—the sentiment with the weapon becoming abundantly clear.
And since it’s impossible to permanently change my skin tone, the next best thing is my fucking hair.
This change can be a new identity for the both of us.
“Either you do it correctly, or I do it and fuck it up.” I snatch the box off the bed and rip it open, allowing the contents to spill onto the mattress.
Having no idea what I’m doing, I reach for the big bottle first, and twist it open.
Hendrix growls then snags the bottle from my hands, closing it.
“You need to pour the color in first.” She grabs another smaller bottle, and fusses with both until the bigger one is filled with a bright orange-looking cream.
“Why the ginger?” She scrunches her face, sliding her hands into plastic gloves.
Fuck if I know.
“It called out to me, I guess.”
“Yeah..well…” She plops me down in a desk chair. “You didn’t have to answer, bitch.”
We go through about three more rounds of debate until finally Hendrix caves, handing me an older t-shirt of hers to put on and finishes preparing the dye contents.
When she’s done applying the gloves, her hand squeezes my shoulder. “You sure about this, Bee?”
More than anything.
“Yes, I’m positive.”
Hendrix blows out a deep breath. “Well, then I guess we’re doing it.”
The entire process takes about three hours because of the hair cut Hendrix insisted she needed to give me—which I’m still cursing myself for trusting her inexperience—and the fact she had to haul ass to the nearest CVS to get two extra boxes of dye.
The whirring of my hair dryer fills our dorm room, and although I can see how orange the strands are blowing in front of my face, I still don’t have it in me to look in the mirror.
Hendrix isn’t crying, so I guess that’s a plus.
She’s gathering strands in the brush to work the final section as she says, “Dude, this color actually suits you really well.”
A flush of hope warms my insides, makes me anxious.
So much I’m instinctively rising out of the seat.
“Nuh-uh.” She forces me back into the chair. “You’re not looking ’til I’m done.”
My knees are shaking as she twirls the front of my hair in the brush, adding more waves.
Three thousand hours later…she’s finally done.
“You can go.” She snips.
I jump out of the chair this time, nearly stumbling over myself to get to the mirror.
When I reach it, I’m drawn breathless as I take in the girl before me.
