“I . . . can’t . . .” Between gasps, I try to tell him I can’t breathe, but my face is back in the water before I can finish saying the words. I can see the dye swirling around and taste it on my tongue every time I try to inhale. I start panicking when it seems like he won’t let me up for the air I desperately need. I can feel myself start to hyperventilate, and I’m scared.
Somehow, I muster enough strength to push back and yell, “Marcus!” This time it works. He releases his hold and backs up, allowing me to raise up enough to take a huge breath in. I lift up on all fours and continue to pant hard as I try to catch my breath. My eyes remain glued on him as he backs away from me. He drops the half-empty bottle into the sink and takes a few steps back as I remain frozen on the shower floor, just breathing. He doesn’t stop backing away until he’s almost out of the room. He pauses briefly to say, “Finish dying your hair. Don’t come out until it is done.”
He slams the door, leaving me alone on the shower floor praying for someone or something to save me. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
I shift so I’m sitting under the cold spray and look down at my hands, staring at the cold metal cuff still hanging off one wrist. I lift the other hand to slide it through my hair, and as I pull it back down, it trembles. My breathing becomes ragged again as I try to process everything that has happened. The panic rises until it consumes me. I sit in that shower for at least an hour, shaking as rivers of hot tears run down my face and mix with the cold water streaming over my half-naked body. I stay there until my tears have stopped. Until my shallow breaths are normal again and my heartrate is steady. Or maybe I’m too numb by the cold water to care anymore. Either way, I’ve found my way back to that point. It just took a little longer this time.
I get up and go to the mirror to assess the damage he’s done. He only seemed to get the dye on the back of my head, but it’s noticeable enough that I’ll have to cover the rest of my head for it to look normal. Using a still-shaky hand, I pick up the dye, close my eyes, and take a deep breath. When I open my eyes again, I stare at my reflection in the mirror and bring the dye to my hair. Layer by layer, I cover it in the same shade of dark plum from that night so long ago. It takes both boxes to cover all of my hair, and once it’s saturated with the dye, I find myself back in the corner of the shower stall. I bring my knees against my chest and wait for the color to set. I don’t have a watch or clock, so I wait until I feel like it’s been long enough. I strip out of all of my clothes and turn on the water, slowly stepping under the shower stream, grateful the water is warm this time. As the purple dye washes down the drain, it swirls like it’s dancing. It could beautiful if it wasn’t another reminder of what this asshole has taken from me.
I suppose I should take comfort in my first shower since Marcus kidnapped me, but it doesn’t comfort me; I don’t think anything could. I wash my hair with a bar of funny-smelling soap I found sitting on the ledge of the shower to make sure I get all the dye out. I open the shower door and almost step on another plastic bag. I pull a towel off the rack on the wall. It’s stained, and it grosses me out to use it to dry myself, but I don’t really have any other options here. Then I reach into the bag and find a sundress and a pair of clean underwear. Under both pieces of clothing are a pair of sandals. I don’t bother to check if they’re the right size. Somehow, I know they will be.
I’m thankful for the clean underwear even if it’s under these circumstances. It’s one small mercy in this disaster, although I could do without the dress. Once I’m dressed and I’ve toweled dried my hair as much as possible, I put on my bravest face and step out of the bathroom.
I walk around the corner to the bedroom where Marcus is sitting on the edge of the bed. He looks up at me as I walk in. “It’s about time.”
He has a brush next to him. I stop in the entrance to the room, wary of walking any closer to him. He’s obviously lost his mind. I knew he was crazy before, but I didn’t know the full extent until now.
“Come. Sit. I’ll brush your hair. For old times’ sake,” he says. After the shower incident I’m not sure I can handle any more, so I do as he asks. I sit on the bed and turn so my back is facing him. He picks up the brush and begins brushing out the tangles. Each stroke of the brush sends a new rush of eerie chills over my skin, but I hold still. I don’t want to make him angry again.
“I like it. Do you like it? I think it suits
