Chapter 9 - The Shears
When Trevor turned back toward me carrying those heavy steel shears, a cold, surreal paralysis washed over my body.
For one strange, terrifying second, my brain refused to process what he intended to do. I thought he was going to stab me. I thought he was going to end my life right there on the living room rug while his mother held my wrists.
"Trevor..." I whispered, my voice trembling for the first time. "Please..."
Trevor didn't answer. He dropped back to his knees beside my head.
With a violent, jerky movement, he reached down and grabbed a thick fistful of my long, dark chestnut hair—the hair I had spent years growing, the hair he used to stroke softly while we sat on the couch, the hair he had whispered was the very thing that made him fall in love with me when we first met in college.
He pulled it taut, lifting my head an inch off the floor.
"You always thought you were better than us," Trevor hissed, his breath hot and foul against my cheek. "You thought your law degree made you untouchable. You thought you could walk away and leave my family in ruins."
CRUNCH.
The thick blades of the kitchen shears closed together with a sickening, wet slicing sound.
A heavy, ten-inch lock of my dark hair fell uselessly onto the floor beside my face.
Eleanor didn't flinch. She gripped my wrists harder, pressing her thumbs into my pressure points to keep me pinned. Standing in the doorway, Briana watched with both hands pressed over her mouth, her eyes wide with a horrific mixture of shock and quiet satisfaction.
CRUNCH.
Another thick pile fell across my chest.
"You need to learn what happens when you defy my family," Trevor muttered continuously, his hands shaking violently as he hacked away at my head in uneven, brutal handfuls. "You need to learn your place, Maya. You're nothing without us. Nothing."
CRUNCH. CRUNCH.
I stopped thrashing.
I stopped struggling against Eleanor’s grip.
I did not beg him.
I did not cry.
Something deep inside my soul—some ancient, protective wall that had been holding my grief together—simply went stone silent. I stared up at the white plaster ceiling, watching dark clumps of my hair flutter through the air like dying leaves, landing on my sweater, my face, and the hardwood floor around my head.
Trevor finally stopped. He dropped the heavy steel shears onto the rug with a dull thud.
He sat back on his heels, his chest heaving with heavy, ragged breaths, sweat dripping from his forehead onto his collar. Eleanor slowly released my wrists and stood up, smoothing down her cardigan with a single, calm stroke of her hand.
"There," Eleanor said, looking down at me with cold, triumphant disgust. "Now... are you ready to call the district attorney and withdraw those absurd complaints? Or do we need to stay here until you learn complete obedience?"
I slowly pushed myself upright into a sitting position.
My hair was gone. What remained was a jagged, ruined, uneven mess hacked close to my scalp on one side, falling in shredded strands over my ears on the other.
They were waiting for hysterics. Trevor actually looked confused when I didn't scream, pull at my head, or burst into tears. He stood there, holding his mother’s arm, expecting me to crumble into a sobbing heap on the floor.
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Instead, I raised my head. I looked Trevor directly in his eyes with an expression of such complete, absolute, and chilling calm that he involuntarily took half a step backward.
Then, heavy, thundering footsteps echoed through the hallway outside.
