something
where is it
And then I find it, a set of electric hair clippers, and I decide it’s time to give myself a haircut. My hair has been bothering me forever. It’s too long, too long, a memento, a keepsake from all my time in the asylum, too long from all those years I was forgotten and left to rot in hell, too thick, too suffocating, too much, too this, too that, too annoying
My fingers fumble for the plug but eventually I manage to turn the thing on, the little machine buzzing in my hand and I think I should probably take off my clothes first, don’t want to get hair everywhere do I, so I should probably take my clothes off first, definitely
And then I’m standing in my underwear, thinking about how much I’ve always secretly wanted to do this, how I always thought it would feel so nice, so liberating—
And I drag the clippers across my head in a slightly jagged motion.
Once.
Twice.
Over and over and over and I’m laughing as my hair falls to the floor, a sea of too-long brown waves lapping at my feet and I’ve never felt so light, so silly silly happy
I drop the still-buzzing clippers in the sink and step back, admiring my work in the mirror as I touch my newly shorn head. I have the same haircut as Warner now. The same sharp half inch of hair, except my hair is dark where his is light and I look so much older suddenly. Harsher. Serious. I have cheekbones. A jawline. I look angry and a little scary. My eyes are bright, huge in my face, the center of attention, wide and sharp and piercing and I love it.
I love it.
I’m still giggling as I teeter down the hall, wandering Anderson’s rooms in my underwear, feeling freer than I have in years. I flop down onto the big leather chair and finish the rest of the glass in two swift gulps.
Years, centuries, lifetimes pass and dimly, I hear the sound of banging.
I ignore it.
I’m sideways on the chair now, my legs flung over the arm, leaning back to watch the chandelier spin—
Was it spinning before?
—and too soon my reverie is interrupted, too soon I hear a rush of voices I vaguely recognize and I don’t move, merely squint, turning only my head toward the sounds.
“Oh shit, J—”
Kenji charges into the room and freezes in place at the sight of me. I suddenly, faintly remember that I’m in my underwear, and that another version of myself would prefer not to have Kenji see me like this—but it’s not enough to motivate me to move. Kenji, however, seems very concerned.
“Oh shit shit shit—”
It’s only then that I notice he’s not alone.
Kenji and Warner are standing in front of me, the two of them staring at me like they’re horrified, like I’ve done something wrong, and it makes me angry.
“What?” I say, annoyed. “Go away.”
“Juliette—love—what did you do—”
And then Warner is kneeling beside me. I try to look at him but it’s suddenly hard to focus, hard to see straight at all. My vision blurs and I have to blink several times to get his face to stop moving but then I’m looking at him, really looking at him, and something inside of me is trying to remember that we are angry with Warner, that we don’t like him anymore and we do not want to see him or speak to him but then he touches my face—
and I sigh
I rest my cheek against his palm and remember something beautiful, something kind, and a rush of feeling floods through me
“Hi,” I say.
And he looks so sad so sad and he’s about to respond but Kenji says, “Bro, I think she drank, like, I don’t know, a whole glass of this stuff. Maybe half a pint? And at her weight?” He swears under his breath. “That much whisky would destroy me.”
Warner closes his eyes. I’m fascinated by the way his Adam’s apple moves up and down his throat and I reach out, trail my fingers down his neck.
“Sweetheart,” he whispers, his eyes still closed. “Why—”
“Do you know how much I love you?” I say. “I love—loved you so much. So much.”
When he opens his eyes again, they’re bright. Shining. He says nothing.
“Kishimoto,” he says quietly. “Please turn on the shower.”
“On it.”
And Kenji’s gone.
Warner still says nothing to me.
I touch his lips. Lean forward. “You have such a nice mouth,” I whisper.
He tries to smile. It looks sad.
“Do you like my hair?” I say.
He nods.
“Really?”
“You’re beautiful,” he says, but he can hardly get the words out. And his voice breaks when he says, “Why did you do this, love? Were you trying to hurt yourself?”
I try to answer but feel suddenly nauseous. My head spins. I close my eyes to steady the feeling but it won’t abate.
“Shower’s ready,” I hear Kenji shout. And then, suddenly, his voice is closer. “You got this, bro? Or do you want me to take it from here?”
“No.” A pause. “No, you can go. I’ll make sure she’s safe. Please tell the others I’m not feeling well tonight. Send my apologies.”
“You got it. Anything else?”
“Coffee. Several bottles of water. Two aspirin.” “Consider it done.”
“Thank you.”
“Anytime, man.”
And then I’m moving, everything is moving, everything is sideways and I open my eyes and quickly close them as the world blurs before me. Warner is carrying me in his arms and I bury my face in the crook of his neck. He smells so familiar.
Safe.
I want to speak but I feel slow. Like it takes forever to tell my lips to move, like it’s slow motion when they do, like the words rush together as I say them, over and over again
“I miss you already,” I mumble against his skin. “I miss this, miss you, miss you” and then he puts me down, steadies me on my feet, and helps me walk into the standing shower.
I nearly scream when the water hits my body.
My eyes fly open, my mind half sobered in an instant, as the cold water rushes over me. I blink fast, breathing hard as I lean against the shower wall, staring wildly at Warner through the warped glass. Water snakes down my skin, collects in my eyelashes, my open mouth. My shoulders slow their tremble as my body acclimates to the temperature and minutes pass, the two of us staring at each other and saying nothing. My mind steadies but doesn’t clear, a fog still hanging over me even as I reach forward to turn the dial, heating the water by many degrees.
I can still see his face, beautiful even blurred by the glass between us, when he says, “Are you okay? Do you feel any better?”
I step forward, studying him silently, and say nothing as I unhook my bra and let it drop to the floor. There’s no response from him save the slight widening of his eyes, the slight movement in his chest and I slip out of my underwear, kicking it off behind me and he blinks several times and steps backward, looks away, looks back again.
I push open the shower door.
“Come inside,” I say.
But now he won’t look at me.
“Aaron—”
“You’re not feeling well,” he says.
“I feel fine.”
“Sweetheart, please, you just drank your weight in whisky—”