awoke and saw that splotch of yellow lying on the floor …
Shea switched off the lamp and the room disappeared into darkness, taking with it the sickening sight of Tandy’s shorn hair.
But it was still there. Waiting for Tandy to awaken and see it …
Shea slid backward on her bed until the wall stopped her flight. Pulling her comforter up to her chest, she sat huddled in the corner, staring wide-eyed, fighting tears. Her lower lip quivered, and she had to bite down on it, hard, to keep it still.
She knew exactly what had happened. The scene played itself out in her mind as clearly as if she were sitting on her bed watching it happen:
Tandy comes back to an empty room. She’s glad to have it to herself. She doesn’t lock the door because she knows Shea will be coming in soon.
Tossing the clothes she was wearing onto the floor, Tandy slips into a long white T-shirt and sits on the edge of her bed brushing her long hair fifty strokes, a ritual she never skips, no matter how late she arrives home. Then, humming softly to herself, she washes her face and brushes her teeth.
She spends a few minutes writing in her diary. Then she slips a tape into her Walkman, dons headphones, and flings herself across her bed on her stomach.
She is asleep in minutes.
Shea shivered and yanked the comforter up to her chin, her fists clutching the edges so tightly, her knuckles ached.
The movie in her head continued.
Tandy has been asleep for a while when the electricity goes off. The clock radio stops and the lighted lamp on Shea’s table goes out.
The room is dark.
But Shea can still see everything perfectly, as if the room were bathed in daylight.
The door opens. A figure moves inside, quickly, quietly, an air of stealth about it. Of course. Because it shouldn’t be in this room. It doesn’t belong. Tandy is asleep, unaware of the sneaking, slithering figure. Meanwhile, Shea is being held captive in a dark, stuffy elevator, so she can’t come to Tandy’s aid.
I would have, Shea thought miserably, tears pooling in her eyes. I would have stopped him if I could have. But I couldn’t.
The figure is holding something shiny in its right hand. Something shiny and silver is being lowered toward Tandy’s sleeping form. It looks … it looks sharp, pointed …
A knife. A knife!
No … there are two blades, not one. And the two blades make a slicing noise against each other as they’re wielded threateningly above Tandy’s head.
Scissors. The thing in his hand is a pair of scissors.
Tandy doesn’t hear the slicing sound. Tandy is asleep, and wearing headphones. The music is still playing in her ears, drowning out any sound made by the silvery, shiny scissors.
Shea wanted to stop it from happening. She strained forward on the bed, about to scream, “No, no, don’t!” She bit back the shout only a split-second before it slid over her lips and hit the air, realizing that shouting would do no good now. Too late. The scene that was playing itself out in her head had already happened. It was over … and Tandy didn’t even know yet that it had taken place.
He bends low over Tandy, the shiny, silvery blades in his right hand. He lifts the thick strands of pale yellow and begins chopping. … quickly, deliberately, chop, chop, chop. As each clump falls free of Tandy’s head, it drops carelessly to the floor, until, in a brief few minutes filled only with the cold, slicing sound, the clumps form their soft round pool.
Tandy, asleep, perhaps dreaming, never feels a thing, never stirs as she’s being shorn.
So quickly, it’s over.
There is a deep, triumphant chuckle from the figure as it straightens up, holding the last chopped clump high in the air, like a trophy. Then that handful, too, drops to the floor.
The figure turns and leaves, closing the door quietly behind it.
Tandy sleeps on.
Shea did not sleep. All night long, as the shadows in the room deepened and darkened and then slowly faded, she sat huddled in the
Shea switched off the lamp and the room disappeared into darkness, taking with it the sickening sight of Tandy’s shorn hair.
But it was still there. Waiting for Tandy to awaken and see it …
Shea slid backward on her bed until the wall stopped her flight. Pulling her comforter up to her chest, she sat huddled in the corner, staring wide-eyed, fighting tears. Her lower lip quivered, and she had to bite down on it, hard, to keep it still.
She knew exactly what had happened. The scene played itself out in her mind as clearly as if she were sitting on her bed watching it happen:
Tandy comes back to an empty room. She’s glad to have it to herself. She doesn’t lock the door because she knows Shea will be coming in soon.
Tossing the clothes she was wearing onto the floor, Tandy slips into a long white T-shirt and sits on the edge of her bed brushing her long hair fifty strokes, a ritual she never skips, no matter how late she arrives home. Then, humming softly to herself, she washes her face and brushes her teeth.
She spends a few minutes writing in her diary. Then she slips a tape into her Walkman, dons headphones, and flings herself across her bed on her stomach.
She is asleep in minutes.
Shea shivered and yanked the comforter up to her chin, her fists clutching the edges so tightly, her knuckles ached.
The movie in her head continued.
Tandy has been asleep for a while when the electricity goes off. The clock radio stops and the lighted lamp on Shea’s table goes out.
The room is dark.
But Shea can still see everything perfectly, as if the room were bathed in daylight.
The door opens. A figure moves inside, quickly, quietly, an air of stealth about it. Of course. Because it shouldn’t be in this room. It doesn’t belong. Tandy is asleep, unaware of the sneaking, slithering figure. Meanwhile, Shea is being held captive in a dark, stuffy elevator, so she can’t come to Tandy’s aid.
I would have, Shea thought miserably, tears pooling in her eyes. I would have stopped him if I could have. But I couldn’t.
The figure is holding something shiny in its right hand. Something shiny and silver is being lowered toward Tandy’s sleeping form. It looks … it looks sharp, pointed …
A knife. A knife!
No … there are two blades, not one. And the two blades make a slicing noise against each other as they’re wielded threateningly above Tandy’s head.
Scissors. The thing in his hand is a pair of scissors.
Tandy doesn’t hear the slicing sound. Tandy is asleep, and wearing headphones. The music is still playing in her ears, drowning out any sound made by the silvery, shiny scissors.
Shea wanted to stop it from happening. She strained forward on the bed, about to scream, “No, no, don’t!” She bit back the shout only a split-second before it slid over her lips and hit the air, realizing that shouting would do no good now. Too late. The scene that was playing itself out in her head had already happened. It was over … and Tandy didn’t even know yet that it had taken place.
He bends low over Tandy, the shiny, silvery blades in his right hand. He lifts the thick strands of pale yellow and begins chopping. … quickly, deliberately, chop, chop, chop. As each clump falls free of Tandy’s head, it drops carelessly to the floor, until, in a brief few minutes filled only with the cold, slicing sound, the clumps form their soft round pool.
Tandy, asleep, perhaps dreaming, never feels a thing, never stirs as she’s being shorn.
So quickly, it’s over.
There is a deep, triumphant chuckle from the figure as it straightens up, holding the last chopped clump high in the air, like a trophy. Then that handful, too, drops to the floor.
The figure turns and leaves, closing the door quietly behind it.
Tandy sleeps on.
Shea did not sleep. All night long, as the shadows in the room deepened and darkened and then slowly faded, she sat huddled in the
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