Eleanor's Dead

Box Dye

They were after me.

It was real.

The realization hit me as the shuddering showerhead washed the dye out of my hair. The sight of the black stained water reminded me of my last hair disaster three years ago. A twelve-year-old me had decided that she wanted black hair. It looked horrible, mind you, I realized it as soon as I stepped out from the very same shower in which I stood right now. I didn't look like myself at all.

Not looking like myself is exactly what I needed right now.

The dark water pooled around my feet, splashing on the smooth white surface and turning it a temporary dirty grey which swirled down the drain. Finally, the water started to run clear again.

It was so hard to get the supermarket box dye out of my hair, I was practically sobbing as mum took me to Aunt Lassie in a desperate hope that her many years colouring her own hair could rectify the disaster that mine had become. In the end, it worked out, after three months of bleaching my hair over and over I was left with an ugly, light blotchy brown. Mum insisted I dyed my hair back to its natural colour, but by then I was terrified of the alien-like smiles of the models showing off their coloured hair, and I swore to never go near the harsh-smelling paint ever again.

I looked down at the white towel I had in my hand. Well, once white towel.

It didn't look as bad as I thought it would, it certainly did what I wanted it to do at the very least.

"You screwed up good Izzy," I whispered, pulling my stained fingers through my thin hair, following my own motions through the cracked mirror in our clinically lit bathroom.

Compared to the rest of the two-roomed flat, the bathroom seemed to be the only room getting enough light.

Reginald. It was always Reginald.

Mum had warned me about him from the day we moved into the apartment. I walked next to her, tightly gripping her warm hand as we passed the playground in the new, unfamiliar city.

And there he was, Reginald, along with Moss and Joey, clambering on top of the slanted roof to the slide, markers secure in their mouths as they climbed, then in their hands as they scribbled 'bad words' on the structure. Looking back on it now, Olivia was the only friend Mum ever had approved of.

Of course, 'bad words' back then consisted of 'poop', 'pee', and 'fart'. Comparing that image of them to what we've become now, they were saints.

Mum scrunched her nose as I pulled on her hand, pointing towards the playground.

"I don't like those kids Isabel," She explained, gently pulling me away "Let's wait until they're gone then I'll bring you down, ok?"

I frowned, but nodded, my yellow wellington boots being guided on by mum as I twisted my neck as far back as I could, watching them play. Reginald caught me looking. He stuck his tongue out at me.

I stuck mine straight back, snapping my neck back around and stomping through the puddles, mum was right, those kids were no good.

They certainly weren't, but they were also my family.

That was until last Friday night when Reginald pulled out his pocket knife and stabbed Elanor Sprening through the chest.

Out of us five, I was the only one not at the party, the only one not arrested.

Being in jail sounded pretty good right now. I hadn't done anything wrong but Elanor's friends were convinced I was in on the entire scheme. I'm pretty offended that I wasn't, I thought me and Reginald were close. I thought we trusted each other.

Apparently not, and that left me in one fine sticky situation.

On one hand, I didn't have enough information for the police to arrest me. They came around on Saturday at one in the morning, interrogated me for two hours, then left me to deal with mum's wrath of 'I told you so' and the fact I wasn't protected at all.

On the other, Elanor's parents and friends are convinced I'm a brilliant liar, and now they want me dead.