God and Monsters

Chapter 8

"You have such pretty hair," a soft, whimsical voice says from behind me.

Inhaling sharply, I whip around, startled from the unexpected intrusion. It's her. The girl Jerry was carrying in over his shoulder when I first arrived. The
girl with fire and ice in her gaze, and the same creepy smile tipping up her lips that she's currently wearing. Long blonde hair curls around her waist, and deep brown eyes stare at me from the doorway. She's slightly hunched and terribly skinny. I'm standing at the full-length mirror, attempting to French braid my hair. Rio rudely awoke me this morning by storming in, throwing a soft pair of joggers and a t-shirt at me, and demanding I get ready before slamming the door behind him on his way out. For what, I'm afraid to ask.

My seven days of purgatory are over, and just the thought of being awake makes me nauseous.
I've been waiting around for further directions, so to give myself something to do, I'm trying to fix my hair away from my face.

"Uh, hi," I say, trying to regain my bearings.
I'm instantly on edge, tense beneath her probing gaze. There's something entirely unnerving about her presence.

She straightens and walks farther into the room, standing several inches above me.
"Do you want my help?"

My instinct is to say no. I very much want to kick her out so that I can breathe again. But it would be wise to make friends with the creepy girl rather than enemies. So, I nod my head, keeping a close eye on her as she approaches me. She's wearing a long white gown that is nearly see-through-the curves of her body and her dark nipples apparent. I keep my eyes averted, trying to give her some semblance of respect that I'm sure she's missing from the men in this house.

Hesitantly, I turn my back to her and watch her closely through the mirror. She smiles wider, displaying crooked teeth as she reaches for my hair. She presses her entire front into my back, and a sick feeling curdles in my stomach when I feel her nipples brushing against me.
Furrowing my brows, I step away, feeling all kinds of weird. She snickers but doesn't come any closer. Instead of gathering my hair together, she pets me. Brushing her fingertips against my blonde strands, almost seeming to relish in the feel. My discomfort worsens, even when she finally gathers all my hair together. She's gentle with me, though, her eyes glued to her task.

"What's your name?" she asks, running her hand through my hair to clear out the knots.

"Rosie," I say. "Yours?"

"How did you get your hair so soft?" she asks in place of an answer. I thin my eyes, not liking her avoidance.

"I don't really do much with it. No heat and no dye."

She hums, and I arch a brow. "Your name," I insist. She pauses and holds out a pale hand, and it takes a second to realize she's asking for the ponytail holder. Blowing out a breath through my nose, I slip the band off my wrist and drop it in her palm. A few more moments of silence pass, and I don't soften my gaze, boring holes into her face through the mirror, still waiting for an answer.

"Sydney," she responds finally, her voice pleasant as she begins to braid.

Part of me gets the feeling she made me wait on purpose, like a power move. Nothing she's doing is outwardly vindictive or cruel-in fact, she's being incredibly gentle as she twists my hair-but that feeling triggers my sixth sense anyway. Like when someone laughs at something you said, but you just know they're laughing at you, and not with you.

"Francesca wants us to meet her in the pretty room."
I've no fucking idea what the pretty room is. So, when Sydney finishes with my hair and motions for me to follow her, I do so without question. She leads me down the hallway, a line of girls walking opposite us and towards a room a few doors down from mine.