Out

Chapter 14

Quarantine, 319 E.V., Cent. 15 - Five years earlier

I want to keep my hair, light and lifeless as it is. Skah says that I have lice—or maybe he said I might get them in here, but either way, I have to lose it. He granted me two minutes alone to run my fingers through fourteen years of growth and my time is nearly up. I suppose it does not matter. It is hair, a strange and aggravating collection of tiny things that do not hold any bearing over whether I live or die. It is not as if he has suggested I lose my leg to prevent possible future breaks, or my brain to prevent sadness. It's only hair, the thing that tells me when the wind is blowing and how. If I lived because the wind blew, my hair might be of more importance. Most of the time, it hangs beside my cheeks, a ratty reminder of my own laziness and father's inefficiency. It gets in my face when I sleep or bathe. My hair is the part of my body that is nonessential, and perhaps it is best if it goes.

Doctor Skah will cut it for me, when he returns to this tiny, white room. Everything white in Arcis is stale or unsafe. White steam from the chemicals. The crumbling houses. A bubble car with a fake doctor riding inside. White is a lie. The clothing folded on the table before me is white, though the fabric is rough. I suppose bleach isn't intended for softening fabrics, just hiding their flaws.

The disk my father gave me sits heavily against my thigh. It is in my possession only until these grey trousers and my plain grey top are replaced by the folded clothing before me, but I am relieved that they have not yet been taken. For a few minutes more, I am still my father's child.

"Roll up your sleeve," Skah says as he enters the room. He carries a large black bag.

"I have to roll up my sleeve so you can cut my hair?" I ask.

"I'll roll it up for you," he says, leaving me to infer an unvoiced threat. He will not hesitate to hurt me again. My lip throbs at the memory of my chin smacking against the seat.

"When will you fix my eyes?" I ask more gently.

Skah looks genuinely surprised by my question. His lips pull back from his teeth and he shakes his head, choosing to look inside the black bag, rather than provide an answer. He retrieves only three objects from the bag. Shears, which I expected. The syringe and vial of clear liquid are not unexpected but they could be anything; a vaccination for the lice he says I will get (if such a thing exists), a dose of preventative pain medicine, something to help my eyes, something to hurt me... but he intends to use it. That is why I must roll up my sleeve.

"Roll up your sleeve. I won't ask again," Skah says, fitting a pair of white gloves over his boney hands. He draws the liquid from the vial and holds the prepped syringe expectantly.

"Why?" I ask. "Do you think I will fight you when you try to cut off my hair?" I look him dead in the eye and pull the shears towards me. He raises an eyebrow.

"Are you going to sedate me first, so I do not thrash?" I inspect the blades. Jagged. Able to gnaw but inadequate for my coarse mane. The shears will fight me. I finger a long lock of hair that falls into my vision and hold up the shears readily.

"Oh, you're dangerous." The Doctor rolls his eyes.

"I have done what you will not," I say. It takes several tries to slice through my hair, but eventually the ashy lock falls onto the metal table. "And I did not blink when that man in green died." My idiocy is astounding even to me, at times, but I can't help it. This man has the sort of air that makes me want to provoke him. I want to see his expression when he no longer has control. I want to see his face fall in defeat. Maybe if I am difficult, he will make Officer Tarq take me home so he does not have to put up with me.