Sparks of Inspiration: Short Stories

A Little Closer

WARNING: This story may be slightly disturbing due to a scene involving self-harm.

Charlotte never gave me any toys. She seemed to be fixed on the idea that I was abnormal. I didn't need toys. "They are useless to you," she would tell me. "It's not like you would need entertainment for living. Happiness is temporary, you should know this; and so is the sorrow of dying."

My mom wasn't alive anymore. She died in a bed at the hospital. I can't remember much else. I was five, maybe six at the time. Charlotte was my aunt.

"My child, you must be seen first to then be forgotten. I assure you, if you are not seen, no one will forget for no one will know. And therefore, when death comes upon you, you will not be forgot—"

"But I want my face to be known!" I would whine as she combed my hair over my eyes ; my bangs were too long.

"This is for the best," Charlotte would retaliate sternly, combing harder and increasing the pressure of one of her bear-hands on my head. Then she would quickly loosen her grip and storm out of the mirrored room with a red face and a broken jaw that killed any chance she had of tearing her cheeks from clenched teeth.

I would wait for her return, which would never transpire for many minutes; as expected. So then I would be staring at myself for hours through clean wet and sticky black hair that would then dry lightly and curl at the ends.

I don't remember much of my mom. Of course her smile was not easy to forget for I was amazed at how perfect it looked compared to mine. Mine were small and orderless, hers shiny like great loyal barriers protecting the body from internal suffering. I knew the smile well, but nothing of her other looks nor features. Even her hair was a blur; was it like mine?

Then I would look at my hair from behind it and through, and took note of the glittering threads that entangled themselves within dull ones. "Only the pretty ones," I grinned and my eyes lit up with strange excitement as I started to carefully pluck out all of the dull hairs from my head. Sometimes my scalp was reluctant to let go, which hurt more and somehow satisfied this new feeling that had overwhelmed me. It was as if a storm took control, and the thunder rumbled onward.

I flinched at first. It was a powerful thing to feel pain; weakness. Feeling heat from irritation emitting from my scalp, I breathed easy and continued. It didn't bother me too much—I didn't want to think too much of my actions. Just felt as though Charlotte were still handling my hair—a little rough (this is what I thought to calm down the conflicting weather inside me).

"Only the pretty ones," I repeated, which kept me sane.

Several more hours had passed, and my arms grew tired, but I continued to pluck. My scalp was numb and red, feeling as if it had caught fire. Charlotte has not returned yet. "Only the pretty ones," I would tell myself when my scalp began to sear and tears ran down my cheeks. My fingers started to feel wet. Slippery—it made it more difficult, and annoyed me somewhat. "I only need the pretty ones." There was irritation in my tone then.

When I could hear Charlotte's footsteps, by instinct I threw my arms down as if I were doing something unruly. What had I been doing? What shadow overcame me, dulling my senses?

They were slow footsteps. I could see myself again, only this time I was different. My eyes had been blinded before, but now they saw: my eyes were blue, an electric blue that surged with frantic energy. My youthful lips trembled as those eyes shifted to the bloody baldness that had formed on the top of my head.

"I must not be forgotten," I whispered in vain, transfixed. My teeth had been clenched tight, and so I stretched my mouth accordingly. "I only needed the pretty ones." My voice sounded higher than normal. I bit my tongue and kicked my feet with intent to release any unwanted negative energy. My hands were sticky and I rubbed them together to try to fix it. What shadow overcame me?

As the footsteps grew louder, I noticed the pile of hair that had formed on the marble counter; I didn't recognize it anymore: it was shiny in the dim light that came through the small window. Some of it reddened the counter. I knew I'd made a mistake. My head was throbbing, and my entire face was deathly pale now with shame and guilt. I was sweating. And the top of my head remained a meaty red with pulses felt throughout.

And she walked in. And she took the seat that sat behind me. And she took hold of the comb again. There was a pause.

Her eyes seemed as though they had lost something and searched for it on the ground. They were dull. Her sleeves were damp and the skin around her eyes was swollen and raw. "Clove," she sighed. She looked up from the ground. She didn't gasp when she saw the hideous sight before her, but started to breathe heavier as if her breathing pattern before wasn't sufficient. Her heartbeat was faster now; I could hear it like a ticking clock.

"What possessed you to do this?" She asked in a weak and hopeless quaver.

"I only needed the shiny ones. All the rest were dull." I further clarified: "I w-won't be forgotten."

Charlotte gulped to avoid gagging I suppose, and looked at my bloody scalp for a moment before standing up again. She walked somberly to the wooden shelf at the end of the bathroom where extra towels were folded, and face towels hung. She grabbed a face towel and soaked it with cold water. "Sit still now." Charlotte commanded. I didn't move. Shaking now, I realized that there was very little that worried me, very few things I was actually scared of and could say this without falter: I was scared of my own hands.

Monsters didn't scare me anymore, that fear disappeared when I found Charlotte to be the scariest-looking thing I could imagine. Ghosts— well if I were scared of ghosts then it would be pointless to wish to see my mom while I'm living; death—I didn't think of it too much up until my mom, but I believe that it wouldn't be too bad to die if my mom is wherever I'm going. Darkness— well that's where ghosts are said to live, thus my mom! And people, I didn't know enough of them to fear them, and I choose not to fear the unknown.

But my own hands: they were with me wherever I went. I thought I knew them. They felt strong and skillful. But they had their own mind. They were a part of me that weren't always under my control. And I had to rely on them to listen to me every day. Yes, I feared my hands. They were the ones that ruined my head, not I. Hands are the evil that corrupt.

Charlotte dabbed at my skin where hair was no longer present and she cleaned the ones that remained. My head felt cooler and lost it's thick red color; the fiery pain diminished. The color was now watery and running down my face and I tilted my head in confusion: how did that happen?

Vaguely remembering what truly prompted my behavior, I asked a question that had concerned me: "What was my mother's hair like before she died?"

Charlotte's face grew dark as she let her chin sink into her chest. "Oh, so is that what you were trying to do?" Her hands stopped rubbing the top of my head and the sound of squishing water ceased. "Well then, I ought to let you heal up before I shave it off."

I furrowed my eyebrows. Charlotte looked at me with a wicked smile and spoke, "The reason you don't remember it is because it never existed after you turned four. That is the age when you get your 'memory bank' after all. Before, all of it was scattered pictures."

"But why didn't she have hair?"

Charlotte held back her laughter at this ignorant question. "Call it what you want! Whatever you're five-year old head can comprehend! It was a monster that came in the night, stole it! It was a ghost, Death itself! But in truth it was a traitor, a lie: something that should have cured her illness. A sacrifice that had no compensation."

"Com-pen-s—?"

"It means she didn't get what she wanted! Certainly not what she deserved..."

Charlotte lifted the sticky hair from off the counter and let it fall into the trash bin.

"Your mother..." I could feel the coldness emanating from her skin. Goosebumps covered me and the room seemed unnaturally sickly: a pale darkness. "She had cancer."

Though I didn't fully understand what cancer did to my mother, I could see pain in my aunt's face that I had never quite seen before: something she was keeping from me.

She hugged me so that I could not see her reflection in the mirror. "I'll shave it off for you, Clove. I promise. Just for you, so that you may know your mother just a little bit more. She would have loved the idea..."

I had never felt so vulnerable.