22.
Rowan
I don’t cry. Ever. Well, at least I didn’t until all of this happened to me. Now it seems that I can’t stop crying. I don’t know what I’m most embarrassed about: the fact that I have reduced myself to tears in front of Tyler... twice! Or the fact that my messed up life has made me a snivelling cry baby who releases the waterworks over absolutely nothing.
Who am I kidding? Tyler is right (which I am discovering happens a lot), a poster doesn’t change anything. I’m not going home, not for a while. Maybe not ever. Just because my parents are looking doesn’t meant they will find me. It doesn’t mean that Tyler will let them find me. All it amounts to in the long run is more heartache and loss, which are becoming ever growing variables in my life right now.
I try not to think about that, though of course not thinking about that means I have to think about other stuff. Dangerous stuff. Stuff like Tyler. I know it is wrong and yet I just can’t stop. The feel of his arms around me, comforting and strong. It was the kind of embrace that I wanted to get lost in; get lost and never let go.
Stop! I order my brain. That train of thought is heading nowhere good, fast. I can’t think of him in that way; not now, not ever. He kidnapped me for gods sake! He took me away from everything I knew and loved and put me into hell. A half- detailed explanation and a few kind words cant redeem that.
I should hate his guts. I should wretch at the very thought of him touching me. I should definitely not be thinking about him the way I had – and still am. But, as you may have noticed, Should doesn’t really apply to my life. After all, right now I should be at home. I should have gone to prom with my best friend, wearing an overpriced dress that I would never wear again. I should have gone out that day a few months ago and gone home to my parents safe and sound if not bit tired after shopping all day. Should is a word that refers to the norm and I am so far away from the norm I think I break the scale.
Tyler left a little while ago. He jumped away from me so fast you would have thought he’d just realised he had his arms wrapped around a leper. Well, to him I suppose I amount to the same thing. God, I bet he was repulsed when he realised what he was doing. No wonder he shot out of that door like a starving person in search of food.
I’m on house arrest. I think of it as quarantine, so that the world doesn’t have to be contaminated by a parasite like me. To be fair though, there are worse places to be imprisoned. My ‘room’ at the Base for example. At least this room holds a little more finesse. It has a certain ambiance that was lacking in that grungy grey pit. My respect for the Hunters may have risen a notch but my opinion of that cell will never change.
This room is sweet, with it’s cream and peach wallpaper and scalloped embellishment skirting the entire perimeter of the room. The petit living area in the corner comes compete with a plush futon, small oak coffee table with a varnished finish coating the smooth wood and the television sits atop a matching oak cabinet containing crystalline glasses and expensive liquor – which at fifty pounds a bottle, I will not be touching. The immaculate, white tiled en suite stands adjacent to the small kitchenette and the rest of the room is taken up by two king sixed beds.
Tyler had generously sprung for a twin room with some money that he managed to snag from the safe house, most probably so that he wouldn’t have to share a bed with me but I don’t ponder that thought too long. What with the stab of rejection and my mind veering into forbidden territory, thinking about the rush of sharing a bed with Tyler, I decide it is a better idea to think about other, more trivial things.
Tyler comes back a little while later carrying a blue plastic bag like the ones I used to get from the little corner shop by my house. It is both amazing and incredibly pitiful the blast of emotion that storms through me at the sight of a plastic bag. Of all things!
“Here,” Tyler tosses the contents of the bag at me. Scanning the front of the box he has just thrown me I cast him a bemused look.
“Hair dye?” What do I need with hair dye? Surely the Terrigenas can tell it is me regardless of my hair colour. If he is trying to tell me something about my hair he can just think again because I like my hair the way it is.
“Yes, it isn’t just Terrigenas after you now. We also have the police on out tail courtesy of your parents.” Oh, I haven’t even thought about it like that. “So everyone is looking for a girl with blonde and red hair. It’s quite conspicuous don’t you think? If you become a brunette, it’s going to be a bit less obvious who you are, which makes my job a hell of a lot easier,” he explains and much to my chagrin, I have to admit that he has a good point.
“Fine,” I huff. Box in hand and shoulders hunched, I skulk into the bathroom defiantly.
Did I ever mention that I really like my hair? Well I do. A lot. It symbolises who I am and the fact that I’m not just another cookie cutter copy of modern society. It shows I’m unique. And it looks bloody good on me if I do say so myself. Therefore, the prospect of changing it does not go down well with me.
The model on the box has shimmering, brunette hair that bounces about in rippling waves of brown. It reminds me of the mahogany perfection of Faye’s hair and I absently clench my hands, crushing the box between two white knuckled fists.
Maybe that is why he chose this particular colour. He has Faye on his mind. She is probably on his mind a lot, maybe as much as he is on mine. Tyler is no doubt questioning his decision to go with me. After all, who wants a freaky weirdo chick with blood red highlights when you can have a brunette bombshell like Faye?
He’d done the right thing but maybe he was starting to wish he hadn’t picked the high road. Especially when this high road leaves him alone and stranded with a monster in hibernation. Yes, hibernation. I’m convinced that one of these days the beast will awaken and like someone flipping a switch, I will transform. I tremble at the thought. How had looking at ‘natural dark golden brown’ hair dye led me to think about that? I guess dying my hair is just the top of the Mount Everest of ice burgs.
It doesn’t take long to colour my hair and as I rinse off the excess dye it feels as if I’m watching what was left of the old me wash down the drain. I cant help but feel lost, like I’m not me anymore. I’m the monster. Slowly, slowly it is taking over and I can feel it clawing at my insides waiting to get out.
The hair dryer growls at me as it bursts to life. Tackling my hair takes a lot longer than I remember. Probably because it has grown a few inches since I last used a hair dryer, that and the time it takes for me to drag the brush through the scraggy split ends. I’ll tell you one thing, not washing, brushing or cutting your hair for months can really play havoc with your dead ends.
Ten minutes later and I’m still taming the bush invading my scalp. By now I’m seething and frustrated. Not just with my hair, with everything. With my hell hole of a life at the moment. With the growing emptiness in the pit of my stomach as piece by piece I loose myself. With the constant fear hanging over my head that I will become one of them... that I already am.
I’ve had enough! I throw the hair dryer onto the counter hard enough to leave a dent. Gathering my mess of knotted hair into a ponytail I grab for the manicure scissors lying on the counter and begin hacking angrily at my newly dyed hair.
When I’m done all that is left is a damp pile of my hair sticking to my feet and a mop of hair falling around my face looking – well, looking like someone has just attacked it with a pair of scissors.
My breaths come out short and ragged. I’m gripping the countertop so hard o worry I will leave a mark and my skin burns and the air around me turns into scalding steam. The scented candles scattered around the bath suddenly ignite, bright orange flames dancing high above the melting wax.
Looking into the mirror is a shock. I almost cant recognise myself and not just because of my new hairstyle ( I wish I could tell you that it looks good, short and modern in a salon perfect pixie cut. It’s not. It looks like it had been cut by a blind person wielding a chainsaw), it’s my eyes. They stand out against my hollow cheekbones, glowing blood red. I look possessed, like I’m looking at a photo with a serious red eye problem.
I look freaking scary!
I blink, too freaked out to be angry anymore and when I look back my eyes are back to their normal colourless glory. The candles die out with an audible hiss and the air cools to room temperature. I shake my head and my hair – steam dried – whips my cheeks before I stumble clumsily out of the bathroom.
“Wow, what-“ I cut Tyler of with a look that tells him he’d better choose his next words carefully unless he wants me to burn this place down. The scary thing is that that isn’t an empty threat.
“I said dye your hair, I didn’t mean you had to cut it all off!” I slump onto my bed and stare at the ceiling. It’s not much of a sight unless you have a thing for plain white spaces, in which case this ceiling would be perfect. For me however it serves one purpose and that is as something to look at other than Tyler.
Is he disappointed? I bet he expected me to go into that bathroom and come out a Faye clone and instead I’d gone and lopped all my hair off. Well if he is disappointed then too bad because I’m tired of doing that he wants. I’m tired of following his orders. I’m just... tired.
“Yeah. At least now they wont recognise me right?” I mutter, still not looking at him. I don’t hear him answer so either he hasn’t heard me or he is pointedly ignoring me. I’m going to take a wild guess and say it is probably the second option.
In typical Tyler-like fashion, he avoids the rest of the conversation by retreating to the comfort of the television. I, however, continue to stare at the ceiling – at least my choice of entertainment doesn’t kill by brain cells.
The T.V blinks to life and a voice emanating from the speakers makes me immediately sit up and look at the screen. I know that voice; I’ve heard it everyday for the last thirteen years of my life( excluding the past few months). It’s a little grainy and fuzzed as if they were speaking into a microphone or I was listening to a Dictaphone recording of them but it was unmistakable all the same.
Beth’s voice.
My eyes meet the screen just as it flashes black and the channel flicks. The voice is gone and now I’m watching a cartoon mouse trying to attain a cube of cheese without being squished by a mousetrap.
“Wait!” I yell unnecessarily loud but to distracted to care. “Hold on, go back.” It cant really be her, can it?
“No.” Tyler says firmly, “It was just the news anyway.”
“Just go back for one second!” I argue impatiently. Why is he being stubborn? I’m sure he can live with watching the news for two minutes.
“No.” He says again sharply. What is his problem!
“Turn it back.” I growl angrily and I can feel my skin heating up.
“Fuck!” Tyler yelps and drops the remote control, cradling his burned hand to his chest. Without hesitation I throw myself across the room towards the remote.
“NO! Stop!” Tyler shouts at me but it is too late. The screen blinks and I stare, transfixed. News bulletins scroll across the bottom of the page and in the bottom left hand corner today’s date and time is displayed. The camera is zoomed in to a girl standing on a podium speaking to a crowd of people. She flinches at every camera flashing and her face is morose and grim but she hasn’t changed at all since the last time I saw her.
An array of emotions well up inside of me, swirling around in my head each one competing to break free. Tears fill my eyes, I’m happy, relieved, betrayed and murderously furious at Tyler.
He’d lied to me. I had trusted him, believed him. Even after everything he put me through I still thought he was one of the good guys and I cant believe I’d been stupid enough to fall for it.
Because standing on that podium, pleading for me to come home is my best friend. Beth. Funny, she doesn’t look like she has been kidnapped to me.