Page 29 of I’m The Worst

He rummages through a duffel bag, pulling out a box of hair dye and a pair of scissors.

“You need to change your hair.”

I wipe my eyes and glare at him, and then the black boxed hair dye. So, I’m not good enough to be blonde, huh? Not that I care.

I cross my arms. “I’m not touching my hair.”

His body tenses as his eyes darken. “I’m not asking.” He shoves the items into my hands. “Cut it. Dye it.”

I don’t move.

“Do it, or I’ll hold you down and shave your fucking head.” With that parting statement, he walks out.

Holding back a scream, I slam the bathroom door behind me and grip the edge of the sink, staring at the stranger in the mirror.

This is what’s left of me.

I grab the box of black hair dye and tear it open. The chemical smell burns my nose as I mix it and working it into my hair, watching the dark color seep in like ink, swallowing the last pieces of who I used to be. Tears slip down my face and mix with the dye, dripping into the sink.

Next, I pick up the scissors.

My hands shake as I take the first cut. Then another. Strands fall in uneven clumps onto the tile. I keep cutting, jagged and careless, until my hair is shorter, choppy and ruined—just like everything else. Setting the scissors down, I meet my eyes in the mirror.

I look dead inside.

Perfect.

That’s exactly how I feel.

The door swings open without warning, and I shove it shut with a furious shout.

“Jesus! Ever heard of fucking knocking?!”

“I don’t have time for this bullshit.”

I yank the door open, glaring at him. His cold green eyes scan my face, then my hair, before narrowing slightly.

I barely get the word out—“What?”—before his fist flies toward me.

Pain explodes across my face, my vision bursting with stars. The second hit lands before I can react, snapping my head back, and I collapse onto the tile. A sharp, burning pain spreads through my cheek and mouth, and when I touch my lips, my fingers come back smeared with blood.

I gasp, the air shuddering out of my lungs. “Why?!”

He crouches beside me, and I recoil, pressing myself against the cabinet. “Get away from me, you psycho! What the hell is wrong with you?!”

“Your face is too recognizable,” he says simply, unaffected. “I can’t have people paying attention to you.”

Rage burns through my veins, my pulse pounding against my skull. “I’m going to kill you. I’m going to fucking kill you.”

He slowly stands. “That’s your survival instinct. Use it.”

And then he turns, leaving me on the floor, my face throbbing, my blood staining the tile.

“What was all the commotion?” Savva asks as I step into the kitchen.

Of course he heard. The whole damn cabin heard.

I grab a glass, filling it from the tap. My fingers lock tight around the rim. I don’t look at him, but I feel his stare searing into my spine anyway.