Page 39 of The Ashes of Summer

He lowers me onto my feet with surprising care, one hand remaining on my arm to steady me before letting go. I stumble anyway.

Bleach stings the back of my throat, mixed with something sharper that I can't place straight away. The overhead light is almost painfully bright, washing every surface in harsh white until the room feels stripped of anything remotely human.

There's almost nothing here. A single chair. A folded towel. A narrow metal tray that holds plastic bowls, black gloves and what looks like a hairbrush.

Donnie steps inside behind us, the door clicking shut at his back before he takes up position beside it, his pistol hanging loosely in one hand. He doesn't need to point it at me. The message is clear enough.

Jackson rolls his sleeves to his forearms before pulling on the gloves one finger at a time. The snap of the rubber against his wrist echoes around the room. Then he reaches for an unmarked bottle and pours a dark liquid into the bowl with a slow, syrupy thickness.

The smell hits me instantly. Ammonia. Developer. Hair dye.

My fingers fly to my hair, holding the strands and backing myself up against the wall.

"No..." The word escapes on a breath.

Jackson lifts the brush and begins stirring the mixture with slow, deliberate movements, never once looking away from it.

Round and round.

The color deepens.

"No."

This time my voice cracks and he finally looks up.

"Sit down, Princess."

I don't move.

"I said..." His gaze settles on me, calm enough to make my skin crawl. "...sit down."

My fingers remain tangled in my hair, holding onto it so tightly my scalp aches.

"No."

Jackson doesn't answer straight away. He watches me, expression unreadable, before setting the bowl back onto the tray with careful precision. The brush follows, laid neatly beside it as though there's all the time in the world.

"Don’t make this harder than it has to be."

"Why are you doing this?" My voice shakes despite every attempt to steady it. The only sound is my own breathing, growing quicker with every passing second. "You don't have to do this."

His gaze finally lifts to meet mine.

"I do."

There's no anger in his voice. No frustration. Just absolute certainty, as though whatever decision he's made was settled long before I ever arrived here.

My pulse pounds painfully against my ribs.

"No, you don't."

"It's just hair," Donnie laughs from the corner of the room, “what is it with you fucking women?”

Just hair.

No.

It's Saturday mornings with Mama patiently brushing knots from the back while sunlight poured through my bedroom window. It's every school photograph, every birthday, every version of myself I can remember looking back at me in the mirror. It's the one thing that's always been mine.