Chapter 1: The Cut
“Stop!””
My voice cracked against the bedroom walls.
Monica didn’t stop.
Her fingers were twisted tightly around a thick section of my hair, and the scissors flashed once beneath the bright vanity lights.
*Snip.*
A heavy lock fell across my burgundy graduation gown.
I stared at it on the floor.
Then at her.
Monica stood behind me in the mirror, perfectly composed in her cream blouse, her sleek shoulder-length hair tucked neatly behind one ear.
She looked like someone who belonged in a family portrait.
Not someone holding scissors against her stepdaughter’s head.
“Monica, what are you doing?”” I whispered.
She gathered another section.
“Hold still, Arielle.””
I jerked away.
She grabbed my shoulder.
“Stop moving.””
“You’re cutting my hair!””
“My daughter deserves the beautiful pictures.””
The scissors closed again.
*Snip.*
Another uneven piece dropped.
My eyes filled with tears, but I refused to scream again.
Tomorrow was graduation.
Tomorrow, I was supposed to stand beside my father beneath the photo backdrop in the backyard, wearing the burgundy gown he had bought me himself.
Tomorrow, I was supposed to smile.
Monica knew that.
She knew exactly what she was doing.
“Why?”” I asked.
She finally looked at me through the mirror.
For half a second, something cold crossed her face.
Then it disappeared.
“You’ll understand when you’re older.””
“I’m already eighteen.””
“And acting like a child.””
She lifted the scissors again.
I caught her wrist.
Her expression hardened.
“Let go.””
“No.””
The room went silent.
The only sound was my breathing.
Monica slowly pulled her wrist free.
Then she looked at the ruined pieces of my hair scattered across the floor.
“You were always going to make this difficult.””
I swallowed.
“What does that mean?””
She smiled.
Not warmly.
Just enough to make my stomach tighten.
“It means you should learn when to stop asking questions.””
She dropped the scissors onto the vanity.
Then she walked out.
The bedroom door clicked shut.
I stood there alone.
My natural hair, which had taken months to grow and care for, was now chopped into jagged pieces around my face.
I touched the uneven strands.
My hands were shaking.
Then I noticed something.
A tiny black camera sat on the bookshelf across from my bed.
I had installed it three days earlier.
Monica didn’t know.
And suddenly, I wasn't thinking about my hair anymore.
I was thinking about why she'd said:
You were always going to make this difficult.
I wiped my cheeks.
Then I looked directly at the camera.
“Okay,” I whispered.
“If you wanted to play dirty…”
May you like
I reached for my phone.
“…let’s see how dirty you really are.””
