Death is Black and White

"Do you want me to cut your hair?" a nurse pops her head into my open doorway after dinner. 

"I guess," I sigh, not caring about my less than average hair. I've had my stitches out for a while now, but I haven't even thought about doing anything with the mess that is my hair. 

Her face lights up and she runs out of the room, soon returning with a pair of shiny scissors. 

I laugh dryly. "I didn't know those things even existed in this hell hole." 

Surprisingly, she laughs too. Most of the nurses here would either deepen their permanent scowls or laugh nervously at any sign of emotion from a patient. This particular nurse looks to be in her late twenties, which is a big leap from the rest of the grumpy middle aged women baby-sitting us. 

She closes my door and sits on my bed behind me, combing out my maimed hair. "I'm thinking of giving you a nice bob. It'll look good with your face shape, and you have great cheekbones." 

I nod, not really caring what it looks like as long as it's better than right now. 

She cuts in silence for a while, then says, "I used to be in beauty school. I loved it there, had my whole future planned out." 

I wonder if she tells all the patients her life story. I really don't mind, though, since this girl is the first person to have a decent conversation with me that  doesn't care why I'm locked up here. She doesn't want to fix my cutting problems (as nonexistent as they are...), she just wants to fix my hair. It's refreshing. 

"I dropped out in my second semester," she continues, and I can't help thinking about the song from Grease, "Beauty School Drop-Out". 

"Why?" I ask softly, keeping my head still. 

She stops cutting for a second, staring out past my shoulder. That one word hangs in the air like smoke in a kitchen. Why? 

Why am I here? I stare silently at the demonic Lotty drawings that multiply on my wall with each day. I feel like she's going to come out of the pictures, maybe find a way to manifest without a mirror. I can't stop thinking back to October, when Lotty was just a harmless enigma that I wanted to explore and secretly even befriend. Back before she ruined everything in my life. 

Except maybe Josh. She hasn't ruined Josh yet. 

But I haven't seen a familiar face in weeks, other than that murderous nine year old's printed on my walls with a fat, black sharpie. My parents call, but I won't talk to them. I won't come out of my room when they visit. 

Sam arranged to visit with the guys next weekend, and Adam called me once so far because the work load at school is always really bad after winter break, and I'm only supposed to talk on the phone twice a week. I've never felt more insane in my life. Lotty is no longer a puzzle, she's a deep black hole that I'm standing on the edge of. I thought I knew what she was, maybe I could help her, but I was so wrong. I'm the one who needs help. 

"My sister committed suicide," the nurse says quietly. I completely forgot she was even in the same room until she spoke those words. Lotty does that to a person, specifically me. She makes me forget I'm still alive.

"I'm sorry," is all I can say. Pathetic. 

"Not your fault," she says a little more cheerfully. But sadness still saturates her words. "It was a shock. She had just gotten over her depression. In fact, she seemed even more upbeat that last month I saw her than she had in years. I guess that's a sign of suicidal thoughts. Glad i learned that after she died... Anyway, I couldn't handle school anymore. So I came here. I guess I just wanted to help people. And I'm not gonna lie, being around people with lives so much worse than mine kind of helped take away the pain." 

"Wow," I say. Again with my outstanding social skills. 

"Yeah. Do you have any siblings?" 

"I have an older sister. She's pregnant," I say sadly. "Her baby's actually due really soon. I probably won't even get to go see her." 

"I'm sure you'll get out of here soon enough." Oh, optimism. I could use some right about now. 

"We fight a lot. I'm sure she doesn't even remember I exist." 

"Oh trust me," the nurse says, turning my head to get a better angle of the hair she's cutting, "she hasn't forgotten you. I never got along with my little sis. In fact, she probably thought i hated her. I got the same vibe from her. But after she died I realized how much I really cared about her. This is so cliche, but you really don't realize what you have until it's gone. After she died, I couldn't concentrate on anything. It was like I had this lifeline with her that had been broken, and a piece of me was missing. I couldn't do simple things like brushing my hair, and I certainly couldn't cut or style it. Her death almost paralyzed me, if that makes any sense." 

"Oh, well I'm positive there's nothing like that going on in my family. We all pretty much have grown to hate each other," I sigh.

She just shrugs and keeps snipping away at my maimed hair. Who was this girl anyway? I haven't met someone this open in my life. And I mean genuinely open, unlike the therapists and councilors here who make it seem like telling their "tragic" stories will get us to open up. 

"How come you needed stitches here?" the nurse asks.

"Actually, my sister and i got in a fight and she threw a pillow at me. But I ducked and it hit my bookshelf, causing a shit ton of stuff to land on me. No big deal." The standard story. I can't tell her the truth; they'd never let me out of here.

"What's your name?" I ask suddenly. I just feel weird having such an intimate conversation with a total stranger. 

"Samantha," she replies. 

My heart sinks. "That's my best friend's name. I haven't seen her since the night I got admitted here." 

She frowns and puts a hand on my shoulder. "You should have her visit. What's not to love about these obscenely bland walls, tasteless modern art, and grueling therapy sessions?"

We both laugh and she asks me more about my life at home. I tell her about Sam and Adam, my awkward crush on Josh, how he transferred to my school, my love for drawing, my parent's divorce. After about two hours, I feel like I've relieved more stress now than I have during any of my mental health "healing sessions". 

I've totally forgotten about my hair when Samantha gets up and produces a small hand mirror from her little smock. "You wanna see your new hair?" 

I nod eagerly, in an extremely good mood. She hands me the mirror and I admire my short hair. She was right, it makes my cheekbones look really high. 

"I love it," I smile for the first time in a while. "I think I'm gonna call Sam tonight and brag." 

I can feel the excitement building up in the pit of my stomach. Who knew a haircut could make a person so happy? I wonder if Josh would think it's cute. But I dont think it's just the haircut making me so happy. Samantha has completely lifted at least half the weight of my shoulders.

Then I lift up the mirror again to admire my hair, and find myself gazing into the eyes of a nine year old killer. Black eyes, blood dripping from her hairline, and her locks hair like snakes, Lotty laughs coldly at me from the mirror. 

I scream loudly and throw it across the room, sinking to the floor and sobbing.