“Thatch, I can’t leave looking like this.”
He winced. “A brush-over won’t work.”
“Fetch some hair clippers. Shave it off.”
Thatch gaped. “Allegra, that’s your pride and joy.”
“Not anymore. Thatch, I’m a freak. It’ll be uneven anyway, let’s cut it off and start again.”
“No. This is one of those rash decisions you were warned against.” Thatch crossed his arms.
“Thatch. When it starts to grow back, it will be a different length. No matter what, I’ll have a massive chunk missing. No hairstyle will compensate for that. Go get some clippers and cut my hair. Because I’m not leaving the hospital, appearing like Frankenstein attacked me.”
“Why don’t I call a hairdresser…”
Frustrated, I growled and turned to the nurse. “Have you got any scissors?”
“Yes,” she replied, looking between Thatch and me. Her eyes slid to a tray, and I spotted them. Before Thatch could stop me, I snatched them up, grabbed a length of hair and hacked it off. Thatch stood wide-eyed and open-mouthed. “Clippers!” I ordered.
Thatch fled the room without a backward glance.
“Here, let me help,” the nurse said.
I looked at her and laughed. “Now it’s even more fucked up.”
“Yeah. Come on, I’ll crop it neatly at least.” It took five minutes, and when done, I ran a hand over my cropped scalp.
Thatch reappeared just as she finished, gaping.
Unconcerned, I reached for the clippers and handed them to the nurse. “Would you mind? I don’t think I can trust Thatch to do this.”
She smiled and completed the job. I finally sported a totally bald head. I returned to the bathroom and winced. The scarring was even more prominent, but at least I didn’t appear too weird. The nurse followed behind and brought a scarf.
“Here. I’ll show you how to wrap it for now,” she said and proceeded to do that. I thanked her. It had been a small act of kindness to her, but a huge one to me.
When I came out, she bustled off, and I removed the scarf. It had been slightly loose, so when it was time to leave, I’d wrap it tighter.
Thatch left to return the clippers, and I packed the remainder of my belongings. A knock made me turn around, and a tall, dark-haired man stood there.
“Sorry, you’ve got the wrong room,” I said with a smile.
Blue eyes searched my face, lingering on the bruising and the scars. The stranger physically winced, and I reached for the scarfand wrapped it back on loosely. Horror radiated from him, and I flinched.
“Allegra,” he growled out.
“Do I know you?” I asked cautiously. Nothing about him was familiar, yet he stared as if he knew me intimately.
“It’s Shotgun.”
“Strange name.” I searched my feelings, and they were dead. This man did nothing for me; there was no twinge of recognition, no rush of emotions, absolutely squat.
“You don’t remember me?”
“Sorry. No. I was in an accident, and I’ve lost my memories for now. Hell, I can name every president in order, but I can’t even identity family,” I quipped.
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
