Days passed after the uneventful “dump” of Terra Clinger off Devils Pier (most appropriately named I think). Days bled together like the pattern of my linoleum kitchen floor when you found yourself staring at it for too long. I paced in boredom, and flipped through old issues of National Geographic. They’d been hers, they’d fallen from her bag when I cut her Achilles tendon; toppling on top of them she smeared many a cover with what she lost and I gained, rumpled many a binding until I tired of the charade and got on with it. See I’ve always loved reading, so in my most honest attempt at preserving the literature with pretty artsy pictures, I dragged her into the bathroom and slammed her head in the door to calm her down. Wrapping an old stained towel around her neck. I sat there, it’s head in my lap staring into it’s eyes as it asphyxiated, it’s long hair hanging in ringlets that I mechanically passed through my fingers until I seen her cornea’s cloud and the appearance of petechial hemorrhages erupt across their surface, or for the layman not exactly into this stuff, little bloody spots where the capillaries have broken in the whites of the eyes. I stood up then, letting it’s head drop to the floor, grabbing my scissors I began to remove the hair to place in my “found items” bag, I don’t exactly fancy myself an artist, but rather as prudent and thrifty as a street rat becomes, I was frugal in short and believed this wig would be one of my favorite’s. Finished, I kicked at the lifeless rag doll of a thing she’d become, kicking harder and harder until she was secured behind the bathroom door. I could always deal with her later, however if the hair I procured was not washed quickly of the blood it had accumulated, the lingering oil from the scalp would gum up as it coagulated and deem the hair no longer viable. Once washed (and rubbed against it’s donor’s skin to replace as much oil as possible), I allowed it to dry, and then began the slow process of sewing it into weft’s (little section sewed at the root end), before I staggered into the kitchen to make coffee, I was exhausted and still needed to confess and subsequently pray.
If you would like to continue on reading Emma’s journey, please look into my folder named Work in Progress , that is where you will find the following chapters numbered. I did this in the hopes of making the story easier to leave and come back to, tied up in neat little packages.