12. Just Like Her
Just Like Her
Summer
One second my feet are beneath me, the next they're dangling uselessly in the air as Jackson carries me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing at all. The movement knocks the breath from my lungs, my stomach pressing painfully against the hard ridge of his shoulder while blood rushes to my head.
I don't fight.
Not because I don't want to.
Because I know exactly what it'll earn me.
His grip tightens fractionally around the backs of my legs as he walks, steady and unhurried, and I understand with sickening certainty that he isn't carrying me because he has to.
He's carrying me because he can.
Behind us, Donnie's boots strike the floor in slow, even beats that echo through the hallway. I count them without thinking, trying to focus on something—anything—that isn't the weight of Jackson's last words still circling my mind.
You're ready.
Ready for what?
The question repeats itself over and over, but every answer my mind offers is worse than the last.
I force myself to pay attention instead.
Left.
Right.
Another right.
Three doors.
A staircase.
I count the turns, the steps, the distance between them, clutching at the information as though it might matter later. Maybe it will. Maybe if I ever get the chance to run, remembering the layout of this place will buy me enough time to find an exit before they find me.
Or maybe I'm lying to myself because thinking about escape is easier than thinking about where he's taking me.
Jackson stops.
A lock clicks.
The door opens.
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.
The room suddenly feels too small. Too bright. Too difficult to breathe in.
"Donnie." One word. One nod. That's all it takes.
Donnie pushes himself away from the wall and starts walking toward me. Every instinct in my body screams at me to move. I back up a step but he doesn't slow down.
My heart lurches.
Donnie closes the last of the distance between us, his shadow swallowing mine beneath the harsh overhead light. He's so much bigger up close. His shoulders seem to fill the room, his expression utterly blank as he reaches for my arm.
His fingers clamp around my upper arm hard enough to make me gasp. Pain blooms instantly beneath his grip. I twist on instinct, trying to wrench myself free, but it's like pulling against concrete. My struggle doesn't even seem to register.
"Please..." The word escapes before I can stop it.
Donnie doesn't acknowledge it—he simply tightens his grip another fraction.
"Sit her down," Jackson says quietly.
Donnie starts forcing me toward the chair, but I dig my feet into the ground, begging for something, someone to stop what’s about to happen.
"No—wait—please!"
"Or..." Jackson's calm voice cuts cleanly through the room.
Donnie stops.
I freeze, chest heaving, tears burning behind my eyes.
"You can sit down by yourself."
Donnie's hand is still crushing my arm and the gun still hangs inches from his thigh. I look from him to Jackson, searching desperately for some sign that there’s a way out of this.
But I know there isn't one.
Jackson waits patiently, like he already knows which choice I'm going to make.
My legs give out before my courage does. And slowly, I’m lowered into the chair. Only when I'm sitting does Jackson nod once.
"Let her go."
Donnie releases me immediately.
I snatch my arm back against my chest, rubbing at the throbbing skin as tears blur my vision. Finger-shaped marks are already beginning to bloom beneath my sleeve. Jackson's eyes linger on them for only a second before he picks up the brush once more.
"Good girl," he says softly.
The words chill me far more than if he'd shouted.
He picks up the bowl again, stirring the thick, dark mixture with slow, methodical movements before setting it back onto the tray. Every movement is controlled, practiced, as though he's done this a hundred times before. There isn't the slightest hint of uncertainty in him.
He steps behind me and my whole body locks.
I don't dare turn around.
The chair feels suddenly too small, my hands gripping the edge of the seat until my fingers ache. Every instinct tells me to scream. But Donnie is still there. I can hear him shifting his weight near the door, a silent reminder that there’s no one here who will save me.
A strand of my hair slips over my shoulder and Jackson’s gloved fingers slide beneath it, gathering the copper lengths together with infuriating care. He lets it run through his hand, watching the color catch beneath the harsh light overhead.
The brush disappears into the bowl before emerging coated in thick, dark paint.
"Jackson, please." My voice cracks around his name. "Please don't."
His hand settles lightly against the top of my head, steadying me.
The first stroke begins at the roots.
The mixture feels cold. So much colder than I expected.
The brush drags slowly across my scalp before gliding backward through my hair, coating every strand in something that smells so aggressively chemical my eyes begin to sting.
I gasp, then a sob escapes me.
Another stroke. Then another.
The copper disappears beneath the dark paste almost immediately.
My vision blurs. This can't be happening. This can't—
Another sob tears free before I can swallow it back.
My hair.
God...
My hair.
Mama used to laugh whenever I complained about it taking too long to dry. She'd sit me on the bathroom counter with a towel around my shoulders, patiently working conditioner through the knots while telling me one day I'd be glad it was different.
"One day you'll realize people spend hundreds trying to get a color like yours."
I'd rolled my eyes every single time. Now I'd give anything to hear her say it again.
Another brushfull slides through my hair. Another section disappears.
Jackson works in silence, separating each piece with careful precision before coating it from root to tip. There's nothing rushed about him. Like every strand has to be exactly right.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn't stop the tears spilling over. They slide down my cheeks unchecked, dripping from my chin into my lap.
My scalp tingles where the dye settles against my skin, a constant reminder that every second passing is another second stealing something I can't get back.
I don't understand why this matters so much to him. I don't understand why he's looking at my hair with such awful concentration. I don't understand any of it.
I just know that when I walked into this room, I still looked like me.
And with every slow stroke of that brush, he’s stripping me away.
Warm water cascades over my head the second I step beneath the shower, soaking through the thick paste clinging to my hair. It carries the harsh chemical smell down with it until the steam can no longer hide it.
Dark ribbons twist through the water at my feet, curling around the drain before disappearing into it. They spiral away so easily, washing over white tiles that make the color look almost black, and with every second that passes, something inside me splinters a little further.
No.
No, no, no...
My hands fly to my hair, scrubbing frantically at the strands as if I can somehow force the color back out before it settles. My fingers tangle through it again and again until my scalp stings beneath my nails, but the water only keeps running dark.