v. hairbrush

The strokes weren't aggressive, they were actually surprisingly… soothing. I know the serious and extremity of situation of our situation, but for some reason as Patricia ran the hairbrush through I found it incredibly peaceful. I usually tear through it in the morning if I even have the strength, but she was so thorough and careful.

I sat there, still terror swaying in my heart like the feeling of liquor rocking back in forth in your belly after drinking too much. It was radiating my entire being, but with every stroke of her brush, it was almost as if the feeling of her psuedo maternal ways was keeping the chaos controlled. The stress knotted up in my long strands, coming undone with her need for perfection and feminity. It felt good. It felt almost like she was trying to be nurturing.