The Guardian Read Online Free

jeans and fling them out the door. The pa ck of cigarettes on my dresser? I haven’t smoked since the accident. And I don’t care. I obviously don’t need them as much as I thought I did. Gone.
    I exile the flowers and Carter’s bear to the hallway, too. The picture of Carter stuck between the mirror and its frame: gone. For the next ten minutes, anything that reminds me of Carter or my life with him finds itself on the hallway floor. The pile is small, but only because I lack the abundance of possessions. Involuntary Minimalist.
    I scan my room for an ything I’ve missed, anything that reminds me of him, or the way things were. When I finally land on myself, staring back at me in the mirror, I take a step forward. I pause for a moment before moving to my plastic makeup bag, where I dig around until I fin d a small pair of silver grooming scissors. I grab a fistful of hair, and, with my left hand, carefully cut just above the black. I toss the ebony locks onto the floor, then grasp another handful. I cut the black out all the way around my head. When I’m fi nished, I’m left with the shortest haircut I’ve ever sported—an uneven, chin-length bob. And I’ll have to go even shorter if I expect the sides to match.
    A good two and a half inches at my scalp is dirty blonde before it suddenly and dramatically turns bl each. I need help that only Clairol can provide. But then I remember the cut on my head, and decide that it probably isn’t a good idea to color my hair until it heals. Maybe then I’ll become a redhead. Or go all black. Anything other than what I am.
    For th e next twenty minutes, I painstakingly trim and layer until I have what society might identify as a reasonable haircut. I’m used to cutting my own hair, and my mom’s, sometimes, during our down times. I’m not half bad at it, actually, and there’s nothing m ore satisfying than taking control and solving a legitimate problem—whether it’s bangs in the eyes or split ends. Cutting hair with my left hand, however, poses a new and more interesting challenge.  
    I’m just finishing up when my mom appears. She hovers in the doorway, pausing long enough to survey the pile of junk I’ve tossed in the hall.
    “Looks good,” she says, folding her arms and leaning into the doorframe.
    “Thanks.”
    “Is there anything I can help you with?”
    “Nope.”
    She eyes me warily. “Do you need an ything?”
    “A broom and the vacuum cleaner for the hair. A trash bag for the crap. And a bath.” I pull open the top drawer of my dresser and grab a tank top and flannel pants. “A long, hot bath,” I reiterate.
    She stands straight, cemented in the doorway. “So . . . this stuff in the hallway?” she asks.
    “It’s all trash,” I confirm.
    “Just checking. Do you want me to take it out for you?”
    I nod. “Please.”
    When I reach the bathroom, I cram my pajamas between the towel rack and the wall. I’ ve missed having my own toilet and bathtub. Hospital bathing is not conducive to relaxing. Soaking. Shaving. I’m not sure I was ever clean during my stay there. I push the stopper into the drain and turn on the water.
    In moments I’m kicked back, hot water rushing over my feet, filling the tub. I rest my right arm against the side to keep the cast dry, then lean back, sinking all the way to my neck. Already my skin tingles. I lift my foot out of the water. It’s bright pink, blood rushing to the surface. 
    I settle in and close my eyes, but all I can see is that black shadow, crossing the road in front of us. My brow furrows. I can still hear the glass and metal, breaking and bending around me. And the voice:
    You’re going to be fine, Genesis. I promise.
    You’ re going to be fine.
    Who was with me that night? And how did he know my name? Why did I feel so calm? Fearless. Just the voice, promising that everything was going to be okay, and me, believing every word.
    I open my eyes in time to watch a roach crawl acr oss the tile floor,