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Chapter Two

Noon

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Fred laid in bed for the remainder of the morning, unable and unwilling to even try to get up. Barbara came and went, sometimes gently rocking him to attempt to get him out of the bed, at other times simply giving him a peck on the cheek to cheer him up. It didn’t help much, and by early noon, he was still curled up in bed. The contents of his thoughts were pretty one-note, constantly switching between agonizing over how he treated Barbara and being in absolute bliss over how she had responded. She really did love him. Usually, these mullings wouldn’t really go anywhere, but every now and then, he’d just start crying and he wouldn’t know why. Barbara always seemed to notice this though, since she would always come in with a napkin to wipe away the tears. It was a sweet gesture, but it could never wipe away the sorrows hidden underneath.

Eventually, noon came, and Barbara knew she had to do something. Sure, he could just mull around in bed all day, but… it honestly wouldn’t do him any good. He’d feel good for now, yes, but if he could maybe put his thoughts to something constructive, something he actually likes doing… Barbara scratched at her neck, her hand brushing against some of her bushy hair. Ah. Of course. Barbara knew just what to do.

Fred squinted at the harsh rays of sunlight shining in through the window at him. He wanted to ask Barbara to close the blinders, but he didn’t want to be a bother, not when considering how he’d been this morning. He could also get out of bed and do it himself, but… no. He didn’t want to do that. So, instead, he rolled over and ignored the sun and the growing feeling that he should be doing something, anything but laying in bed, but… he couldn’t. No, he simply couldn’t bother. What did it matter anyways? Whether he actually did anything or not didn’t matter, did it? Any hair he cut would just grow back again, wouldn’t it? So what was the use of cutting it at-,

Then he heard it. A soft, melodic tone trailing through the air like a dancing little pixie. Barbara was humming. He couldn’t recognize the tune or the melody, but if felt good. The sun didn’t feel quite so bright and his heart didn’t seem quite so heavy. It felt good. Fred gave a heartfelt sigh and leaned back, his head sinking into the soft pillow. There was a clattering of pans from the kitchen, and Fred realized why she was humming: she was cooking lunch. More often than not, Fred would be the one to cook lunch and dinner, all the savoury meals, whilst Barbara took care of all the sweeter ones. Before Fred met Barbara, he really didn’t like sweet foods. It’s not that he didn’t have access to them, it’s just that he never saw the point of them. All it does is give you an unnecessary amount of calories to work off. Really, if anything, they’re derogatory in nature.

That was, until Barbara. She awakened a sweet-tooth he didn’t know he had with sugarcakes and wiener breads and god-knows-what. He always feared she’d give him a heart-attack one day, but miraculously, he was still as slim and fit as he’d always been, not a single hole in sight. Then again, even if he did get a hole, could his teeth really get any worse than they already were? Somehow, he doubted that. But, when he recalled that time she had insisted on cooking them a romantic spaghetti bolognese to share, well… he really was considering getting out of bed to cook whatever she was making himself. But, then again, she might have learnt something from his cooking, right? He had learnt quite a lot from her, after all, and he had no doubts he could(almost) rival her baking. But, she still had the upper hand in theoretics.

Then again, that sudden smell of burning something was certainly not quelling his desire to do, well, something, atleast. Within mere minutes, Barbara emerged into the room, holding a little wooden tray. Setting it down on the bed, Fred quickly decided that he probably should have gotten up. It was probably supposed to have been some sort of pasta, but somehow, she had overcooked it to the point where it had all become one single glob of mush, parts of which were burnt to charcoal. There was a light drizzling of some sort of purple sauce atop it, and something told Fred that this was pure cyanide in terms of potency. Beside the two plates were a pair of glasses containing orange juice(Fred assumed), and a pair of blueberry muffins.

“I know it’s not as good as you would make it, but I hope you’ll at least try it,” Barbara practically begged, a wry smile twisting her lips, her eyes hopeless and desolate.

Looking at his fellow depressee, Fred couldn’t help but chuckle, which, in turn, caused Barbara to sniffle a little. It might have been a laugh or it might have been a cry - Fred wasn’t sure. Whichever it was, Fred decided that he couldn’t possibly reject those fawning eyes. Sticking a fork into the amorphous blob of pasta goop, Fred extracted a small glob, the purple sauce decidedly absent, and hesitantly placed it within his virgin mouth. Instantly, he was met with an explosion of flavours and sensations, none of which were good. Somehow, small flakes of burnt pasta had inched its way into every single part of the pastaglob, infecting the entire thing with an ashen, dry taste that simply couldn’t be created by any ordinary means. Had she used hellfire to cook this? On top of that, it was all flavoured extremely strangely, with coriander and tarragon and oregano, and… was that paprika? And cinnamon??

Spitting the blob out, Fred attempted to cleanse his pallet with the orange juice. Only, it wasn’t orange juice. It was grapefruit. Which wasn’t really that different, and plus, Fred loved grapefruit, but it was still a surprise Fred wasn’t ready for. But the ashen, poisonous taste simply wouldn’t be washed out. Desperately, Fred grabbed a hold of one of the blueberry muffins, the one he assumed was his, and scarfed it down, nearly swallowing it whole. That seemed to do the trick, since his tonsils were no longer burning for their sins. His eyes were starting to tear up though, which was likely because of the physical pain of the ordeal. Turning his eyes to his blonde-haired lover, he found her shivering and on the verge of crying.

“Darling-,” Fred started, but was stopped by her pale hand suddenly covering his mouth. ”Don’t-, don’t say anything. I know it’s bad, and you could do much better, and I should be able to do much better, but… please. Here-” Barbara handed him the other blueberry muffin with a strained smile, releasing her hand from his mouth, allowing him to speak. Fred slowly grabbed the soft sweet, feeling a bit ashamed over eating her lunch. But he couldn’t refuse. Taking a bite of the muffin, Fred could feel his self-loathing grow stronger. This was wrong. He shouldn’t be lying about in bed, eating his lover’s food! His eyes grew blurry and before he knew it, tears were streaming down his cheeks. All he did was cry. He was such a waste-,

Leaning forward, Barbara hugged him. It was a warm, gentle kind of embrace, the kind that a mother would give her son when he had scraped a knee, the kind that said “it’ll be alright” without any words. Fred was hesitant at first, his whole body trembling in confusion. Should he return it? Should he say something? What was-, and then she started shaking. It was soft at first, unnoticeable, but soon the shaking grew into a powerful shudder, trailing from the toes to the chest to the throat, where it emerged as an unmistakable sob. Burying her face into his unsuspecting shoulder, she weeped. Uncertain, almost like a child, Fred covered her small back with his arms and hands, completing the embrace. Barbara sniffled and removed her face from his shoulder to briefly meet his gaze. She had the most sky-blue eyes he had ever seen, neither like ice nor like the sea, but instead a serene, calm, cloud-less sky. She blinked twice before leaning in closer to his face. He wanted to pull back, to escape the situation, but something in him told him not to.

She gave him a little peck on the cheek. Just a little one. But it felt like so much more. When he looked back down at her, she was smiling and her eyes were bright, despite the tears falling down her cheeks. “Are you feeling all better now?” she asked, her voice strained and coarse from all the crying. Fred nodded quickly, and although he still felt pretty terrible, it felt… better. He felt good. Nice. If he tried, he could probably get out of bed. But did he want to? Being hugged by Barbara just felt, well, good. He wasn’t crying anymore, hell he was almost smiling! Thinking of Barbara, Fred couldn’t help but run his hands through her golden locks. Yes, this was what he loved… this gorgeous mane of hair. He didn’t truly love Barbara for Barbara, did he? If he did, he wouldn’t be making her weep, would he?...

No, no, it was all for the hair. And, considering how Barbara jerked slightly every time his fingers forcefully unknitted a knot, this hair truly needed to be discipled. He had as of yet been unable to truly tame this lion’s mane, and the challenge only grew harder and harder with each inch she grew. For some reason, she refused to have it cut any shorter than it was, always having just the slightest possible trim, which Fred happily delivered, of course. He had been tempted to be naughty oh so many times, nevertheless, he withstood the urge, put a lid on his needs and wants, giving her just the slightest of trims. Even just that was simply delicious. Seeing the little follicles of hair fall to the ground in the tiniest of tufts…

Barbara suddenly stood up, her face flushed and her eyes red from crying, and yet, she looked oddly determined, her hands on her hips and a smirk on her lips. “Wh-, wha-,” Fred stammered at the sudden shift in mood, his cheeks starting to fall a little. “You!” Barbara shouted, pointing at Fred. “M-, me?...” Fred asked hesitantly. “If you wanna brush and clean and braid my hair…” Barbara paused for dramatic effect, her smirk growing into a full-blown grin. “Yes…?” Fred asked, urging her to continue, a little smile spreading over his lips. “You’ve gotta get outta bed!!” she finally exclaimed, her grin growing as broad as Fred’s had a tendency of being.

Barbara hated doing this, she really did, but he looked much brighter than he did before, and if he didn’t have some good reason to get out of bed, she doubted he would even try. Seeing his newly-found smile falter and his thick eyebrows scrunch together made her heart sink into despair. What if he never got out of bed? Would he be bedridden forever, eventually unable to do so much as return her kisses and hugs? Would he fade away, a shadow of his former self, miserable and lonely despite her company?...

Barbara knew these scenarios were unrealistic, down right lunatic, and yet, thinking of them, she couldn’t stop the tears from welling back up, her smile growing strained and untrue. She felt light-headed. So much had happened today. The stress simply caught up with her. Was this all her fault? Had she not been a good enough lover to Fred? Was it because of her that he weeped as he did?... She attempted to suppress a sob rising in her chest, but like the waves of sorrow beating upon the shores of stability, it it simply couldn’t be stopped. She could feel her legs falter, unable to keep the weight of her thoughts all down. Finally, they gave way, and for a moment, she was suspended in nothingness, falling like a rock in a muddy pond, and the next…

Something was holding her up. Something big and strong and warm. It held her close, it’s twisting hands flowing through her hair soothingly. Looking up, she was met with a worried little smile and glowing green eyes. She smiled back. Pulling her back up to her feet, Fred embraced her properly. “Don’t worry, I’m up,” Fred whispered softly into her ear. Barbara returned the hug, clinging desperately to the much taller man, like a bruised child to its caring parent.

All the while, Fred couldn’t help but grope at her hair. It was so soft, so luscious, like strands of silk, knotted up strands of silk… he had to do something. “Now now, don’t cry, we have a certain someone’s hair to attend to,” Fred cooed to his clinging lover, rousing her from her childish weepings. Nodding solemnly, she slowly let Fred go, clearly quite unwilling to. But Fred was insistent, and her hair had been bothering her, so… what’s the harm?

Fred still felt quite noodle-legged, but he was determined not to show it. He hated to have to walk around their little apartment in just his blue pajamas, but he couldn’t bother with all the steps it would take to put on something nice like a suit or just a pair of actual pants, so this would have to do. Barbara didn’t seem to mind, anyhoo. Fred slowly led Barbara to the designated barbering-stool they kept in the living room beside the window and bookcase. Barbara sat down with a well-trained rhythm owing to this being pretty much a daily ritual for the young pair.

Opening a nearby cabinet, Fred fished out a little ivory comb. Barbara didn’t know quite how he did it, but using only that small little thing, he could usually sort out any possible knots and twists she had created during the night. Fred immediately got to work, his hands quickly but methodically flowing through her hair, a strange combination of comb and fingers quickly smoothing out the hair and giving it back it’s lustre. Of course, a barber’s job was never done, especially not when all the knots had been unknotted.

Barbara always loved this part of the day. It was a habit she would rather keep forever, much like Fred. The way he ran his hands through her hair, the way he made sure that every inch of her hair was aglow, it was simply intoxicating. Being cared for so deeply… it reminded her of her mother. When Barbara was but a young girl, her late mother would comb and braid her hair every day, always stressing how important it was for a girl to maintain her hair. It was a woman’s pride, after all. She was long gone now, and Barbara could barely remember anything but this little memory, and yet, the need to keep her hair all neat and tidy never left her. It was as if the memory of her mother lingered in her hair, and as long as she had it, her mother would always be with her, watching over her like a guardian angel.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Feeling a little memory rise to the occasion in the back of her head, Barbara allowed herself to remiss out loud, a soft humming escaping her raspberry lips. She didn’t know what the melody was called, but she knew her mother used to sing it back when she was a child. Fred wasn’t any good at singing, as far as she knew, but he was a great sport when it came to dancing, twirling and twisting like a leaf caught in the wind. It was a sight to see, and combined with her singing, it was absolutely lovely. Barbara blushed at the memory. Fred must have been thinking something of the same kind, as his brushes and caresses grew more frequent and, oddly enough, rougher. He hadn’t ever been rough like this. Barbara was tempted to look over her shoulder at the barber behind her, but he had been quite strange all day, and if this soothed his aching heart, then… she would allow it, no matter how rough she got.

Carefully, Fred started tying her hair up in little pink bows. She didn’t quite know how, but he had always been able to tie those little bows just right so they weren’t too big or small. Maybe he’d learnt it in barber school? Barbara wasn’t too sure about the logistics, but when her hair was strutted up in big pigtails, she was quite happy she’d gotten him out of bed: she wouldn’t really have wanted to do it herself. She had been used to doing it before she met Fred, but now she wasn’t so sure. The bows felt a little tight, but considering that Fred had barely been able to get out of bed, Barbara wasn’t about to complain.

He began with her left pigtail, carefully separating the thick mess of hair into three individual collections before gingerly braiding them together. Working with a quick and strangely hurried speed (mustn’t think about the lovely hair oh so so fair why so near), Fred quickly finished the left one and went onto the right one. “Can you be a bit gentler with this one?...” Barbara asked, her scalp starting to ache at the oddly rough treatment Fred was giving it. Didn’t Fred enjoy this? Why wasn’t he working as well as he usually would? Had Barbara been wrong to force him to do this?...

Fred didn’t reply. Instead, he harshly grabbed her unbraided pigtail, the sudden jolt of pain causing Barbara to wince. Fred placed a hand upon her shoulder. “Come now, don’t be atrocious,” he said in a peculiar little voice she couldn’t recall ever hearing before. No, that wasn’t quite true. One day, only a few days after their love had become official, in the middle of the night, he had said some strange things. (But maybe, maybe, if he let it be, this melancholy might leave?)

He had snuggled up in her hair, as he often did when the night was cold and their passion was hot, and clenching a lock of her hair in his hand, he had said to her back, as she laid there pretending to sleep: “My fair-haired flame, I must say it is a shame, but I hope you do not find me worthy of blame, when I, sometime, must become a bit naughty…” and then, he had simply gone to sleep, as if he hadn’t said a thing.

It was a chilling kind of voice, deep and lulling and passionate in a way a person shouldn’t be. She had spent at least half an hour debating whether it had been a mumbling of the sleeping, an auditory hallucination, or of he had just been too tired to think about what he was trying to say. It had just been so… unlike him. Sure, he was soft spoken, and he had a tendency of talking formally at most any moment, but… something about the way he said that strange melodic statement made her made her think it wasn’t quite him speaking…

But that was ludicrous. What, did he have multiple personalities or something? But, then again, now that she heard that blood-curdling, heart-rendering voice, she couldn’t help but think there was something to that theory. Her whole body simply froze up. Fred, in his own right, didn’t seem to care, or even notice, for that matter. It’s like he no longer had eyes for her. But if he didn’t have eyes for her, what did he have eyes for?...

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He had to stop. What was he doing? Can’t go on can’t go on. Must go on. Hair; beckons. Curls; tempting. Locks; seducing. Tie tie tie, all up in a knot. Sweet little ribbons. So soft to touch. This wasn’t what he wanted. What would mommy say? Can’t go on must go on. She’d say naughty. Little Fred, you mustn’t play with the scissors. Barbara, my love was named. What did she do to deserve this? He must be quick. But they must be right. He mustn’t play with hair, it makes him not right. But it was so nice. They so did hypnotize. Beckon, call, he had to be there. Tempt, entice, how could he possible stop himself from being… Naughty?

He was growing increasingly rough, his hands tugging unpleasantly at her hair every few seconds, pulling and twisting much harder than necessary to create a braid that was much too tight for her long yet brittle hair. But Barbara couldn’t speak a word. Something about the way Fred was doing this, something about the way he had hushed her earlier… she didn’t say a thing. Not when he pulled at her hair, not when he held her arm far too roughly, not a thing. This did not stop her from flinching whenever he tugged at her hair to make sure it was all bunched up neatly. Strangely enough, when he started out with her right braid, he had been quick and harsh, but as he went on, he grew slower, and yet no less rough.

Eventually, it was finished. Both braids done, both felt tight and unpleasant, but Barbara felt no inclination to complain. She made to rise, but a hand fell on her shoulder. He was standing right behind her. His breathing was heavy and his grip was iron. “F-, Fred?” Barbara questioned with a slight stammer. Slowly, his cold hand coiled around her neck, his fingers pressing themselves into her throat, sharp, corpse-blue nails digging into her skin. “Not abiding by my words may prove to be quite precocious,” Fred growled from behind her.

She was struck with a strange, inescapable feeling of danger, her most primal of survival instincts taking a cold grip of her heart. It was fight, flight or freeze. She picked the latter. Yes, this would work. This would make him happy. Reaching out, Fred pulled out a drawer, and grabbed something from within it. Barbara couldn’t tell what it was, but the feeling of knowing something dreadful was about to happen, something horrible and terrible she couldn’t control was setting the neck on her hair on end. Why was this happening? What had she done? Was it something she hadn’t done but should have? Why did-,

And there it was. A little click, a cackle she could barely recognize as that of her lover’s, and a buzzing. That seemed to do the trick. She whipped her head around, his hold on her throat causing a dull pain to coarse through it, but she couldn’t help it. She had to see.

He was grinning. A wide, inhuman, crooked grin made of pure, savage glee. His eyes, cat-green and wide, filled with desperation and an unkept mania. In his bony, clawed fingers clutched a red, buzzing razor. At seeing her gaze, a sudden flash of sadness shot through his eyes, but, this was gone as soon as it came, overtaken entirely by a predatory scowl. His grin grew wider. “My my, aren’t you ferocious?” he glowered in amusement, his fingers clenching around her throat, making her unable to retort.

Barbara had never found Fred scary. She had often heard people say his smile was void of emotion, or that his lankiness freaked them out, or that the way he spoke was strange, but Barbara had never truly believed it. Not until this very moment. His limbs were thin and elongated, his fingers were clawed, his eyes were sunken-in and baggy, almost every single aspect of him was eerie. How had she not seen it before? How could she possibly have let such a malicious man get so close to her? She tried to speak, but his grip on her throat was hard, and his nails were digging into her flesh, and he held the razor wide, his eye traversed her body feverishly, unsure of where to fall. No, unsure of where to start.

Barbara grabbed for his arm, but she was a young, frail girl, and despite how he looked, Fred was a strong, ruthless man. She tried to meet his gaze, but he only had eyes for one thing: her hair. It was a strange feeling, to be so utterly ignored yet so completely spoiled with attention.

Was this really the right thing to do? He had never seen her like this. So utterly helpless. Like putty in his hand. Why was he holding her neck again? So she wouldn’t scream, of course. Or run. Or hide. Why would she hide? Was this really so bad? No, of course not. It was just hair. Delicious, tantalizing hair, but hair nonetheless. Mere follicles to pick up dust and flow gracefully behind young maidens. She could just grow it back out. And then he could do it again. Do what again? Why, be naughty…

She could barely breathe. Her every breath grew more strained, raspier, she knew if she did nothing, he would strangle her to unconsciousness, or, worse… death. A tear escaped her eye. He wouldn’t do that, would he? How could he possibly do such a thing? Was there anything she could do? She couldn’t speak, she couldn’t breathe. Her words couldn’t reach him, thus… her actions must.

“No, I simply can’t help being naughty…” Fred mumbled more to himself than anyone else as he lurched forward, the buzzing razor closing in on Barbara’s hair inch by inch. Barbara could feel herself growing faint. She had to act, and she had to act quick. Clenching her eyes shut, she prepared herself mentally for what was about to happen. Not what Fred was about to do, mind you, no, what she was about to do.

A loud slap resounded. His head whipped to the right, before slowly returning to its original position. His eyes met hers. She was crying. Why was Barbara crying? Fred’s body went all rigid like a corpse before finally going limp, his grip on the dreaded razor loosening to such an extent that it fell to the ground with a little clatter. Barbara, noticing this sudden limpness, twisted herself out of his loose grip. For a moment, the two simply stared at each other. Predator, prey. Man, woman. Lovers.

His smile was entirely erased, as if it hadn’t even been there in the first place. His eyes were awash with doubt, confusion, shock, and, most prominently, sorrow. She had struck him, after all. What lover would hit their beloved? Fred’s mouth opened and closed ad nauseum like a fish on dry land. And then he actually started speaking words.

“I shouldn’t have - but why wouldn’t I - for her I would die - for her I would be naughty... - no no no for her I would not be - because as you see - for then I am not me - then I am naughty... - but I mustn’t be like that - no I would only like to chat - but I wouldn’t like to have a spat - no I would only want to be naughty... - do I truly love naughty her - otherwise her naughty wrath I may incur - ah how I do love naughty fur - fur that lets me be naughty... - not like her with her hair - her naughty hair oh so fair - how I would so naughty like to tear - but then naughty she would know I was naughty... - yes that is how naughty it is - that I love not her but her naughty frizz - if she were to be my naughty ms. - why that would be quite naughty... - ah but she is nothing naughty without her naughty curls - not to naughty me as naughty swine are with naughty pearls - the very naughty idea of my finding naughty pleasure in naughty girls - oh a naughty concept so naughty… - I only naughty eyes naughty naughty - naughty hair naughty hair naughty fair - all naughty I naughty naughty dear - but naughty naughty I had naughty be naughty… - naughty naughty that naughty is naughty decor - though naughty I naughty naughty found naughty - naughty is naughty fun naughty naughty door - aha naughty why naughty naughty my love naughty is naughty… - naughty naughty who naughty naughty when naughty - what naughty naughty naughty where naughty naughty - naughty naughty naughty why? naughty naughty - naughty naughty lonely naughty naughty naughty naughty… - naughty naughty naughty naughty naughty - naughty naughty naughty naughty naughty naughty naughty - naughty naughty naughty naughty naughty naughty naughty naughty - naughty for naught naughty naughty naughty naughty naughty naughty naughty-.......”

She ran.

She ran and she ran and she ran and she didn’t look back.