Page 1 of Kept

1 – Zella

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The mechanical sound burrows into me. It pulses inside my brain, drumming against the back of my skull and making my eyelids flicker.

My eyes stay closed, my forehead wrinkling with the effort of keeping them shut as I listen.

There are no footsteps. No music plays in another room. There’s no cheerful whistling from a companion. No sign of life anywhere around me.

Just silence. Endless, empty, echoing silence.

Tick.

And thatstupidclock.

Sighing, I give up on any thoughts of going back to sleep and sit up, pushing the tangled covers away from my bare legs. As I scan the room, my eyes are drawn to the dress I carelessly discarded last night, crumpled in a heap on the floor.

My feet pad across the deep cream carpet as I reach down to pick it up. The white material crumples further as my fingers burrow into it.

Turning, I place it carefully into my empty washing basket before I head to the bathroom.

My feet press into the same slight grooves in the carpet, years of following the same routine showing in the wear and tear of the room around me.

Routine is important, I remind myself. Shucking off my sleep shorts and camisole, I detangle myself, yanking at a thin silk strap irritably when it catches on my braid. Stepping into the huge shower, I gradually pull the braid in with me, tugging off the various bands at the end and running my fingers through it to loosen the intricate weaving that keeps it at least partly out of my way.

The tightness in my scalp begins to ease as I work my way through, and I send a moment of thanks as I slap my hand to start the hot water that I live in an apartment with a gigantic walk-in shower.

Ignoring the mass of hair waiting to be washed, I take a moment to enjoy the way the water pummels against my back, loosening tension in my spine I didn’t even notice was there until I’m sagging against the spotless white tiles.

It’s only when I’m in danger of turning into an actual prune that I begrudgingly reach out, starting to pull my hair through the water until it’s soaked and heavy against my scalp.

Routine.

Shampoo.

Pour into hand, scrub.

Pour more into hand, scrub.

Aaaand pour more into hand. Scrub again.

Rinse. Rinse again. Keep rinsing.

My arms are already aching by the time I finish, and I glare at the conditioner.

My own personal nemesis.

This part takes the longest, and I manage to snap two teeth off my comb too. By the time I’ve found them, hidden amongst the soaking strands, my mood has plummeted.

The bathroom fills up with clouds of steam as I work. Taking my time, I wait until the very last bubble swirls away before I climb out and start squeezing the excess water out of my hair, watching the liquid escape down the drain.

I grab a clean white towel from the cupboard, wrapping it around myself and gathering up the heavy mass in my arms, carrying it out to my bedroom.

Dropping it to the ground with a solid thud, it drags along the carpet, leaving wet patches behind as I pull open the drawers on my dressing table. There are dozens of brushes, each one designed to help me wrangle the almost white-blonde hair that runs well past my feet, enough to wrap around my waist several times andstillhave miles left over.

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