♖
♖: Having their hair washed by your muse
--- March 18, 1979
The raid had been a nightmare incarnate.
Alice could have sworn that the air itself turned to blood around them, and that they had all been swimming through it, lungs clogged with the loss of life and eyes blinded by crimson reminders of their failure. It had been maddening, to not be able to move under the weight of the blood on her shoulders, in her eyes, in her hair- her long, bouncing locks had been weighted down by the thick warmth left over from the raid, mingling with a smattering of ash and miscellaneous debris.
The moment she’d returned to headquarters, along with the others who- mercifully- were all in one piece, Alice silently slipped past all of them, her hands shaking and her eyes wide, blinking against the remaining drips of blood as they matted in her lashes. She couldn’t let them see the terror in her eyes at the sight of her own visage, coated in crimson and black like the Devil himself. She needed to wash herself clean of the raid, and fast for she was quickly losing it.
In comparison to her own state, the bathroom in which she had barricaded herself was terrifyingly clean, each reflective surface reminding her of just how terrifying she really looked. She had never seen so much blood on anyone- let alone herself. Alice hunched over the sink, muttering hasty words of encouragement to herself as she shakily turned the knob on the faucet, exhaling as slowly as she could manage as the water roared to life. She scrubbed at her hands and wrists furiously, praying that the crimson layer would wash clean from her skin, leaving behind nothing but the mental scars that she would bear for the rest of her days.
Her hands were shaking, teeth chattering and breath coming in ragged gasps as panic clutched at her chest, winding its ludic fingers around her ribs like tendrils of the coldest air, bent on reaching her heart before she could inhale again.
Alice?
A voice, which sounded as if it were spoken through a long metal tube, pierced the veil of her panic, but she simply kept scrubbing.
Alice, it repeated, let me help you.
And before she could protest, firm but gently hands, the same color as hers, were pushing her toward the tub, away from the sink. Numb and obeying entirely the movements designated by the hands on her shoulders, Alice turned away from the mirror, for a moment catching a glimpse of Marlene, who seemed to be handling the blood much better than she.
Gently, and surprisingly so, Marlene lowered Alice’s quaking figure into the tub, pushing her shoulders just below the faucet at the head, and laying her matted hair down her back. Marlene began to say something, but Alice could only hear the roar of the water as it came to life, washing over her hair and forehead, slipping into her eyes and over her nose. It was gloriously cleansing; she would have to remember to thank Marlene for it later, but at present she simply focused on the feeling of Marlene’s fingers in her hair as her own curled over the edge of the tub. Marlene, a kind soul as she was, washed her clean.
And thanks was never necessary. It was to be repaid- in any way possible.