The Hairstylist Chapter Six: Running
Dominique paces back and forth in Vaas' room, trying to erase the nightmare she's had. She hasn't dreamed about him in months; therapy and the restraining order made sure of that. But there he was, in his filthy blue shirt, those soulless green eyes, and in his hand a knife drenched in her blood…
"Jason, please stop! I won't tell anyone, I swear!"
Her bruised body being slammed to the mattress, knife pressed firmly against her throat.
Jason's eyes scanning over her body, his smile growing even wider.
"I'm going to kill you, Vaas. This time, this will be different..."
…The knife sinking into her shoulder, the rattle of chains as she bucks and screams for mercy…
"…Stop, please, please, stop. Jason, it's me. I'm not them, I'm not them…"
Her bolting out of her apartment, bloodied and terrified, pounding on the neighbor's door for salvation, Jason hot on her trail…
Her locking herself away in the bathroom, rocking herself back and forth while the neighbor dials 911…
"Vaas! Vaas! Where are you, Vaas?" Jason's voice booms through the thin walls of the apartment over the police sirens…
"…You're lucky, Ms. Price. Not many people could survive that many stab wounds and still have the strength to escape…"
She collapses, tears pricking her eyes. She promised herself that that memory is behind her now, that she can move on.
"Vaas! Vaas! Where are you, Vaas! You can't run from me forever!"
His name echoes in her mind. Could it be…?
"Did I ever tell you…what the…definition…of insanity is?"
Jason told her those words, while he was…
She holds herself close.
They're connected; they're the same monster.
She's forced to relive her terror for the rest of her days on this island.
For the first time ever since she's gotten on this island, she cries.
Dominique swirls around the shaving cream when a shadow obscures her vision. Curious, she looks up.
The shadow is revealed to be a well-dressed man with a wild beard and curly hair and circular shades.
"Hello, sir. What cut would you like today…?"
"…trim the beard and fade the sideburns. I want to look presentable and I don't have the time, my dear."
He tucks away the sunglasses. He has striking blue eyes that root Dominique to the ground.
"You speak perfect English. You're not from here, are you?"
"No, sir, I'm not. I happen to be from the United States."
"United States. You must be one of the islands' slaves. I'm astounded at how they would let you free without a leash."
She bites her tongue.
"I'm a hairstylist. People often come to me to tame their hair."
"Explains why some of the villagers look so well-kept. You do fine work, sweetheart. I pray that you don't disappoint…?"
"Not at all. Lie back." She responds tightly, gripping her barber's blade.
"You like to party, sweetheart?"
"No, sir."
"Would you want to?" he pulls up a pouch of white powder for her to grab.
"No…no thank you, sir. I learned that drugs impair my work."
The man tucks it away.
"Smart girl. You're to be trusted. Addicts would sell their grandmother for their next high, but not you. I like that."
His accent sounds…southern.
"Are you from Georgia? Texas? Alabama?"
"Virginia. Not many people guess it right. You must be from the north."
"California."
"California!" he grins. "Home of the beach bodies, tan lines, sand, and the best weed in the country!" he chuckles.
"I've been dying to swing over there for some good weed and some good women."
The knife glides over his neck.
The session is over within minutes; Dominique wipes the knife off on her denim dress and presses the hot towel on his face.
"What do you think?"
She holds up a mirror. The client admires himself in the mirror.
"I like it. You do quite the impressive work, dear. Here."
He crams the white pouch in her hands.
"Consider it payment."
"What am I going to do with this?"
"You got a problem with my payment?"
"…No, sir."
"Good. See you next week." The man puts his sunglasses on and leaves. Dominique inspects the pouch of white powder, debating whether to throw it away or not. She tucks it away in her pocket.
"Vaas," she calls out. Vaas was cleaning his gun when he notices her.
"What is it, girl? I'm real fucking busy right now."
"I was doing a client's hair and he gave me this," she holds up the white pouch, "I don't know what this is, but I don't want any part of it."
"Dámelo." He holds out his hand. She hands it to him and watches him closely. Vaas dips his pinky into the powder and tastes it.
"Any idea what he looks like?"
"Some…white guy, with brown hair and specs."
"Brown hair and specs, yeah?"
"Yes."
"Un otro Blanconieves. Just fucking great."
"What?"
"Nothing. Make yourself useful and help the doctor around in the village. I got some fuck-ups I need to handle." He puts his gun in the holster and storms off.
"You share a bed with him? He's not…you know…"
"No. he's just…touchy."
"Touchy?"
"He likes to invade my personal space."
"But did he…grope you, or…?"
"No. he just…spooned with me. I guess." Her cheeks started to get hot. As much as she hates to admit it, his body heat felt nice…
The nightmare resurfaces, leaving a sour taste in her mouth.
"I had a dream…about Jason again."
"Oh, no, Dom. Do you want to talk about it…?"
"I think…Jason was…here on this island before. I think, he has ties to Vaas. He said his name when he…he…" she shuts her eyes tightly. She won't think about what he did to her; it's in the past and it should stay there.
"You don't think…that psycho was caused by this psycho that lives on the island, right?"
"That's what I'm thinking. I don't know what to do; he even asked me about him."
"I'm so sorry, Dom. I wish there was something I could do."
"I don't think there is, Anika. I just want to go home."
"We all do. That's why Mike and I have been trying to communicate with the outside world. Our families, our friends, they need to know we're still alive."
"How do you do that?"
Anika looks over her shoulder.
"Follow me."