With a grunt I finally managed to pry the comb free from my hair, taking a clump of the blonde strands with it. The part of my head to which the hair I ripped out was attached stung like fuck, but at least the matted section was apart. It took five minutes of my life that I wouldn't be able to get back, but it was relatively worth it. How the hell did it get so knotted, anyway? And why just in that one spot?

Ugh, hair was difficult. And unnecessary. All it did was lay there. It had no legitimate purpose. It looked like shit if it wasn't brushed through, it looked like shit if it wasn't washed—the only purpose it could've served was for decoration, and I had no need to use it for that. Why did I let it grow out, anyway? Granted, it did help hide my identity for a little bit, but now it was just a nuisance. And it was even more of a nuisance now, two and a half months after Morinaga had made me his 'slave.' Although, nothing slave-like happened to me in those two and a half months. For the most part I just provided him with company; he hadn't forced me to do all that much against my will. Aside from our sleeping arrangement, anyway. I'd tried many times to escape to the floor after he fell asleep, but each time I managed to get out of his hold he pulled me back in. I didn't understand how, though, since he was always asleep when I turned to berate him. Other than that, though, he'd been relatively generous. He even acquired me a new pair of glasses, after my old ones had been lost during the confrontation in the woods. Even I had to thank him for that gesture.

Setting down the comb, I glanced around. This bathroom was as large as most cottages—it had to have a pair of scissors somewhere. Open the drawers went, into them I dug. Medicine bottle, medicine bottle, probably a nail file, jewelry—why did he have jewelry?—more combs...ah, scissors! He'd kept them among rags. Odd. Usually cutting utensils were with other cutting utensils, like razors. Was he hiding them? No, that was stupid. Why would he need to hide scissors?

Using a cloth I found while rummaging through the drawers, I tied my hair tightly behind my head. I didn't have anything to run from anymore—not for now, anyway—so there was no point in keeping it long. I picked up the scissors with one hand and held the length of my hair with the other. The latter went between the two blades of the former, and I was about to bring the blades together when the most harrowing scream I'd ever had the displeasure of hearing grated across my ears.

I barely turned before something managed to rip the scissors from my hand and pull me into a tight hold. "What're you doing?!"

Morinaga. Should've known. He was the only male I knew of who could make that sort of noise.

"What're you doing?!" I retorted. "Let go!" I wriggled about in his hold, but he had my arms pinned at my sides. Why the hell was he so strong?

"Don't do it!" he shouted. "Please, don't do it!"

"Do what?" I grunted as I shoved back against him; it was all I could do without arms to help. "Let go!"

"Not until you promise me you won't do it!"

"Not until you tell me what I shouldn't do!"

"Promise me first!"

"Tell me first!"

"No! Just say you won't do it!"

Oh, he was getting punched… "Fine!" I acquiesced. "I won't do it! Now let go!"

The moment his arms left me I cracked the back of my fist across his temple. He let out a cry before landing on the floor with a thud. Holding the side of his head, he sat up. He was about to say something, but something caught his attention, and he turned his head toward somewhere that wasn't me. "I'm coming!" he called.

"Where are you—?"

"I have to go," he interrupted.

"Go where?" He stood from the floor and left the bathroom. "Hey, Morinaga! Where're you going?"

I heard the door close, along with it any chance I had for immediate response. I leaned against the counter and stared at the spot where he'd been just moments earlier. What the hell was that? What was that scream for? And where was he going?

My eyes drifted to where he'd thrown the scissors. Was that what he'd screamed about? Not cutting my hair off? What the hell was wrong with him? It was just hair. Did it really matter that much to him?

He was a strange creature, once capable of crying one minute and being completely cheery the next. Or going from desperate to ominous in a span of two seconds. Why was he like that? And why was he so concerned about me?

And why was I now so concerned about him?