Earlier, the bathroom had been quiet except for the soft rasp of a brush through hair and the uneven sound of a child trying not to cry. Eloin sat on the tiled floor, knees pulled up, blonde hair falling out in clumps. Every bristle of the brush was packed with strands. Her hands shook as she lifted it toward her head. One stroke, then another.
Pain shot across her scalp like fire. She bit her lip hard, tasting blood. Crying was forbidden. Miss Calva hated crying. Crying meant weakness. Weakness meant punishment.
More hair came out. It slid down her shoulders, drifted to the floor. Eloin stared at a clump in her palm, pale and fragile.
“Why does this keep happening?” she whispered.
In the mirror above the double sink, she saw herself: bald patches scattered across her scalp, angry red marks that looked like burns, shiny and inflamed. She reached up and touched one gently. It hurt so much she saw stars.
A shadow moved under the door. Heavy footsteps, slow and deliberate, crossed the hallway. The doorknob turned.