The Wig | By Tiffany Chan
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| Illustration by Annette & Jodi. |
The first thing that I wake up to is darkness.
I can tell that I’m curled up in the fetal position, and when I try to—ow!—stretch my arms and legs, I collide against darkness. This darkness is trapping me, choking me, squeezing me until I’m—
Okay, Ashley, calm down. You took science. You know darkness isn’t solid. So you must be trapped in a box.
“Trapped in a box” isn’t exactly very comforting, but it gives me something to focus on: if this is a box, how do I open it? Or in this case, how do I open it from the inside? There are no boxes that can be opened from the inside, you idiot, that’s the whole point of—
Breathe in, breathe out. Repeat. I stick my hands out carefully to feel my surroundings. I get that I’m in some sort of container, but the inside walls are furry to the touch. Furry? What kind of containers have furry walls? Coffins? Oh my god, am I being buried alive—
No, that doesn’t make sense. People are laid flat on their backs in coffins, and this feels a little too wide to be one. Okay, good news, I’m not in a coffin—
A car boot! The inside walls of car boots are sort of carpeted, right? I almost smack myself in the forehead when the realization hits me. Okay, so, a car boot. Maybe I can shout to try and get someone’s attention. But what if my kidnapper hears me? That would ruin any chance of escape. I read somewhere that trunks can be opened from the inside, so, maybe I should try that.
I crawl to a sitting position, and—ow! Never mind, I can’t sit up—and look for something that resembles an open switch...thingy.
Groping around the car boot makes me wish I had a hair tie. Strands of my waist-length hair keep sticking to my sweaty face and neck. Add that to my long list of frustrations at the moment. But at the top of that list would be where on earth is that open switch? I swear something like that exists. I remember watching a movie and making a bet with my sister that trunks couldn’t be opened from the inside. I lost ten ringgit to her that day.
Oh, no. Maybe WikiHow was lying to me when they said all car boots could be opened from the inside. But then my fingers stumble on something smooth and hard, smaller than my palm. I push and pull at it desperately, almost wrenching the thing out when nothing happens—
Click.
A sliver of dim light pierces the blackness, and I have to blink my eyes several times to make sure I’m not dreaming. I kick upwards with all my strength, and almost faint in relief when the trunk door flies open.
I expect myself to squint at the brightness of day—only there is no brightness. The sky above me is dark and my surroundings silent, save for the whoosh of what I think is a passing vehicle. Midnight. Of course. I’ve watched enough movies to know that most kidnappings happen at night. I look around frantically for any sign of my abductor, but there seems to be no one. A vast stretch of emptiness greets me, broken only by a car or two parked in the distance.
And that’s when I see it: a petrol station! It sits at the far end of the parking lot, but I might be able to make it if I run fast enough.
My knees buckle when my feet hit the ground—from numbness or anxiety, I do not know. But I cannot think about that now; I have to get to the station. I force myself to take one step, and then another, pushing myself forward until the silhouette of the station grows larger.
I’m only a few yards away when he emerges from the building: broad, burly and clothed in black. We both freeze when our gazes clash, and for one insane second, an idiom pops into my mind. What was it again? Out of the frying pan…?
And into the fire.
Heart leaping into my throat, I run.
We start sprinting at the same time. Me, away from the petrol station, which was my lifeline about five seconds ago; him, towards me, a cat bounding for a mouse with jelly legs. I race for the first thing I see, which is a Myvi that I can only hope is unlocked.
And it is unlocked! Finally, a stroke of luck. I hurl myself into the driver’s seat and shut the door just in time before my abductor slams against the car body, yelling something incoherent. I lock the door quickly before he tries the handle, and jam my foot against the accelerator.
But the car doesn’t move, and of course it doesn’t because the idiot who left his car unlocked wasn’t stupid enough to leave his car key behind. I fumble around for something, anything that could possibly start the car, while my foot, still in denial, keeps flooring the gas as if that would help.
The stocky, roaring man keeps banging on the doors. “LEAVE ME ALONE!” I shout at him. “GO AWAY!”
Surprisingly, he hasn’t broken the windows yet, or done anything besides yelling for me to come out. “Please, I just want talk!”
Yeah, right, I almost scoff. You and every other kidnapper in history. After ten minutes of jabbing every button I can find and cursing colourfully, I finally come to terms with the fact that no car can start without its key. So I slump against the car seat, studiously ignoring the pounding and screaming from outside.
Eventually, the man gives up. The quiet is a jarring contrast from before, and it frightens me enough to make me turn my head. I don’t see him outside, which is infinitely worse than being able to. Who knows what schemes he must be plotting. He could pry the door open with a crowbar, or set it on fire—
I grab the umbrella I found under the car seat, deciding I’d rather take my chances. I’m a sitting duck if I stay here, but I might be able to get to the petrol station if I run. Hopefully this umbrella is more lethal than it looks.
I throw open the car door and it collides into something which yelps and moves: it is the man, who must’ve been crouching outside the car to wait me out.
This is my chance. I raise my umbrella and bring it down on him repeatedly, hitting as hard as I can. It earns me a few more yowls of pain.
“STOP! Stop!” he shouts, raising his hands to protect himself from my blows. “I said stop.”
In one swift motion, he twists the umbrella away from me. His arms are gripping mine in the next second, firm and unyielding. He clamps a hand over my mouth, muffling my cries—not that there’s anyone around to hear it. I twist and squirm in his grasp, but it is no use. I might as well be fighting against metal pincers.
I can’t run. I can’t fight. The words flash across my mind, unwelcome: It’s all over now.
“I let you go,” he growls in my ear. “You don’t run.”
Can’t make any promises, I want to snap, but his hand over my mouth makes that impossible. So I bite down hard on his palm, only regretting my decision later as the taste of human flesh flips my stomach. He yells in agony, and his hands around me slacken a little. I seize the opportunity, twisting my body with all my might—but his iron grip returns as soon as it came, cutting off any chance of my escape.
Then a loud crack fills my head before blackness engulfs me.
***
My consciousness returns in bits and pieces, slowly. Hard steel pressed against my back. Sweat trickling down my face. A single lamp hangs from the ceiling, bathing a small, dingy room in weak light. My hands are bound behind my back, and something sharp and thin cuts into my wrists. Cable ties, perhaps.
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| Not a good sight to wake up to. Photo by Theodore Lee. |
Glancing around wildly, I see that the room is scattered with boxes—I don’t even want to guess at their contents. The light above me flickers, as if sensing my thundering pulse. A child’s laughter tinkles through the air.
Great. This is Horror Movie 101. Except that now I’m living through it.
The door bursts open and my abductor stalks in, piercing me with a dark gaze.
Fear sweeps through me. “What do you want?” I croak. He doesn’t answer, simply stops a few paces away from me.
And then I see her. A slight, pale girl with eyes that seem too large for her lean face. She wears a tattered orange frock, head covered by a polka dotted beanie. Her bright grin is uncanny and out of place, especially once you see what she carries in her hands: a large pair of scissors, wicked sharp.
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| Wickedly sharp. Photo by Theodore Lee. |
Cold fingers clamp over my heart.
“Look, Papa.” The girl bounces on her feet excitedly. “She’s perfect!”
White spots cloud my vision again, but I don’t faint. I almost wish I would. That way, I’d be unconscious through whatever torture this girl inflicts on me.
Her father nods curtly and shoots me an unreadable look. “Fast,” he tells his daughter.
She skips out of sight and approaches me from behind, humming a cheerful tone. I can’t see her, but I hear the blades open in a soft, deadly whisper. Bile rises in my throat and I force it down. Dad, Mom, I love you and I—
Snick.
The room is silent save for my ragged breathing. My breathing. I’m not dead yet. And I don’t feel any pain. So what…
My neck cracks loudly as I swing my head, looking at the girl over my shoulder. But she no longer has eyes for me. Her small fingers are curled around a thick, dark rope, and it takes me a second to realise that the rope is my hair.
The girl had cut off my hair. Not my finger or ear or any body parts that I’m less than willing to part with. Relief crashes over me before being replaced by a new sense of dread. Maybe my hair was just the beginning.
But the young girl simply squeals and hops back to her father, who silently slips her a rubber band. She twists it around my severed mane, cradling the hair with unbridled joy, as if it were rare treasure.
When the world finally stops spinning, I see the man facing me with an apologetic grimace. “We just want your hair. That’s all.”
He grabs the scissors and steps around me. Panic floods my brain. “Don’t come any—”
The scissors snap and once again, there’s no pain. The biting pressure around my wrists lift, and I realise that he’s cut off my binds.
Immediately, I rush to my feet and shrink away. The man is standing in front of the entrance, blocking my escape. But his hands are raised in a show of peace. “We not hurt you,” he says hoarsely. “My daughter have cancer. She want wig.”
In response, the little girl nods fervently. “Your hair is pretty.”
Slowly, my breathing calms, though my head still swims with confusion. My mom has always said that my hair was a “prized possession”, but look where that got me. Still, kidnapping someone for their hair? Don’t they sell wigs to prevent that?
“Why couldn’t you just buy one?” I manage.
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| Not everyone can afford a wig. Source: Pinterest. |
The man heaves a sigh and curves an arm around his daughter. “No money buy wig. Treatment expensive.” Then with surprising kindness he adds, “I am sorry for catching you. I take you back to train station.”
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| Kidnappers' favourite alleyway. Photo by Theodore Lee. |
Oh, so that’s where he took me from. Well, I guess it could’ve been worse. It isn’t every day that your kidnapper apologizes for abducting you, and then promises to take you back. This father must have been very desperate to make his daughter happy.
The young girl’s face pulls into a guilty frown as well. “You don’t look bad.” Timidly, she passes me a hand mirror, which I accept after a skeptical moment.
My reflection is unfamiliar, but the girl was right: I don’t look terrible, just ghostly pale from fright. The ends of my bob are jagged and uneven, but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed by a visit to the saloon. After thinking that I was going to die tonight, I’d gladly take a bad haircut.
“You’re right.” I smirk at the girl. “Maybe you’ll grow up to be a hairstylist.”
The girl beams, and her smile transforms her face, erasing the pain and fatigue that her illness brings. If being shoved into a car boot and put through hours of panic gets me a smile from a strong, adorable girl like her, I suppose I can let it slide.
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