Paul Washed My Hair

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Rated: ASR · Book · Tragedy · #2352829

This is fiction. I am stepping into the character’s shoes and seeing where she leads.

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#1116570 added May 28, 2026 at 8:02am
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Paul Washed My Hair
052826 This is fiction. The voice you’re reading is a character, not the author.

May 28, Thursday

Last night Paul helped me wash my hair.

I hadn’t thought enough about what that would really mean. I wanted clean hair so badly that I only thought about the shower, the warm water, and Paul’s hands helping me do something I couldn’t do for myself.

Then he saw me.

The look on his face made me wonder if I had made a mistake asking him to help. Not because he looked away or made me feel ashamed. He didn’t. Paul would never do that. It was the opposite. He looked at me like seeing every bruise, every bandage, every place I was hurt, nearly broke something inside him.

When I saw tears in his eyes, it almost broke me too.

Poor guy. I know he must have gone through his own kind of hell. I know him well enough to know he is blaming himself. I bet he keeps thinking he let Johnston get to me.

But he didn’t.

I wish I could make him believe that.

Writing Johnston’s name feels like I am giving him some kind of power, and I don’t want to do that anymore. So from now on, if I have to refer to him, I am only going to call him J.

J is dead.

I don’t know how to feel about that.

Part of me thinks I should be relieved. Part of me is relieved. He can’t hurt me again. He can’t come through another door, or drag me into another nightmare, or whisper threats in my ear. He is gone.

But I’m not happy about it.

It feels wrong to be happy that someone is dead, even someone like him. Maybe I should want to dance on his grave. Maybe someone else would. Maybe people would understand if I did.

But I don’t.

All I feel is tired.

My dad is coming to see me tomorrow. Paul said he is back stateside and will arrive at BWI in Baltimore around three in the afternoon. So it will probably be evening before he gets here. Maggie is picking him up and driving him to the hospital.

I hate that he has to see me like this.

I know he is my father. I know he loves me. I know he would want to be here. But I still hate it. There is something awful about knowing people you love are going to walk into this room and see the proof of what happened written all over you.

Dr. Cole comes by every day and stays for about an hour. He is quiet and knowing, but he doesn’t ask many questions. Sometimes we don’t talk much at all. Sometimes he just sits there, and somehow that helps.

I can tell he is handling me carefully.

He lets me decide what doors to open. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t reach for things I’m not ready to hand him.

One thing I did tell him is that it seems odd I haven’t had nightmares.

I’m glad I haven’t. I am really glad. Before, I had lots of them. They came at night and sometimes during the day too, like my mind couldn’t tell the difference between remembering and living through it again.

Dr. Cole said he thinks my mind is handling what it can.

That is as close as we have gotten to talking about what happened.

The thing is, I know what J did to me this time.

I remember everything.

And I don’t want to.

I would like to kill those memories. I would like to pull them out of my head and throw them somewhere so far away they could never find me again.

But memories don’t work that way.

They stay.

They wait.

They rise up when I move wrong, or hear the wrong sound, or close my eyes too long.

So maybe this is why I haven’t had nightmares yet. Maybe I don’t need them because the memories are already awake.

I wish they weren’t.

I wish I could sleep and not remember.

I wish I could wake up and be only Sam again, not Sam after J, not Sam in the hospital, not Sam with bruises and a broken arm and a leg that hurts every time I move.

Just Sam.

Paul says I am still me.

I want to believe him.
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