He Needed It, He Really Did (Ficctional) by Sarah (recovered)

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He Needed It, He Really Did (Fictional)

By Sarah

Johnson Carterson sat quietly in his living room. He was exhausted, his eye-lids were heaver then they’d ever been. He wanted so desperately to go lay down on his soft, cozy bed; but he couldn’t. He made a bet with his wife, Clara that he could stay up for seven days. He was on his fifth day. He decided to turn on loud music and just rest his head on the sofa’s arm-rest. Accidently, he dozed off. Clara walked into the house and saw her husband sleeping and smiled…

Clare’s P.O.V.

I smiled, my plane had worked. Quickly, I made my way to the kitchen, went to the junk-drawer, opened it, and franticly started looking through it. A smile appeared on my face when my hand found what it was looking for: A pair of small, sharp scissors. I walked back into the living room and looked at my sleeping husband. His hair was golden-brown, thick, wavy, and in a tight braid that almost touched the floor. He turned over in his sleep and was now on his stomach…perfect. I kneeled down next to him, grabbed his perfect braid, held it out, held the scissors to it, and SNIP. I stood up, his lifeless braid in my hand. I walked out the back door and up to the blazing fire I had started earlier. I looked at the braid once and tossed it into the fire. I watched as every strand of his hair burned to a crisp. I then turned on my heel and walked back into the house. I went into the living room and kneeled down next to John again. I debated on weather I should leave his hair the way it is now (It just reached his chin) or snipped it all off.

“Eh, “I said to myself. I started lifting his hair slowly and cutting it off. Snip, snip, snip, scrunch, scrunch, snip, scrunch, and snip. I smiled at my work. His hair was now about half an inch all over. I pulled all the hair clippings into a bag, went back outside, and tossed the bag of hair into the fire place.

A Few Hours Later…

I slept quietly in the master bedroom when I heard a yell of anger. I jumped and then smiled. Within seconds, John was in the room; tears of anger in his eyes.

“How!?” he yelled.

“I was sick of it,” I said, smiling. He looked at me speechless. After that, we spent hours yelling at one another. And he finally sighed and said: Fine…I’ll just…grow it back out…” With that, he walked disappointedly out of the room. I smiled at myself; I knew once his hair was long again I’d cut it again.


The End

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