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Suitcase slowly slips the hair tie out of her hair, unraveling and shaking her hair. She stares at it in the reflection of the pond. It’s like a curtain, covering her face. Suitcase used to love it, being able to hide behind it. It felt like an extra layer of clothing, something that made her less vulnerable.
But recently, she hasn’t been needing it. She’s been able to stand strong. Be herself. Stand for herself. She doesn’t follow anyone blindly, or hide behind anyone else. Suitcase is her own person. She doesn’t need Nickel. She doesn’t need Baseball. Hell, she doesn’t even need Balloon!
Pretty soon after MePhone 4 had left, she’d started tying her hair back. When she woke up late, or was just trying to keep her hair neat for the day, she put it in a ponytail. But some days, when she couldn’t sleep, she would obsessively braid her hair.
Then, she proceeded to rip it out.
Strand by strand. When she was mad, at herself, at MePhone for leaving, at any of her other three companions, she would rip out each long brown strand. Bury the locks of hair she rips out in the ground. Then, Suitcase would lie on the ground and stare at the black sky, at the stars in the sky.
Every morning, when she woke up, she wondered why. Why’d she rip it out? Bury it? What was her purpose in this? Why didn’t she just cut it off?
Suitcase hated her hair. She hated it. Suitcase hated how annoying it was, how much effort she had to put into it, how weak it made her look, how safe it made her feel, and most of all, how much she relied on it.
There was some sort of internal fear there. For… as long as she’s remembered, her hair has been there. Every time Nickel’s harsh words had made her cry, she’s been able to hide behind her hair until she could get alone. It’s always been a comforting weight on her head. Something grounding her.
But today? Today she didn’t want the weight. It was too heavy. It held too many memories.
She looks around, wondering what the hell she’s doing. It’s dark. Like, pitch-black. There are quite a few stars, but there are four very bright ones. They kind of remind her of the final four.
Suitcase, Knife, Baseball, and Lightbulb. Suitcase felt like the latter two were her siblings, at this point, and Knife… something that she couldn’t define in words. He was always there for her. If you had to ask her, he was a true ally. But even that didn’t feel like… enough. Knife had done so much for her. He was so much to her.
It’d been so many days since MePhone had left. None of them counted anymore. It was impossible to wander back to Hotel OJ though - everywhere they went, there were just forests. MePhone had to have done that on purpose.
She looks in front of her, seeing the forest. It looks… thick. Enchanting.
Then, she looks down. Suitcase is sitting on the dock. It’s covered in Lightbulb’s paintings. They’re cute. She can tell they’re Lightbulb’s way of staying busy in this pause in the game. And she’s very good at painting.
The water in this area has always been very reflective. It’s the only “mirror” any of the contestants have. Suitcase isn’t one to like looking at her reflection, but some others (AKA Trophy) like to check themselves out in there.
Suitcase stares at the water, watching her hair as it flows down her arms. It looks like… too much for her.
She knows what she has to do. She looks at her hand, at the metal in it. These were the only pair of scissors she owns now, and while they were scarred with blood, her bad decisions from before, Suitcase still likes them. She didn’t do… that, anymore. She was changed. The only people who knew were Knife, Nickel, and Balloon, although she suspected that Baseball knew. Nickel thought she was a ‘freak’ for cutting herself, but Knife was surprisingly… supportive.
Running a hand through her hair, Suitcase blinks. A calm sense of… relief runs over her. She’s finally doing it. Cutting off this burden.
But what if she looks ugly…? Oh, she can’t do it! Suitcase isn’t vain, but she’s also not an idiot. She knows everyone will like her less if she’s ugly. That’s just how the world works.
Maybe just… a trim? But she knows that won’t have the same effect. The same euphoria, same edge just cutting half of it off will.
And yet, when she brings the scissors up to her chin, she gasps. Fucking gasps, like she’s deprived of air.
“No… no, no, no,” she mutters, hands shaking. “I- no, no, nononono-”
Suitcase drags her knees up to her chin, trying to steady her breathing. She just has to cut half of it off, it can’t be that hard, right? And yet, it hurts to breathe, to see, to—
It’s amazing how his hand on her shoulder immediately calms her down.
“Kn-Knife?” she whispers, staring at his reflection in the lake. He smiles down at her, although there’s so much concern in there. She wonders why.
“Yeah. It’s me. Are you… okay?”
“I’m fine. I- yeah.”
“What’re you trying to do? Why… why the scissors?” He tries to grab them, gently pulling them, but Suitcase’s grip tightens. Why’s he taking them? Not like Suitcase was going to hurt someone. What was he so worried about?
“I’m trying to cut my hair,” she whispers, legs falling back over the edge of the dock. She stares mournfully at her reflection, still burdened with all that hair. “I just… I can’t get myself to do it. Call me lame, I just-” her voice cracks.
Suitcase can feel Knife leans down, and one of his arms wraps around her waist, pulling her towards his legs. It feels… nice. She sighs, feeling oxygen refill her lungs, leaning on him.
“You’re not lame. Hair holds memories. It holds weight.”
“And I- I don’t want those memories! I’m done with it! I want it off!”
She, once again, raises her hand to her hair, but can’t seem to close her fingers. Suitcase just… freezes.
“Do you want me to do it?” Knife whispers, free hand curling softly around Suitcase’s wrist - the one holding the scissors - as if he’s afraid she’ll do something brash. Something she- no, he, can’t take back. She doesn’t get his caution, what’s she going to do?
“Do… what?”
“Cut your hair. I do it for myself pretty often, and I help others with their own.”
“Cut… my hair?”
“Yeah. I got you. Just… just give me the scissors.”
Suitcase blinks. Blinks again. He’ll cut her hair. She doesn’t have to worry about it. She can just… let go.
So she lets go, listening to the scissors hit the wood of the dock. Whoops.
Knife doesn’t seem to care, picking it up, and craning their bodies so they can see Suitcase’s reflection. “How short do you want it?”
“As short as possible. I just- I don’t wanna look ugly.”
He snorts. Fucking snorts, as if Suitcase’s worries were stupid. “S-sorry,” he mumbles, “but, ugly? You could never, Suitcase. You’re the prettiest person I know. The second you become ugly is the second Lightbulb stops loving Paintbrush.”
Suitcase snorts, feeling her eyes well up with appreciative tears, ones of laughter. “I mean, you never know. I swear, she seemed like she was going to kiss Baxter like, every second we were on the show.”
“Meh. My point still stands, ’cause she’s in love with them.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she smiles, feeling a bit more grounded. She feels more aware. Suitcase can feel the hard ground beneath her, Knife’s rough, calloused hands stroking her hair, and his breathing on her hair.
“So? How short?”
“I guess… somewhere between my shoulder and chin.”
Knife pulls her hair back, before twisting it and letting go of it in an oddly affectionate act. “Alright. Are you ready?”
Suitcase gulps. It was finally going to happen. “Y-yeah…”
“If it gets too much, you tell me, okay? And if you can't tell me, pinch my leg.”
“…it shouldn’t get too much. It’s just some hair.”
“If it gets too much, you tell me. You have to promise.”
“Fine. I promise I’ll tell you.”
Knife smiles, teeth glimmering in the reflection of the lake. “Okay.”
The immense focus that possesses his face isn’t like anything Suitcase has seen before. He lines the scissors up, and just… snips.
Suitcase stares at the way her hair falls from her head, and the way it lands on the dock. It seems so… lame. So lifeless. So… insignificant.
Just like how the old parts of her, the old memories, were insignificant.
Her hands loosen on the dock, head rising to stare forward as Knife continues. It’s quiet, a quiet that comforts her. Neither of them feels the need to talk, not when they can just be there for the other.
Suitcase doesn’t know how long it was, all she remembers is Knife’s hands running through her hair, and stopping short. She flexes her head, and it doesn’t feel so heavy, inside and out. It feels so much more gentle. Like it’s hugging her head, not dragging it down.
“Do you like it?” Knife asks, his voice a low rumble. Suitcase leans forward, looking at it.
It outlines her face in a much bolder way than it did before. It gives her a more ‘here’ look, not a ‘hidden’ look. Which is what she wants.
Suitcase feels… free. So much better. Small tears prick at her eyes, which eventually lead to more, and more, and more flowing down her face.
Her shoulders start to shake, and Knife grabs them, leaning forward to look at her. “Suits? Are you okay?”
“Knife… thank you. It’s just what I wanted. It looks so good.”
“Yeah, of course. Anything for you.” He continues to run his hands through her hair, smiling down at her. “You feeling better?”
“So much better,” she says, leaning into his chest. Knife smirks, before sighing. “C’mon, we should probably get back to the others.”
“Oh. Oh yeah.” Suitcase lets him help her up, then shakes her head, laughing. “Meeple, I love this new haircut. Thank you. Thank you so much, Knife.”
“Anytime, Suits. You know where to find me.”
“I do,” Suitcase responds, so vibrant with joy that she doesn’t realize Knife threw her scissors away.