A [[Cut]] so fine, dear, I promise! It's my defense, My urge to live on. Hair. It's quite a focal point of the world. How you style it, how you design it, how it's colored, can say a lot about you. If you focus, you can change its hue, its pigment. Are you someone who revels in the boring, who colors their hair black, grey, blonde? Or, when you look in the mirror, you see the mark of an adventurer, coloring it blue or pink? Or, maybe, you hate that visage in the mirror, you hate to try and focus on the strands of hair when you see a demon, your mistakes, in front of you? It's okay, I understand. We all have our flaws. You can have your hair be as short as you like - but to *bald*, is to forsake one's own identity and cut the hair so short, it could hide under a hat, with the barest clumps coming out from under. To actually remove it all entirely is reserved for the insane. ### "I'm a murderer!" Ah, I see. Your hair must be tinted green with guilt, then? But you repeat again. "I'm a murderer...", your voice growing quieter and quieter. Again. And again. Snipping your hair with scissors, making a lawn on the floor. What broke you? ... You're crying. You're weeping. Please, it's alright. Just tell me. I'll understand. "No, you don't understand! I'm a murderer! I've *killed* people! Slit their throats, cut off their heads, I... I reveled in their blood... The way it drips down from their neck like juices off meat... I'm a murderer, I'm so wrong... They made me do it, they made me pick up... pick it up... the blade... and cut and cut and cut until there was nobody left. It's all my fault. I don't even know why I did it, that's the worst part... It's all fragmented in my mind..." It's... I couldn't be the best of moral judgement, but, if they forced you to, can you blame yourself? If you were just a puppet acting out its master's will... is that really your fault? "But I reveled in it, I *enjoyed* it, apparently..." I wipe away a tear from your eye as you sit on the floor of the bathroom. "If the puppet loved to act, is it not also guilty?" You're hurt, Era. It's not your fault. It's alright. Maybe it'll make sense over time, when your memories come back? You keep sobbing, ready to cut another strand of hair from your head. I grab the scissors from your hand and toss them out the window. You don't need those anymore. "You don't get it, you don't understand, I-" I don't care. That's not *you*, not anymore... I hold you, hugging you tight. You're different than that, aren't you? We can worry about forgiveness later, right now, you need to worry about forgiving yourself... It's okay to cry, Era.