It was late afternoon as I sat on the floor helping my mother clean.
We were collecting her hair in a small Ziploc bag. Clumps of hair torn out of her scalp. Ripped from their roots as he dragged her across the floor.
I watched helplessly as he did so. I don’t remember if I was screaming. If I was, her cries of anguish must have drowned out any other sounds.  
She was sorting photos and cutting him out. Her passive aggression and expression of her deepest desire threw him in a rage, although it never took much. 
She took her bag of hair as a reminder. She left. 
We left.
She returned us and her hair to him. His trophy. His property. His.

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