A haircut

Eileen was confronting a mirror. His reflection, blurred by the dirt and stain-infested surface, displayed a remarkable mass of black hair. Clustered in thick bangs, they fell at about shoulder-length and covered half of his forehead. It was a feminine look; one that Eileen didn't choose. The daily occurrences had gifted him this appearance. Well. 'Gifted.' It may not have been the proper word.

Eileen's left hand was grabbing onto a pair of scissors, whose edges weren't sharp nor polished. Rather, they were rugged pieces of metal, jointed together at their base. It did the job; Eileen never complained.

Although he had spent the day thinking about this moment, cutting his hair wasn't the easiest of tasks. Especially that, with his skills, it was a given that he would end up butchering up his hard-earned mass and length. At the same time, Eileen knew. Chopping off some parts was a necessary step in creating a cleaner and well-kept look. Still, his hair seemed greasy. Some issues remained, of course.

Eileen brought his wrist to his head-level. His free hand slid underneath the puddle of hair, gripping into one particularly long bang. Helped by his reflection, Eileen brought his limbs together. He focused on his coordination. The scissors. The bang that stroked his skin. It was perfect. Then, Eileen applied some pressure.

There was a faint sound. With any more noise, Eileen's ears wouldn't have caught it. His surroundings, however, were blessed with complete silence. Not even the running of an animal or the wailing of a lost child. Well, in Eileen's district, these two would be concerning.

Anyhow.

Eileen gritted his teeth. His reflection showed the bang collapsing to the ground – in shabby quality, sadly. Forty centimeters of length, gone. A year of growth, too. It wasn't one hair either, but rather, a dense entanglement of hair, like cutting a ponytail.

Having cut one side, Eileen's head looked woefully unbalanced. He could tell, even without a sense of aestheticism. In his mind, there was no dilemma. Eileen hated the idea of cutting his hair, but he loathed being ugly far more. While it was a superficial charm, his natural features were the only aspect of Eileen that managed to earn some praise. Thus, he valued them.

He cut once more. Eileen felt the bang sliding down his right cheek. Now, his appearance was ridiculous, yet organized. Eileen nodded to himself. It was the right path. He cut the bangs that plummeted on his sides - the reason why he'd decided on tying his hair. The left side. Then, the right one. Eileen freed some forehead area with a quick cut. Left, right. He was learning at an impressive pace.

The general shape of Eileen' hair began to smooth out. He transitioned from wearing a helmet to a messy, unrefined beanie of hair on his scalp. By Eileen's standards, the sight was impressive. He liked what the mirror displayed, threw a few glances in-between cuts of refinements. Eventually, Eileen put down the scissors on his thigh and began ruffling his fresh cut. A few blind adjustments, here and there. Without a doubt, Eileen's appearance had gained in masculinity, and, although not his priority, created a smug smile on his face.

He spent a minute on a thorough analysis. In the end, however, Eileen's brows furrowed. There was a glaring issue in the overall cut. His original hair length, though divided ten-fold, didn't match Eileen's vision. Too long and messy. If he wore some sort of hat, bits of hair would appear from everywhere.

Ah. Actually.

That thought, no matter how idiotic it was, gave Eileen a great idea. His eyes skimmed his surrounding for anything that classified as a hat. A beanie, a beret or a hood. However, apart from dust and oil, this place was quite empty. After some research, on a nearby shelf, at twice his arm length, Eileen spotted an uncleaned pan, where grains of rice and melted butter were glued into one bundle. Its edges glimmered green. Not the best.

Indeed, it was bad, but in the meanwhile, Eileen's options were narrow. He rolled his eyes twice, then extended his arm outwards. The pan was too far. Despite the bother, Eileen sighed and stood up. After gripping the pan, he flipped it above his hair and pressed downwards. Disgusting. Eileen felt some substance spreading on the roots of his hair. The butter, he guessed, but never checked.

As the pan suffocated his head, Eileen's hopes lit up. Tiny bangs and stray peaked out of the pan's edges. A golden mine. In a swift motion, Eileen stole the scissors from his lap and began cutting away. A curtain of minuscule hair fell out. He cut, chopped and stabbed until none remained.

Eileen slammed the dirty pan against the ground. Opening up a crumpled water bottle at his feet, he poured its contents onto his hair. To get the butter off his hair, he needed it. For a luxury, some soap, too. As he rummaged through his hair once again, searching for the proper styling method, Eileen began to appreciate the small cuts.

The final product was a standard cut, close to the neck and wavy at the top. Due to Eileen complete lack of experience, the sides were a mess of uneven length and coiling stray hair. Nonetheless, it did the job. Peered at himself in the mirror, Eileen felt proud. He raised a tiny fist to his chest, before celebrating. In his head, that is.

He was nothing like the former Eileen. At his feet, a black forest was sprawled on the ground. If stepped on, they would make a concerning creaking noise, leaking out some white particles. Definitely, Eileen had made the right decision.

Eileen stayed silent. Motionless, for about five minutes. He waited with his eyes closed and focused on the ambient sounds. The cold breeze traversing his flat's lone broken window; the glass shards, sliding on the floor. A distant and muffled shout.

Then, he heard footsteps. Like an army of ants swarming the floor below.

'They're here.'

Eileen stood up and did circles around his flat. His steps followed an erratic yet lilting rhythm, all the while he nibbed on his left thumb.

'Now, how to do it...'

Without a warning, he stopped, took a deep breath, then closed his eyes.

'Should I play dead?'

After a second, Eileen shook his head. A contorted expression spread on his face.

'No. Too obvious. They'll lit up a fire paper on my corpse for good measure anyway.'

Eileen's right foot tapped on the floor at perfect intervals of five seconds. He crouched, before leaning his ear on the crackling floor - a nest of dust. Below, the footsteps were growing at a constant pace, and Eileen was able to interpret some sounds. It was a rough guess, still.

"Are we sure that Neil is hiding there? Is the information clear?"

Hearing them, Eileen bit his tongue and dug one of his nails in the forearm.

'I don't know where you've gotten them, though. Well.'

He chuckled.

'I'll deal with it later.'

At this point, Eileen's floor vibrated. The footsteps were loud enough to hear for anyone in a ten-meter radius. It was a matter of seconds. Eileen rubbed his temple.

'...'

He gazed at the trail of blood that ran from his forearm. Eileen froze. A spark had lit up in his head. It wasn't a genius plan, but with enough luck, it would work.

The motion was instantaneous. Eileen, silencing any noise, crawled on the ground to a broken window. A few shards of glass reflected the dim moonlight in a silvery hue.

Silence ruled Eileen's flat. Himself made no noise. Motionless. He may as well have been dead, or a wax puppet.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Behind Eileen's door, moss, sweat and dirt shared a living place. In addition, about twenty or so people waited. They were dressed in a loose, black and brown striped uniform, silky black boots and a black beret.

Although the outfit itself may not be considered the most intimidating, the utter absence of emotions of goodwill on their faces could be. Some carried firearms of all sizes and shapes. Others; long and carved pieces of metal, attached to a carbon handle, hanging down from their waist. Some, however, held white bags in their hands, bloated with an armada of paperclips, bullets or crackled flasks.

"Are you catching any sounds?" A man, armed with rugged features and a shallow scar between his eyebrows, asked. By his forward position and proud, straight back, confidence filled his frame. He directed the question at a woman on his left, whose ear stroked the dirty door. Her beret hid an impressive hair volume, bloating the hat.

A few seconds passed before the woman glanced upward.

"No, sir. Either he's doing it on purpose, or he's fled already. Or..."

The man clicked his tongue. "No. The information is right. With the additional troops, he also wouldn't have escaped. Neil is smart, I'll give him that."

With a thoughtful expression, the man swirled around. A collective shiver spread among the soldiers.

"Soldiers." The man began in a whisper. "There's no time for speeches. It's time."

Everything happened in an instant. Every motion was both precise and swift. The man kicked Eileen's door open, and an army of steps trembled the floor in harmony.

"Neil! Show yourself!"

It took less than a second for the man to analysis his surroundings. The flat was damp, broken and smelled like cigarettes. Shards were scattered all over the ground. Glass or plastic, with dust in-between.

Though he was about to shout his usual instructions, but a light nibbling interrupted his thoughts. His gaze jolted around the flat, searching for its origin.

"Huh? What the..."

However, the answer was found at feet level. A meter away, leaning against a wall, a child hugged his knees. He wore a tattered shirt riddled with holes. In truth, it would be more logical to consider it a rag rather than a proper cloth. His feet were bare. His eyes, too. A pair of gray and emotionless gems. The child was motionless, except for his right thumb that he nibbed relentlessly.

The man acted on instinct. It was a logical reflex to brand his weapon towards an unknown variable. He couldn't be blamed. Seeing the defenseless boy, however, his weariness dropped instantly. The other soldiers, too, shared confused gazes and raised brows.

"Who are you?"

He didn't mean to, but the man used a rough tone. Like giving out an order or a threat. The boy raised his head, moving as a scared cat would. His eyes were empty still, but their constant twitch were a clear sign of fear. In this new posture, the man was able to get a better look at the boy.

The child's skin was a battlefield of scars, cuts and bruises. Purple and red were splattered over his natural tanned hue, competing against each other. Across the entire body, not a part was spared. The child's lips had multiple scars crossing them and adding blood over their reddish tint. From the shattered window, the winter wind made the child shiver. Although the man thought so, it may well have been terror.

The man crouched to the child's level, letting go of his hardened expression. He tried stroking his hand on the colored bruises. The child flinched in pain. Then, the man stroke up a conversation.

"Are you okay? Where are your parents?"

For a minute, the child was mute. His eyes betrayed no ambition of answering. Meanwhile, the man ordered his soldiers around for a thorough search of Neil's flat. Then, he was patient.

The man and the child exchanged no words. They weren't needed. Neither seemed ready or willing to take the first step, and their conversation was dim as a result. The boy, surrounded by a legion of stomping footsteps, was wiping the blood off his skin.

However, as the seconds passed, a sentence or two sparked up a discussion. From adult to child, but still.

The boy threw a nosy gaze at the man. "A man..." He muttered under his breath. Fear stirred up in his eyes.

"Tell me. What about this man?" With a smile, the man asked. His face was flushed.

"He...brought me in there. Then, it hurt."

The man cocked his head. "Did he hurt you?"

After receiving a nod, he pried further. "With what?"

It took some time before the boy answered. Without a word, he pointed at a shard of glass, sprawled on the ground near his feet and tinted a dark red. The man went back and forth. The boy's skin. The ground. He clicked his tongue and stood up.

"Anything?" The man shouted, and a collective 'no' rung out in the flat. However. A young woman, dressed in a white, glittery coat, strode to his location.

"Actually. We found a rope." She chirped with a concerning amount of enthusiasm. Her tall heels gifted her steps with a strong presence.

"Where?" The man fired, glancing at the boy, who'd resumed his original posture - head in knees.

"Below a broken window. Well, come. I'll show you."

The two walked to the upper-left corner of Eileen's flat. They faced an isolated, broken window, and a carpet of glass on the floor. Leaning forward, the man frowned. Indeed, the woman was correct. A rope, tied to a screw on the wall, connecting to an alley a couple of meters down. The material was thick, enough to support a man's worth of body weight. There were no wrong assessments possible.

"...Winny."

The woman - Winny - interrupted the man with a spirited tone. "Ah, no complaining. Your grumpy voice tires me."

He raised a hollow smile. "Does it?"

"Yeah -" Winny fired back, before adding. " - Well, for now..." She turned back, making the bottom of her coat flutter. "There's a boy to treat."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

In the three month that Eileen lived in that flat, he never once complained about it. The layout was, by his shabby standards, perfect. A smelly, twenty-meter square mess, warmed up by a frozen heater. Better yet, there were no cockroaches. A luxury, considering the area.

'That's better than all of this year's flats combined.'

Eileen, however, couldn't help but sulk at the sight. Cuddling himself against a blanket, the slums' shelter was a piece of art. Its gray walls and ceiling were tall and wide. The floor was free of any lingering dust or roaming bugs. Each corner housed a wooden table cluttered with food, bottle of water and soda cans, without the usual sour taste of the street.

The unique detail bothering Eileen was his body. Sharp pains hurt him from all sides. Once, he began regretting his decision of cutting himself, but, with some critical thinking, concluded that it was better than dying.

While peering at his wounds, Eileen caught footsteps ahead. They echoed against the ceiling; the heavy sound of heels.

"You alright, boy? Want something?"

Eileen raised his head. A young-looking woman, with a soft yet disinterested expression, crouched down. Both of her hands were occupied by a crumpled bag of chips and some sheeny soda cans. Her appearance did ring a bell to Eileen.

'Winny? I'm not sure.'

"Well?" She insisted, waving the food supplies in the air, like a taunting scum.

Eileen calmed his trail of thoughts, then talked. He had quite a slim margin of error.

"...Who are you?" He asked in a creaking voice. His words were barely gibberish.

"Ah, you've only met that big guy, that's right. I'm Winny. We're in the same team, him and I. Trying to catch the man who did this to you -"

Winny flicked Eileen's scarred upper lip. Even while acting, the sudden pain made him flinch. He raised his hands in a pathetic display of defense.

"Oh? Rowdy, aren't you. Well, back to my question. Something?"

Again, Winny agitated her left hand. Gently, Eileen raised his chin at the cans.

"Hmm.." She nodded. "Which one?"

It was a mondain question, but Eileen was lost. Rather, he had no knowledge about their specific tastes. The cans were all identical and decorated with a color stripe. Red. Blue. Magenta. Whatever they meant.

In the end, Eileen let luck decide. He pointed his finger in the cans' general direction.

"The green one?"

Eileen nodded. Inwardly, he shrugged.

"...Really?"

Winny squinted her eyes, looking like a serpent's gaze. She scratched the back of her head and puffed her cheeks. It was theatrical. Eileen nodded; Winny's action were creeping him out.

"Alright then."

She stood up, threw the can at Eileen's general position, then did a controlled spin of herself. A three-in-one motion.

'Does she want me to congratulate her?'

Eileen's inability to read the woman granted him a headache. As Winny's back got smaller, his dizziness worsened. After using his teeth as a can opener, Eileen gulped the cold liquid down his throat. Then, he began to regret.

"...That's why she gave me that look, huh."

Calling it disgusting would be a mercy. Eileen described it a blend of sugar, salt and grapefruit. Mixed in with milk. The cuts on his body weren't so bad after all.

Time passed. Eileen let his body relax, but battled against his urge to fall asleep. At random intervals, he would glance at the immense window that occupied half of the ceiling. The color passing through the glass adapted. From dulls gray clouds to some kind of navy blue. Eventually, it turned pitch black and starless.

The building was bustling with life. Around the few tables, clusters of children and unkept-looking people devoured each edible particle. Despite the best efforts of about a dozen volunteers, a majority had chosen a wall as their bed. A blanket and a water bottle. It was the minimum given. The rest, well, was up to luck.

Eileen wasn't hungry nor interested in the sights, but it was better than staring at the sky nonetheless. He thought about a way to escape. Free food was a good offer, but the army wasn't naive. With a generous estimation, he had about a week of leeway.

'Would this work?'

After wrapping his worn-spot blanket around his torso, Eileen stood up. He puffed out a white mist, then stretched his sore limbs.

'Let's try.'

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Winny sighed. A swarm of children was grabbing her pristine white coat from all sides. They looked pitiful. Their skin hugged their bones and their hair stood up in all directions like hedgehogs. Some had bruises, others missing limbs. The target of their pleas, however, was common; the panicked woman at the center of them all.

"Miss, please. It hurts. Can you give me some of that?"

A girl asked. Dirt and dust peeled off her hair. She was digging her over-grown nails in Minny's coat.

"Miss, miss. I can't do this."

Another child. Minny didn't bother to observe them. Complaining to her was easy, but solving the issue was another matter. She didn't have a trace of food on her, spare for the bag of chips coveted by these kids. As a defensive reflex, Minny raised her arm out of reach.

"Alright, alright, don't tear off my coat."

Although Minny flashed the semblance of a smile, her mind was elsewhere. She cursed her job that robbed her of a simple bag of chips. Sea weeds flavored. Her favorite.

Minny crouched to the ground, extending her arm at one of the kids.

"Do you want it? I guess you do." The kid rushed forward and used both of his short arm to snatch the bag. A dozen gazes fell on him like a rain of knives. Minny chuckled, before walking away.

"Do your own thing, kids. Don't be too aggressive."

Being her, Minny could hear a blend of screams, tearing and attempted punches. She kept her calm, before bursting into laughter. Well. It was cruel, but to her eyes, entertaining. For such a boring job, that is.

A couple of steps later, Minny left the building through a tiny back exit. She walked into the scent of burnt foliage. It was an open-air area, yet circled by tall fences. A breeze struck Minny's cheek. She shivered and cursed the cold.

From her breast pocket, Minny grabbed a used cigarette and a reddish paper. The combination smelled terrible and contradictory. Minny brought the cigarette to her lips, then rubbed the paper below it. A flame lit up the area, grazing Minny's chin, and the paper turned to ash.

Minny took a puff. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, but it soothed her out. Perhaps, the addiction did.

She breathed out a reddish mist, spreading the smell of cigarette around.

Then, Minny noticed. The boy, standing next to her.

"Hmm?"

"Miss."

He was that tattered, cut and bloody child that she had discovered earlier that day. His eyes had gained a touch of pink into them, but his condition looked miserable as always.

"You're that kid..." She took out the cigarette, trying to dispel the odor. The kid cocked his head sideways.

"What are you doing?" His innocent voice made Winny, who was flailing her arms at the air, flinch. She put up an awkward smile. "N-Nothing."

Observing the boy, Minny frowned. She had trouble understanding his decision.

"Why are you here?" She asked, once more crouching to his level.

"I don't know...The other kids looked scary." The boy had a downcast look, and kept stealing glances at Minny.

"...Which means?"

"They are...attacking each other, I think. For the food, maybe." The boy paused, then collapsed his back on the grass. "I don't know."

The tiniest amount of guilt stirred up in Minny. It wasn't enough to ruin her day. Still, a sour taste spread in her mouth.

"What about you?" Minny asked, pinching the boy's thin cheek. "Aren't you hungry?"

"No...not real-"

When a deep sound rumbled from the boy's stomach, Winny's smile contained pure mischief. She wanted to tease him.

"Oh? You were about to say?"

"..." It was an awkward silence. The boy's eyes were moist and his expression ugly. At this scene, Minny sighed.

"I'll go get you something."

Truthfully, there was no 'something'. The supply was empty, but given Minny's position, she could grab a snack or two without much issue. Of course, it annoyed Minny. The boy, however, had sparkles in his eyes.

"...Is that so?"

Minny bit her lip. "Yeah. Don't say anything, or I'll regret it someday."

The boy nodded with vigor. His face had regained some of its original teenager essence. Minny ruffled his hair, then left for the shelter.

She did a simple trip. To her room, the distributor, then back into the area. However, Minny was left with a deep confusion.

"Huh?"

Of course, there was no boy.