Chapter 7: The Hairbrush Oath
The dorm room door clicked shut, sealing them in a world of their own making. The lingering shame from the infirmary mixed with the new, volatile anger simmering in Lucy’s chest. Miranda just stood there, by her bed, that infuriating, knowing smile still playing on her lips.
“Well?” Miranda said, her voice a challenge. “You going to talk about it, or are you going to do it?”
Lucy didn’t answer. She marched to her dresser, the movement sending a fresh throb through her own backside. She yanked the top drawer open, rummaging past hair ties and loose batteries until her fingers closed around the smooth, heavy wood of her hairbrush. It was an old, solid thing, beechwood, with a wide, flat back. Her grandmother’s. It felt alien and terrifying in her hand now, a tool for something entirely new.
She turned. Miranda was already pulling her t-shirt over her head, then shimmying out of her jeans and underwear in one practiced, unhurried motion. She didn’t look embarrassed. She looked like she was preparing for a ritual. She laid herself face down on the rumpled comforter, her body a pale curve in the dim room, and pillowed her head on her arms.
“Don’t hold back,” she said, her voice muffled by the bedding. “I meant what I said. A hundred. And make them count.”
Lucy’s grip on the brush tightened. Her palm was sweaty. This was insane. This was what she wanted, right? Revenge. Payback for the humiliation in the infirmary. But standing here, looking at Miranda’s exposed skin, still faintly marked from Miss Robbins, the reality of it was a cold weight in her stomach.
She walked to the side of the bed. The first swing was awkward, all shoulder, a clumsy thwack that landed more on the thigh than the sit-spots.
Miranda let out a soft, derisive laugh. “Is that all you’ve got? Miss Robbins hit harder than that.”
Anger, hot and sharp, flared in Lucy’s gut. The second swing was better. She put her wrist into it, a sharp, stinging crack that echoed flatly in the small room. A bright red oval bloomed on Miranda’s skin.
Miranda gasped, but it wasn’t a sound of pain. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated satisfaction. Her back arched, pressing her rear up into the air, a clear, wordless invitation for more. “Yeah,” she breathed. “Like that. Harder.”
So Lucy did. She found a rhythm, a terrible, punishing cadence. Crack. Crack. Crack. The sound of wood meeting flesh was a dull, percussive beat undercut by Miranda’s sharp, eager inhalations. Lucy’s arm began to ache, a burning fatigue in her muscle, but she didn’t stop. She watched the pale skin transform into a canvas of angry red, then deepening to a blotchy, violent crimson. She was doing this. She was causing this.
“Harder, Lucy, please,” Miranda moaned, her voice thick and syrupy. She wriggled, adjusting her position to present a better target, a more vulnerable curve. “Don’t you stop. Don’t you dare stop.”
Lucy brought the brush down with a final, jarring smack that made her own teeth rattle. She was breathing heavily, her heart hammering against her ribs. She dropped the brush on the bed as if it had burned her. The wood was warm from the friction.
She stared at the damage. The skin was a mess of heat and color, certain spots already promising deep bruises. It was brutal. It was real.
Miranda let out a long, shuddering sigh. She didn’t move to cover herself. She stayed there, face down, a faint, tremulous smile on her face as she turned her head to look at Lucy. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused with a kind of blissful exhaustion.
“See?” Miranda whispered, her voice raw. “Now you get it.”
Lucy took a stumbling step back, her own body cold despite the exertion. She didn’t get it. Not at all. She had been angry, she had wanted to teach a lesson, but what she saw on Miranda’s face wasn’t lesson-learned. It was worship. And she, Lucy, had been the priestess.
She had crossed a line she didn't even know was there. The hairbrush lay between them on the rumpled comforter, no longer just a hairbrush, but a testament to something she had unleashed and now had no idea how to control.