22
Two days later, Esther crawled into the bathroom. Even after emptying her stomach she continued to kneel on the floor and clutch the toilet bowl. The tiles were cold and hard and the pine-fresh deodoriser failed to mask the acrid smell of vomit.
This was the pits.
After twenty minutes, her knees were going numb. She stood up warily. Head woozy, she reached out a trembling hand, shuffled over to the bath and splashed cold water over her head. The bottom of the bath filled with clumps of hair. Esther sank back to the floor, put her head down on the edge of the bath, and cried.
Double pits. Triple pits. The hair moved towards the plughole and spun round and round before clogging up the hole. Esther sniffed.
How could such insignificant things as strands of hair mean so much? Their los
