Happily ever afters were for the foolish. Something make-believe so we didn't feel so alone. But I learned a long time ago that eventually everyone leaves and everyone lies.

Just take this box of hair dye, for instance. The dye that lasts forever. What a load of bull! Nothing lasts forever. Not even the stain of dark chocolate tint seeping into the grout of my mother's pristine white bathroom. I could forget all about it and still scrub the area with bleach until the smudge faded to nothing.

My timer rang and jolted me away from the imperfect blemish on the floor. I hurried into the shower, carefully wiping my itchy forehead with the back of my hand so I didn't discolour my nails any further. As the water ran through my strands, I glanced down and watched the dark swirl of colour disappear into the drain. My ash-blonde locks veiled in darkness, much like the old Beatrice. I closed my eyes as the spray washed everything away. I can't keep pretending to live when I should be the one dead.

The scissors shook between my fingers as I grabbed a fistful of hair and the skin at the base of my neck tingled. No going back now. I blew a ragged breath out and lopped the section above my fist, all while squeezing my eyes shut. When I opened them again, I released a strangled cry. Oh my God, what have I done? I wiped the mirror with my towel and leaned in to get a closer look. My waist-long hair rested above my shoulders in uneven clumps. Tears obscured my vision as I attempted to rectify my recklessness.

With trembling hands, I repeated my actions to the other side. "It's okay," I murmured to the girl staring at me. "I can fix this. I can fix this." But could I really? After all, I ruined everything, and this was just another thing to add to my long list of fuck-ups. My armpits stung with an unwelcome prickle with each snip of the scissors.

"All okay in there?" my mother asked, her calming voice muffled through the door.

Out of instinct, I held my breath. As if breathing would give what I had done away.

"One minute." I combed a section forward to reach the back and slammed the comb down after struggling for a few seconds. Biting down hard on my lower lip, I resigned myself to the fact I couldn't hide away forever and I might as well face the music. "Actually, Mum? Can you come in and help me?" I shouted, wiping my eyes and nose on the back of my hand.

The door creaked as she pushed it open and gasped. "Bea! Your hair! What have you done to your hair?"

"Blame the scissors," I half-heartedly quipped, trying to hide my embarrassment. That disappointed crease was pressed between her brows and my heart sank. I didn't deserve her, and was letting her down once again.

"Scissors, right—" She picked up the discarded box of hair dye and studied the colour. "This is quite a drastic change. Dr Westcott advised you to talk through any changes with him. Did you ring him?"

And that's when the guilt slapped me hard around the face. Dr Wescott! When would this man stop being part of every aspect of my life? Couldn't they see I was trying to accept the hand I was dealt? The hand I had really dealt myself with one stupid decision. A decision that meant I was here while my best friend wasn't. But what my mother couldn't see was that I needed the change. Maybe that way, I wouldn't disappoint them. It was the least I could do after they let me move back home after quitting my job.

"It's just hair." And I was sick of looking in the mirror and seeing failure. "If you won't help, I'll do it myself." Straightening my shoulders, I lifted the scissors back up.

My mother twisted them out of my clenched fist and pushed me down to sit on the closed toilet lid. "Of course, I'll help. All I want is to help you." Her last line, barely audible, caused the knot in my stomach to grow. I wanted to reassure her, tell her she was, but the words never came out.

"You look like your dad with this colour. It makes your blue eyes pop." Mum brushed and cut each strand, sniffling as she went.

I frowned and smoothed down the towel wrapped around my body. "He has pure white hair. Is that why you're upset? Because I no longer look like you?" I instantly regretted my words as she stilled.

She pinched her lips together, ignoring my question, and moved us to her bedroom. A few sobs escaped her mouth as she dried my new shoulder-length bob. The buzz of the blow drier drowned the sound, but her sunken, bloodshot eyes gave her heartbreak away.

With my new haircut dried and styled, I shuffled into my room and paired skinny black jeans with a simple blouse that used to be fitted. The fabric hung away from my stomach even as I tucked it into my jeans.

My mother wandered in behind me and laced her arms around my waist. "Would you like me to do your make-up? I can show you what works with this new colour. Which is gorgeous, by the way." She pinched a section of my hair between her fingers and flicked the ends up to the light. "Lovely shine to it."

I stared down into my dressing table mirror only for my eyes to land on the angry scar tissue spoiling my face—a constant reminder of my biggest mistake. "I'd really like that." My voice sounded as dead as my soul.

She kissed my shoulder before leaving to grab her tools and I sunk into the chair. My cloud of grief loomed overhead while I prodded at the bumpy flesh and winced. Some days the scar felt numb, others it was as raw as the day it happened. I pulled the strand tucked behind my ear out and attempted to hide behind it until my mother could cover it up.

She never qualified as a beautician, but with my grandmother owning a beauty salon, Mum learned every trick of the trade and I took full advantage of her skill after the accident.

"Hey, Kiddo. You seen Mum around?" My dad stood in the doorway of my room, still dressed in his work clothes. He hopped on the spot, trying to remove his socks. The first one came off easily but his fingers got stuck on the second when he finally glanced up.

His mouth opened but no words followed. Slowly, he made his way closer, his odd-sock abandoned on his foot. Dad brushed his hand over my hair but never acknowledged the change.

"She'll be back in a minute. Went to get some of her make-up."

He nodded and sat on the end of my bed. "Mind if I stay for a bit? Might pick up some tips."

I laughed, but only to humour him. This dance was wearing me down. I was slowly growing sick of everyone walking on eggshells around me and needed to get out.

"Dad? Can you give me a lift tonight? Zaire invited me out to The Basement for Saffron's birthday."

His brow wrinkled and he rubbed his chin. "Will you be okay? I don't think you should push it."

"It's for my best friend. I need to be there." I picked at the seam of my jeans and prayed deep down he'd actually say no. I wanted out of the house but Saffron's birthday party was the last place I wanted to run to. What's the point? She'll always be twenty-three while I moved on without her. Life was unfair.

My dad lowered his head and took a deep breath in. "That's why I'm worried. It's her first birthday since the accident. What if it triggers another panic attack and then-"

"David! Enough! Dr Westcott said we couldn't mention the panic attacks," my mother uttered through clenched teeth, walking back into my bedroom.

"That man! If I hear his name mentioned one more time–"

Mum slammed a bottle of foundation onto my dressing table.

"Sorry, Sandra. I shouldn't have brought it up." Dad walked over to my mother, hugged her and whispered a few words into her ear. She nodded and stroked his face.

I shook my head and clutched my arms to my chest. At least my father felt the same about Dr Westcott. "Zaire will be there. He'll keep an eye on me and I won't stay out too long. If I'm late, promise, I'll ring. I have to be there. For Saffron." It's probably the least I could do for the both of them.

My father pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "For Saffron." He kissed the top of my head as he passed and left my mother to conceal my tragic memento.

***

Zaire stood outside 'The Basement' with his clipboard in hand, scanning the street outside the popular bar. Saffron and I used to come here on our nights off from the hospital and the exterior hadn't changed one bit. Before she dated Zaire, she would force us to spend every free night here on the off chance he would notice her. What I'd give to have her here now.

I'd refused to step foot near it in almost nine months.

Zaire spotted my father's car, shoved his clipboard over to another bouncer and ran to open my door. "Nice to see you, Mr Leighton," he said, helping me out of the backseat.

"How many times have I asked you to call me David?" He twisted in his seat and peered up at us through the open door.

"No can do, Sir. If my grandma caught me, she would skin me alive." He winced at the thought.

"And enough with the sirs. You make me feel old. Send Grandma Dimou and your parents my hellos. Look after this one for me. I'm not sure she should be out tonight." He rolled down his window so I could kiss his cheek. "Love you, kiddo. Be safe. Call me if you need a lift home."

Zaire laced our fingers together. His dark skin and the size of his hand only made mine look pale and frail in comparison. He turned my arm over and traced his finger along the large scar that marked my left forearm. He looked up to the one on my cheek and brushed his thumb over it. Pain flashed in his deep brown eyes. The pain from losing Saffron marked my skin, but his scars lay deeper and twisted around his heart.

"Love the new hair. Saf would have approved," he said as he dragged us closer to the entrance. He cast his gaze to the floor as if saying her name was too painful.

"Thank you," I mumbled as I let go of him and rubbed over the scar on my arm. My head buzzed and my stomach churned.

"It's okay, Bea. No one will notice it." Zaire snuggled me into his side and squeezed my shoulder. "And if anyone says anything, I'll deck them."

I screwed my nose up and let out a weak laugh. "Stop it. You don't need to do that. And stop calling me Bea. Please. Especially not today."

"No Bea, then. Promise." He halted in his steps and turned me to him, grasping my shoulders. We were a similar height and I could see straight into his eyes without craning my neck. He tilted his head to the side, and sadness clouded his features. "Before we head in, are you okay?"

I bit my bottom lip and nodded. "Yeah. Of course, I am," I lied.

"I call bullshit. When was the last time you ate a full meal? You're all bones. If Nana saw you, she'd be doubling the food parcels she sends to your mum. You're lucky she's still in Ghana." He sighed as tears ran down my cheeks and crushed me to him. "I miss her cooking. Mum can't cook for shit. Look at me. I'm wasting away."

Zaire had this habit of being blunt then making a joke out of it the next minute. Without Saffron around, he slipped into the role of my best friend and the big brother I had always dreamed of having.

I laughed as I buried my head into his chest. "You can't get any bigger. You're massive. She's doing you a favour by taking a holiday."

"Hey, it's all muscle, baby." He flexed his biceps and pulled a silly face, making me snort as I dried my eyes on a tissue from my back pocket. "Come on."

Before pulling us into the bar, he whispered something to his colleague, who happened to be just as bulky as Zaire but taller, and opened the door to a large wooden staircase.

"He looked just like Vin Diesel. Is having a shaved head part of your new employment policy?" I chuckled as the door slammed behind us. The din from the queuing crowd disappeared and was replaced by a deep thump as we stepped down the stairs.

"You're such a wise arse." Zaire smiled and ran his palm over his freshly shaved scalp.

The overhead lights were dim and barely cast enough light to see each step. If I hadn't been here before, I would have worried about my safety. The last step led into a short corridor with heavy double doors I only had to push to join my old friends. I'm going to be sick.

The speakeasy-style Club hadn't changed since the last time I was here. Large leather booths took up most of the far wall. Whiskey barrels, turned into tables, were dotted around the place, leaving room for a small dance floor and a stage for undiscovered acts. On the opposite side to the stage, the bar was the main feature with its impressive line-up of amber-coloured bottles.

"There's a live band playing tonight. Once I've covered the door for another hour, I'll come back down to find you. You okay for a bit? If you need me, ask the barman to radio up." Zaire pointed towards someone in a black shirt, but I was still mesmerised by the hues of glistening liquid reflecting off the mirrored wall.

After a brief hug, he vanished from sight, leaving me to fend for myself. I shifted from one foot to the other as every conversation around came rushing to my ears. Tinkle of glass on glass, pounding of the bass, and the smell of whiskey filled my senses.

Nervous energy gradually crept up my spine, but I pushed my anxiety down. I shut my eyes and squared my shoulders. As soon as I opened them again, I forced a smile onto my face and strolled towards the bar.

***