We were standing in the playground, next to a park bench and I pulled out a comb. Her hair was an absolute mess, like a rats nest I told her. It was long, it went down to just above her waist. The reason it was so knotty is because we’d lost the brush over the weekend, but I’ve found a thin plastic comb which will have to do, otherwise I couldn’t imagine what would happen at school. She stood there patiently in her bright pink jumper and I went through it steadily, one side first and then when we got that done I told her to sit down so I could finish the other half. She obeyed, and then I continued brushing.

“The kids at school say I look weird.” She said to me promptly. I scoffed.

“Did they say why?” I responded, even if they had their reasons, I’d make sure she didn’t try to change for them, that’s where school gets messed up.

“They said that when I smile, my eyes close and it makes me look Asian, they laugh at me about it.” She replied, her shoulders were limp. I shook my head while combing through her hair gently.

“Well, if they are making fun of you for your smile, smile more.” I said briskly, trying to help her feel a bit better.

“My teacher said that I have nice dimples though, when I smile.” She laughed. I grinned in return. As I was combing through her hair, the air became cold, the playground dimmed to a grave blue. I looked around and noticed a man with glasses. He was leaning against the slide, staring unapologetically at me. He smiled and waved, then pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

I shrugged it off, continuing with her hair. Suddenly it started to come out in heaps. I held the locks in my hand and just looked at them, was I brushing too hard? Before I knew what was left and right, it all started to fall out in chunks on the grass. A panic fell over me, the one where there is a sickly sweat that sticks to your skin, and a sudden wave of nausea sends shivers through your spine, all I knew was that it was bad. I don’t know why but I tried to put it back in, I tried desperately until I was on my hands and knees, the dew from the grass soaking into my jeans and grabbing at the chunks falling to the floor to stop them from getting dirty.

My little sister turned around to me, smiling. Her face started drooping like the man in Edward Munch’s famous painting ‘The Scream’. Her skin started to melt off and turned to puddles on the ground. For once in my life all I did was stay there and watch. I didn’t do anything to stop it. She reached out with her thin arms and-