trail verb \ˈtrāl\
1 a: to hang down so as to drag along or sweep the ground
b: to extend over a surface in a loose or straggling manner <a vine that trails over the ground>
c: to grow to such length as to droop over toward the ground
2 a: to walk or proceed draggingly, heavily, or wearily : plod, trudge
b: to lag behind : do poorly in relation to others
The rule in Trifecta is simple – use the third definition of the word, use it as it is written, and make the response between 33 and 333 words long.
This piece of the story fits in after this. Be warned, the pieces of the story are not in order in my posts, but you can find a list of them in order on the (NEW) page I created for stories.
Check out Trifecta to read other prompt responses. You would find mine there, buuuuut I dropped the ball on this one. I am pretty sure that the link closed about an hour before I remembered that I left this post as a draft. Lexy for the win! Enjoy it anyways!
I stared at the trail of indigo tracing its way slowly down my arm. There was a smear of it on the creamy white of my towel, a thumb-print on the shower curtain. Each drip of water from the blue streak in my hair was inky. I leaned over the sink and twisted my hair tightly, squeezing more and more indigo droplets out.
I glared at my reflection, daring the tears to fall. Blue splashed purple in the dreadfully pink sink.
The blue streak the tree woman had left in my hair in the spring had grown with my natural hair colour, never a blonde root to show for it. It was as though my natural hair colour in that spot was blue. Until this morning, a trail of indigo swirling down the drain.
I slouched low at breakfast, toying with my overcooked eggs and wallowing in my own personal pity party.
A gentle hand down my back in silent greeting, and a mug of tea set in front of me announced my mother’s arrival. I stared at the trail of swirling tendrils of milk seeping into the tea, trying to ignore her cheerful presence, perched at the table with one leg tucked up, chin resting on her knee.
“Love the new look,” she said, pleased.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You weren’t exactly happy about the blue.”
She looked puzzled. “Yes, but-“
I stood abruptly, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. I couldn’t deal with this conversation right now. I felt as though I was losing the Nowhere, one connection at a time.
“What happened to your hair?”
I looked up, surprised. This was the first time we had spoken since the blowout at the bar.
I was still angry at her, under the hurt. I would say something scathing.
“I don’t know, it just happened,” my voice caught, betraying my emotions.
“I’m really sorry.”
“You didn’t do it.” I sniffled.
“Not about your hair, stupid! About everything.” She smiled. “Besides – red suits you.”