Flash Fiction Fridays: "Hair"

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On Fridays, I write flash fiction and post it on the blog. Today's flash fiction is an experiment. For one, there are two stories in it. For two, one story is written in first person, present tense; the other is third person, past tense. I hope you enjoy it and don't get too confused! 

"Hair"

It tickles my arm, and I peer down at my skin. Where is it? I know I saw you there. I move my hand along my arm. Nope, it's gone. Not there. I breathe a sigh of relief and continue reading.

The wind screamed through the broken window. The girl huddled in the corner. He—

I stop. I feel it again. The mere brush torments my flesh. I yank my hair into a bun and secure it with a clip. Much better.

—paused in front of her. Crimson eyes stared into her soul, and she stiffened. His—

The piece of hair inches along my arm, caressing me and driving me insane. My hands scan along my shirt sleeves. Surely, I'll knock it off. After several minutes, I find my place and read.

—fingers curled, and she rose from her position, unable to stop herself. Her feet—

"Argh!" The hair still bothers me. Sneaky little strand, I think. I'm about to rip my shirt off, if only I can find it and stop it forever. Lifting my sleeve up, I search in the fabric. There! I find the errant hair. My fingertips press around it and drag it away from the shirt. I toss it onto the floor, settle back down into the chair, and read.

—shuffled along the floor. Chains clanked around them, and she tripped and fell.

He lifted his hand, and she hovered before him. "You've served me well, Zapheria. But—"

The clip falls from my hair, and I snatch at it, but it clatters to the tile floor. I lean over to grab it when I feel it again. That tiny strand tickles along my chest. I swipe my hand over it. I wait a second, a minute. It's better.

—I have no further use of you." He flicked his wrist. She screamed, short and sweet, before the loud crack echoed in the room. He tossed her limp body to the dirt floor. Her head cocked at an awkward angle, and her eyes stared straight ahead in neither fear nor happiness. Just nothingness.

The book drops from my hands. The pages splay down upon the tiles. Wisps of hair curl like tentacles around my neck. I'm choking. My nails grasp at the horrible strands. Perhaps I shouldn't have bleached my hair so much, I think, or gotten that terrible hair cut that one time. They are angry, revengeful.

They tighten. I can't breathe. My vision narrows. Blackness tinges it. I rip at my neck. Blood trickles down, tickling my flesh. I feel it seep into the hair.

I can't see. 

I can't breathe.

I collapse into nothingness.