She’s reclining. A thin veil of tissue paper lies between her and the leather chair. The cold of the leather seeps through, touching her skin. She's bound to the chair yet not bound. An invisible cord imprisons her.
The realisation that fear is holding her there hits her. Fear isn't tangible, but she feels it. It's cold on her skin. It's dry in her mouth. It's a bright light shining in her face.
Her pulse races and her fear escalates into terror reaching a crescendo as she passes from horrifying consciousness into a welcome oblivion.
Tonsurephobia, the phobia of haircuts.
The realisation that fear is holding her there hits her. Fear isn't tangible, but she feels it. It's cold on her skin. It's dry in her mouth. It's a bright light shining in her face.
Her pulse races and her fear escalates into terror reaching a crescendo as she passes from horrifying consciousness into a welcome oblivion.
Tonsurephobia, the phobia of haircuts.
