Rossiter slips the hood back over Evey’s head.
Rossiter slips the hood back over Evey’s head.
INT. PROCESSING ROOM
Evey cries as a rough hand runs a pair of electric clippers over her head. Huge sheaves of her brunette hair fall to the ground. The barber is told to continue to shave hair from Evey as punishment for refusing to give up information about V. The barber turns back on the electric clippers to start shaving Evey’s body hair. The barber grabs Evey’s right arm and shaves her hair with the clippers on her right arm and lifts Evey’s right arm to shave her right armpit. Then the barber grabs Evey’s left arm and shaves her hair with the clippers on her left arm and lifts Evey’s left arm to shave her left armpit. The barber shaves Evey’s legs with the clippers to rid her legs of hair. The barber then shaves the hair in between her legs to get rid of the hair. The barber then starts shaving off Evey’s dark brown eyebrows. The barber actually starts with shaving off Evey’s right dark brown eyebrow first. The barber then shaves Evey’s left dark brown eyebrow off. The barber is instructed to shave Evey everyday.
The rasping of the clippers was a counterpoint to Evey’s ragged sobs. Each strand of her dark brown hair, once a source of pride, now fell to the unforgiving concrete floor like a fallen soldier. The cold, metallic bite of the clippers against her skin was a physical manifestation of the terror gnawing at her insides. They had taken her dignity, her beauty, her privacy – piece by piece, leaving behind only raw, exposed flesh.
The barber, a man whose face was devoid of expression, moved methodically from her head to her arms, her legs, the delicate skin between her thighs. Each swipe of the clippers was a deliberate act of dehumanization, reducing her to something less than human, a broken vessel. The absence of any flinch, any hesitation in his movements spoke volumes of the brutal routine he’d become accustomed to. He was a craftsman, not a sadist, but the artistry was in the calculated destruction.
The removal of her eyebrows was perhaps the most agonizing part. The delicate arch of her brow, a defining feature, was erased, leaving behind two raw, bleeding lines. She felt a tremor run through her, a desperate, animalistic shudder.
Rossiter, his silhouette sharp against the harsh fluorescent lighting, watched from the doorway. The sight wasn’t new to him; he’d witnessed this ritual countless times. He’d orchestrated it. But this time, something felt… different. A flicker of something akin to regret, or perhaps simply weariness, crossed his face.
The barber finished, the clippers falling silent. Evey’s body was a landscape of raw, chafed skin, devoid of the comforting softness of hair. Her face, once framed by lush brown locks and expressive eyebrows, was now stark, vulnerable, almost childlike in its nakedness. She looked broken, but there was a spark in her eyes, a stubborn ember refusing to be extinguished.
Rossiter approached. He didn’t speak, didn’t offer any false comfort. He simply reached out and, with a gesture that was almost tender, slipped the rough, grey hood back over her head. The fabric obscured the devastation, hiding her vulnerability from the indifferent eyes of the guards. But beneath that shroud, the spirit of defiance remained. The physical degradation could be inflicted, but the breaking of her spirit remained a battle yet to be won. The hood concealed the wounds, but it did nothing to silence the scream trapped within.
