MY FAMOUS MUSICIAN EX BOYFRIEND HAD A BALD HEAD WITH ONE BRAID THAT USED TO TURN INTO A SNAKE AT NIGHT

MY FAMOUS MUSICIAN EX BOYFRIEND HAD A BALD HEAD WITH ONE BRAID THAT USED TO TURN INTO A SNAKE AT NIGHT 

I don’t really know why I’m writing this. Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe fear. Or maybe I just need someone out there to believe me. Even if they never know who I am.

This is about my ex-boyfriend. He’s not just anybody — he’s a known musician. I won’t say his name, but if I did, many people would recognize it. He’s the kind of guy you see trending on social media now and then, especially back then when his music was everywhere. He had this style — raw, real, different. And his voice? It had a strange pull, like it touched something inside you. People said he was blessed. I used to think so too.

Until I lived with him. Until I saw things I can never unsee.

We met in a weird way. I was at a friend’s gig, just vibing and dancing when he walked up to me. At first, I didn’t even recognize him. He wore a hoodie, and his head was covered, but when he smiled and introduced himself, my heart kind of skipped. He was much softer in person than on screen. Almost shy.

We started talking, and in a few weeks, I was practically living at his place. It was a big, quiet house in the suburbs, far from the city noise. You’d think a musician would want parties and loud people around, but no — his home was almost too quiet. Sterile. Like a hospital.

At first, it was perfect. He treated me like a queen. Breakfast in bed. Late night drives. Gifts I couldn’t even afford to dream of. Designer bags, cash, trips. He told me I deserved it all, just for being with him.

But there was one thing I couldn’t ignore.

His hair.

He was bald — completely clean-shaven — except for this small patch at the back of his head. It looked odd at first, like a mistake. But he was sensitive about it. Said it was “spiritual.” Eventually, he braided it. Just one long, thin braid that ran halfway down his back. He never let anyone touch it. Not me, not his barber, not even his friends. He told me once that if it ever got cut without permission, “something bad would happen.”

I laughed it off at the time. But I shouldn’t have.

That braid… it had a life of its own.

The first night I noticed something strange was about three months in. I had this dream — or what I thought was a dream. I was lying next to him in bed, half-asleep, and I felt something cold slither across my skin. At first, I thought it was a blanket slipping, but then it coiled around my arm like a snake. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t move.

Then came the pain.

Not sharp, like a bite. But deep and slow — like something was sucking from inside me. Draining. I felt it in my bones. When I woke up, I was sweating and shaking. I reached for him, but he was still asleep, peaceful as ever.

I thought I was losing it.

Until I looked at my arm.

There, exactly where I felt the dream-pain, was a red mark. Not a bruise, not a rash — just a perfectly round, sore patch of skin. It burned when I touched it. Like it had been stung.

The next morning, he handed me a stack of money. No explanation. Just smiled and said, “Buy something nice.”

I tried to tell myself it was just a coincidence.

But it kept happening.

Sometimes once a week, sometimes twice. Always the same: the dream, the snake-like thing, the pain, the mark, the money. It felt like a pattern. A trade.

After the fifth time, I started watching him sleep. I’d stay up, pretending to do things on my phone. One night, I saw his braid move. I swear on everything I know — it lifted off the pillow like something alive. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t. It stretched, twisted, and almost shimmered under the moonlight.

I blinked — and it looked like a snake.

Not a real snake. But not quite hair either. Something in-between. Like a spirit hiding inside the braid.

I never told him I saw it.

But one day, I asked him, “What’s in your safe?”

He froze. His whole body stiffened. Then he said, almost too calmly, “Don’t ever touch that.”

I’d seen the safe in his music studio — a heavy, steel box built into the wall. Always locked. Sometimes, I’d hear him in there late at night, whispering things, playing loops backwards, burning incense. I thought it was just part of his creative process. But now I’m not so sure.

The money he gave me… it didn’t feel like a gift anymore. It felt like payment.

And my body was the price.

I started to weaken. My periods became irregular. I was always tired. My skin lost its glow. I’d go to the doctor, but nothing ever showed up in the tests. They said I was “fine.” But I knew I wasn’t.

And the worst part?

I was addicted to him. Not just emotionally. It was like something in me needed him. Needed whatever he was giving — or taking. I couldn’t explain it. Every time I thought of leaving, I’d get this sharp pain in my chest. Like something was tying me to him.

Then one day, out of nowhere, he shaved the braid off.

Just like that.

He came home bald. Fully clean. No explanation, no ritual, no drama. Just a quiet, tired face. He looked older. Lighter somehow. He even smiled more. But his music… it changed.

The fire was gone.

His beats were okay. His voice was still good. But it didn’t hit the same. People noticed. Streams dropped. Concerts weren’t selling like before. The magic had vanished.

And I — I started to feel better.

My skin cleared. My strength came back. The dreams stopped. No more red marks. No more snake-feelings. No more “payments.”

We stayed together for a few more months, but it wasn’t the same. He wasn’t cruel or violent. Just… empty. Like whatever made him him was gone.

Eventually, I left.

He didn’t fight it.

He just said, “I knew you’d go.”

And that was it.

Now, whenever I hear his songs on the radio or see him post on Instagram, I feel two things: sadness… and relief. Sadness because I think he gave up something he didn’t understand. Relief because I survived it.

But sometimes, I wonder — what if I was the sacrifice?

What if that braid was a gateway, and I was the offering that kept it open?

What if the reason he blew up so fast in music wasn’t just talent or luck… but ritual?

There’s something else I never told anyone.

One night, before the dreams stopped, I heard whispers. Not in the room. Not in my head. Somewhere else. Like behind the walls. A language I didn’t know. It felt ancient. Heavy. It stopped when I looked at the safe.

I never opened it.

But sometimes I dream of it. Even now.

In my dream, the safe is wide open. And inside, there’s just… a mirror.

And in the reflection, I don’t look like me.

I look like someone drained. Pale. Lifeless.

And behind me, something slithers.

Maybe this is all in my head. Maybe I let love and imagination mix too much. But even now, with him far away and that chapter closed, I sleep with the light on.

Just in case the braid… or whatever it was… finds its way back.

This is my truth.

Believe it or don’t.

But I know what I felt. I know what I saw. And I know I survived something I was never meant to walk away from.