Creepypasta & Slasher Oneshots

2. Hannibal Lecter

Hannibal × GN! Reader

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WARNINGS

Self Hate, Possibly OOC Hannibal, Minor Mentions of Blood

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Your fingers tangle themselves in your hair. Deep breaths are interrupted by hiccups and your sleeves are soaked through. The mirror shoves the ugly truth down your throat. You run your fingers through your hair in an attempt to regain composure.

Just when you think you have it, the tears begin again. A few fall, then more. A mix of sadness, self-pity, and frustration. You glare at the image the mirror feeds you. 

At first the shirt did not match the pants you wore, that's fine you changed. Then something about your face didn't sit right. That's fine, you put on makeup. Your hair looked like it belonged to someone else. That's fine, you changed the style. 

Your plans got canceled.

Not a big deal, but the mirror said otherwise. You had taken off the makeup and were in the middle of removing your shirt when you got caught in the mirrors trap. You stared in mild disbelief, that was you?

You walk closer to the mirror for a better look. The mirror seems to accentuate all your imperfections. The freckle that is too high above your cheekbone. That scar on your bicep from a dog, years ago. A rib that sticks out just slightly more than the rest.

Whether it was an old or new tear in your skin, the mirror made it painfully obvious. Your fingers trace every imperfection you can find, every spot the mirror points out. Any-other day you would have said you were being ridiculous, but this wasn't any-other day. 

Your birthday. That's the day. And the only thing you have is your thoughts and the mirror. Your boyfriend had talked up a big storm about going out somewhere nice for your birthday. Then, just a couple hours ago, he canceled these plans.

Wouldn't have been a big deal if it was the first time. But it was the third or fourth time in the past couple months. 

The mirror had nothing to say about him though, no nasty remarks about his lack of care or attention. Perhaps the mirror observed that you didn't care too much for that at the moment. It was your day. Perfect for the mirror's harmful opinions.

It felt as if the shards of glass could physically cut you. But then more ugly scars would littler your body. Small scars that are no longer than an inch to go with all the tiny stretch marks on your body.

 Perhaps there's just this one large scar that you absolutely hate. A surgical scar maybe. A mole where you would rather not have one. 

Whatever the mirror could find, it made sure you were painfully aware of it. 

It had not taken long before the tears came. Just a dull ache behind your eyes, then just a stray tear, and now you're here. Clutching a jacket you planned to wear earlier that day and silently weeping. 

The image that the mirror showed you glared back. Red and tear stained eyes, a red and rubbed-raw nose, and ruffled hair. You looked even worse but by now the sadness had fizzled out and into frustration.

You blink. When you open your eyes again the mirror is broken. The glass covers the hardwood floor around your feet. For a second you can't comprehend that you have done that. The pain in your fist was sharp but you hardly registered it.

What you did notice was the sudden shout and rushed footsteps to your room. Your brain is finally able to register that you just punched the frail glass that was a mirror. When that much is noticed you begin cursing under your breath.