★ 𝒕𝒂𝒚𝒍𝒐𝒓 𝒔𝒘𝒊𝒇𝒕 𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔

-𝒃𝒊𝒈𝒈𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒆 𝒔𝒌𝒚

[attempted suicide, vomiting, underage drinking, self harm, rocky mental health, probably other stuff]

———

You've never realized how white your bathroom is, until now.

It's practically gleaming, perfectly spotless and clean. Your sink is decorated with skincare products; an electric toothbrush stands tall in its holder.

You hate the patterned tiles.

You hate the fact it's beginning to turn into more than a bathroom. Murkiness crept into the cracks of the wall, bleeding together to form a permanent shape.

(It will be your last memory. The needs for this room have stretched more than sanitary—or maybe it fits perfectly into that department, ridding your soul of grime. Scrubbing yourself clean of any agony.)

His teeth are bared at you. The monster does nothing but stare. Somehow, he's crept from your dreams to reality, from your room to bathroom. He follows you everywhere, darting across the walls.

The only reason he's so visible is because of the blinding white.

(You don't know when, but the color of your bathroom has turned into a hospital white.)

It discolors your eyes but displays secrets that are hidden in your subconscious.

(Blood on white marble. Monsters on white walls.)

You wonder how long he's been there. You've always felt his presence—claws weighing on your back, holding you rigid; firm grasp that bleeds murkiness into your lungs, infecting your ability to speak—but now, he's staring at you, soulless eyes meeting your equally distant ones.

Had he always been there, in your bathroom? Hanging in the past, snarling at your bubble baths from a young age? Or did he appear once your nightmares began?

Should you be shaking in fear? You don't really remember what fear feels like—a foreign, foggy notion left in the past.

You stare back.

He laughs at you. He laughs, and it's an ugly sight; one more hideous than what you see in the mirror. It ricochets against the walls and echoes in the bathroom. It's so loud that you can feel your eardrums humming, threatening to pop. You try to cover your ears, wincing as the monster grins in satisfaction.

Saliva is dripping from the sharp-shaped teeth, flowing like a heavy stream—no, it's not saliva. It's something like acid. It looks like it can burn, if in too close of a proximity.

It's blood, you realize.

Your body turns cold in an instant, shivers wracking your spine. You look away and grip onto the sink, willing the image to disappear.

(Is the monster a reflection of yourself?)

You're nursing your glass of bourbon, pills standing right next to it, looking like a decoration. Or something very old-fashioned, out of a film—made with color, yet representing the late 1900s with a soft, orange hue.

You swipe at the small dot of blood, letting it blend into your fingerprint. You could pretend this is a crime scene, even—as if it was a Sherlock Holmes investigation, with clicks of old cameras.

It's all playing out like a film reel, already. You can see it, if skipped slightly ahead. You, lying somewhere. Maybe in the bathtub, or sprawled out on the checkered tiles. Lying dead.

Dead. The word travels down your dry throat with a sip of alcohol, lodging into your lungs and spreading like a match dropped on gasoline. That's what you're going to be soon—dead.