Ghost Shorts | Fem!Reader

UNKNOWN REFLECTIONS

The door closed behind, palms resting on the cool wood as you leant against it. Eyes focused on that uneaten salad on your desk. You had been so excited, too excited to even finish it. All you had to do was get into your sweats for bed. But first, you hung your coat over the mirror which was reflecting some unwanted view back at you.

Red marks.

Fingers yanked aggressively on the zip pull of your dress. It was stuck. You don't know why it bothered you so much.

You did.

You tugged more. It wouldn't budge. It was stuck.

Ugh, why?! Stupid cheap shit. Feet paced the room as hands hugged your waist, face tilted to the ceiling, exasperated. A deep inhale. Okay. Try again. It was stuck.

WHY? Why did it have to be stuck? You just wanted out of it and into your sweats. You didn't know why it was making you panic.

You did.

Clinging to you, unwanted. It was stuck.

Digits ran into your hairline, your forehead ached from the constant unyielding furrow of your brows. Just, just put more into it. You can do it. The material crumpled, but the cold metal train didn't untangle itself at your will. It was stuck.

You glanced around the room. What could you utilise? How were you going to get it open?

Brine coated your lips as exhales became audible, frustrated, panicked sounds. There was this tumultuous storm of emotions, internalised anger, sheer fear of remaining in this dress. It was just machine stitched polyester. It was just interlocked metal. You didn't know why it was making you cry.

You did.

Enough was enough. You pulled the flimsy door back open and marched, bare footed, down the corridor to another flimsy door, banging it frantically with the entirety of your palm. The light inside came on, illuminating your cold toes. And it opened.

"Simon, I... Simon, I'm sorry, I just..."

I'm stuck.

Vocal chords felt completely strained, painful under the duress of your tears. He stepped back.

"Come in."

You wrapped yourself up tightly with your own arms, walking into the middle of his room.

"I can't get it loosened, it won't... I've tried everythi— I... please help me."

"Okay, hold on a second."

He stepped round you as you swiped your hair over one shoulder, the material held firm with his warm hands, the mirror on his wall intruding your space, enclosing that unknown reflection around you. You didn't know why you couldn't look.

You did.

Neither of you said anything for a moment as he worked, those cries of anguish dissipating with his presence. Safe. He looked at you in the mirror, hands holding the front of your dress, shoulders slumped, chin scrunched, mascara stained cheeks.

Red marks.

He continued to work; the silence was broken.

"Who did this?"

You weren't a usually so acquiescent. You had ran in the opposite direction for ages, all the way back to the base, each breath condensing in the cold air, it was biting at your cheeks.

You could defend yourself.

No-one should have to.

You could defend yourself.