Chlorine (Creepypasta x Male Reader)

Five

The next few days were filled with trying to find distractions without having to leave your home. Angie called at least once a day after you told her about the attack to check up on you, and you would answer and talk with her for a few hours until she would start to ask questions about how you were doing. You didn't want her to view you as fragile because you didn't want her to worry. You didn't need her to worry about you when she had her own issues to worry over instead. Once the subject would be brought up by her, you would come up with an excuse to hang up and go wander around the house looking for things to clean or fix or mess around with in some way.

You could manage to do this for a while, but after a few days you were forced to either face the fact you had been attacked, or risk going outside. When it came down to it however, you were weak when it came to facing things you weren't ready for. You would rather face a dangerous man that had probably left the town the moment he bolted in the woods than think about what might have happened if he hadn't.

So you suck in a deep breath, and proceed to open up the back door.

The first thing to pop into mind is the word wet. Everything you can see looks wet - and by association cold. It's almost unwelcoming in a way, but you walk down your porch steps and head to the detached garage anyways. The ground is soft and mushy from the rain and leaves covering it. Cold wind brushes your face in a false sense of security at the familiarity it brings you. The sun is high in the sky but is covered by thick, grey clouds that hide it from view.

Ezra bolts out from between your legs to run around the large expanse of backyard. He rushes over to follow you and run ahead to your destination. He goes back and forth between you and the closed garage doors, letting out happy barks and wagging his nub of a tail in excitement of being let out for longer than a few moments. By time you reach the small building he is running in tight circles around your feet, barking and yipping until you reach down to pull open one of the metal doors keeping your car and dirt bike safe from the elements.

The door clangs as it is pushed up by you and you let out a grunt from exertion and walk over to the other door to open it as well. Wind rushes inside as fast as possible, and Ezra's barking becomes louder inside the confined space of the garage. Inside is white painted walls with a large tool kit pushed up against the far wall - a moving in gift from your father before his passing - and a large workbench situated beside it. A majority of the walls are covered in shelving units and posters, a few dents in the wall at waist level from things flying off of multiple projects you've started and never really finished with.

You hesitate to turn on your small radio.

Eventually you decide to screw it and turn your playlist on while you go over to the workbench and bring out a piece of paper to sketch out a few ideas to keep you busy. Ezra wanders over to his small area in the corner of the garage, and you see him lay down in his old dog bed from the corner of your eye. You grab the right supplies from different shelves and from the tool kit - yarn, pencils, drills, and wire - all things you would use to customize your newest doll project you had planned as a gift for Angie.

Hours go by this way, and your music helps keep you occupied with thinking in between waiting for paint and clay to dry. You play a few games of fetch with your dog who is happy to kick up soggy leaves and small chunks of your yard in his chase to bring the ball back for you to throw again. You end up skipping lunch, not even realizing you are hungry until Angie calls you for the second time that day.