Work Text:
she doesn’t know why she came to the bathroom. she doesn’t remember how the bumpy scars littering her body came to be (she doesn’t want to). pastry stares in the mirror, face distorting beyond her recognition. there are shadows behind her, mouths agape revealing sharp rows of teeth. they were slavering a black ooze, thick as petrol. their eyes were wide in some sort of anticipation, pupils watching her every move.
she’d ask for them to leave, beg and scream while banging her fists against the poor bathroom sink. yet she doesn’t- the stares are a sick sort of attention. soon the stares turn to more, the shadows sick of her lack of reaction. their teeth lunge into her neck, covering the pristine skin in pains only she knows of. the pain shoots up her nerves, immobilizing her jaw. and now she is truly stuck. now she is truly done for.
the shadow’s long arms graze up her torso, claws of knives slicing at her wrists and thighs. these hands tear through her soft pajamas, ruining her body in front of a mirror. blood seeps out a darker red than it should be. maybe it has something to do with her new supplements?
there is banging on the door, as more crimson oozes from her body and pools at the floor. yet she is still standing, she is still staring at the stale reflection in the mirror and the piercing gaze of the shadows who have done this for her. she would scream, she would writhe in pain and anguish if not for her believe that she deserved this. she deserved this.
—
pastry doesn’t know how long its been since she was attacked in the bathroom, but she finds herself in a comfortable bed with plasters on the places hurt. a familiar face approaches her, hair tied into a messy bun.
“are you feeling better, sweetheart?” parfait asks, sitting beside the bed with a cheese sandwich in hand. pastry opens her mouth to speak, but no words fall out. her throat hurts like she had swallowed the sun, so she settles for a nod. “i got you this sandwich if you want to eat. i understand yesterday must’ve been tough.”
pastry wants to respond so, so badly but yet there is nothing. she reaches her hands out for some sort of way to write, some way to ask for what ‘tough’ thing had happened. the other woman understands and pulls up the notes app from her phone, handing it to the lavender haired woman. she types ‘dont remember want sandwich’, making parfait giggle at her break in professionalism. “of course.” the white haired woman smiles, handing the lopsided snack off. “i’ll tell you what happened later, alright? i don’t want to stress you out this early.”
and for that, for the care she does not believe is deserved, pastry is thankful.