5 star but I'm rating it 4 cause I don't give 5's /roommates

The mirror is supposed to reflect the truth, right?

I stand there, dead mutts at my feet seeping dark purple blood onto the stone floor and stare at myself, or I should say where I should be in the small room's mirror. There's Six standing there a few feet back, my shield still on her arm but where I should be, there's fuck all.

And that's funny, though I guess the proper term is ironic because what's this truth then?

I've always been invisible?

"So then... the mirrors here are racist?" I hazard as I turn my arm over to investigate the gash the cats just gave me. It's already stopped bleeding, blood nearly dry before it even leaves me. The skin around the gash is rippled, as if it's more a tear through rubber than it is a cut through skin. My colour is off too, deathly pale instead of the warm undertones I'm used to seeing.

The truth is, I'm sort of scared but I can't admit that, I won't. Especially not to a stranger, it's much easier to hide behind humour than it is to be honest. "Guess that doesn't make sense if you've got a reflection though," I nod at the girl's image in the mirror.

I turn away and stoop to collect my things off of the end of the bed. I pause as I pass by her and she raises the shield the littlest bit. I choose to ignore that. It's just that the smell wafting off of her is intoxicating, indescribable as a scent.

My stomach flips?

No.

Aches. I haven't eaten since yesterday morning, I'm hungry, that's all.

My hand runs over the neck of the bottle of wine I found in my wanderings last night but even though my mouth feels like it's full of cotton, I have no desire to drink it.

I run my tongue over my teeth again.

"What if... what if I am dead?" I whisper, not quite looking at her.

My thoughts go back to the moment before the bloodbath, though most things about yesterday are kind of hazy now. It feels like it's been a very long time since then. I remember the needle being jabbed into my skin, I remember the promise it wouldn't hurt.

Then I remember the way it burned, how it kept getting worse, like the way I'm thirsty now, like how my throat feels so dry that I want to throw up.

In the end, it was unimaginably painful, so much so that I can't recall just how badly it hurt, the memory is just gone, a hole in my head.

I turn back to look at her.

"You got ghost stories in Six?" I ask.