The bathroom smelled faintly of bleach, sharp and cold, the kind of clean that felt like it burned the air. A flickering fluorescent bulb buzzed above, humming a soft electric tune that seemed too loud in the emptiness.
I turned the tap on and let the water run over my hands. The chill bit into my skin, but… nothing changed. My palms stayed pale. Too pale.
I rubbed them together, then held them up to the light. No blush of warmth. No veins. No life. They looked almost… artificial.
In Biology last week, our teacher had made us press our fingertips against the desk and watch the pink return as blood flowed back in. Mine hadn't changed at all. Everyone had stared at me, but I'd laughed it off. Pretended like I was just unlucky. Pretended like I didn't notice.
But now, alone in the echoing bathroom, I pressed my thumb hard into my palm. I waited. No pink. No red. No color at all.
A faint breath fogged the mirror in front of me, though I hadn't leaned that close yet.
I frowned, stepping nearer. My reflection stared back—same fair skin, same tired dark eyes—but my lips… my lips were moving.
I wasn't.
They curled upward into the smallest smile.
The light flickered. My heart stumbled in my chest. I blinked, and my reflection matched the movement. Just me again. Just… normal.
Except I wasn't.
The door creaked open, and two girls from my class came in, laughing about something I didn't catch. Their chatter bounced off the tiled walls like echoes from another world.
I dried my hands quickly, even though they weren't wet, and slipped out the door before they could look at me too long.
The hallway outside was warmer than the bathroom, sunlight streaming through the tall windows, lighting up the chatter and footsteps of students passing by. But the warmth didn't reach me. I still felt cold.
And I couldn't stop staring at my hands.
They looked like they'd never touched blood.
And that… was impossible.