The Gingerbread Man (Melanie Martinez X Reader)

1-Wheels On The Bus

Published: August 18 2022
Edited: June 4 2023

I hadn't heard that vexatious ringing in my ears for months. Now here it was again.

My alarm clock sitting innocently on my bedside table, hiding from me under the lampshade.
And rightly so, or it may've been chucked across to the other side of the room.

I noticed it had a sort of bounce when it rung, but I smacked my palm against it so the ringing would stop.

I groaned in annoyance, squinting at the light that was spilling out from behind my curtains all over my face.

I sighed, collapsing back into my pillows. All of the productivity that awaited me made me want to do nothing more than blankly stare at my ceiling.

For those few wasted seconds I was able to work out the reason for my alarm going off after all these months.

I threw my blanket off and stood up, approaching my calendar that hung on the wall.
That hadn't had anything important on it for months, either.

Now, there was only one thing written in today's box.
'First day of Hell'

I took the red marker from the table beside me, caging the words in a heart.

On my bed, the pillows were untidy, and the blanket in a heap.

Fixing it was pointless. I wouldn't be coming home until summer, and I assumed there was already enough work in store for me today.

Who would even check my room? My dad?

I was doubtful of that happening. He was the whole reason I was being sent off to boarding school in the first place.

My brother blamed me for my mother's passing during childbirth. As if I wanted to never meet my mother.

I was cherished by my father for the first thirteen and a half years of my life. He was grateful that I had lived, and I was grateful that he loved me.

He was my dad, and I was the only thing he had left of his beloved wife.

I didn't know my brother was leaving us until he'd actually gone.
Neither of us knew were he went. He hated our father for caring about me.

It didn't take much for my father to turn on me.
Silly me to believe that my father's love was unconditional. Silly me to believe that being gay was something he could accept.

For the next two years of my life I was stuck, forced to live in the same house as the man who despised me for who I was.

I was grateful for the roof over my head, but now I was finally getting out.

Maybe this school was awful, but anything had to be better than feeling trapped in my own house.
At least now I had a chance at making friends.

When I opened my wardrobe, it stood out in the worst way.
I had dreaded wearing it since the day I bought it, but thanks to this school's admiration for gender stereotypes, it was the only option.

It looked so ugly amongst the rest of my dark clothes.
A pink frilly dress looked so out of place there.

Nevertheless, I wriggled into it and stood in front of my mirror.
My body looked stiff and unnatural in these clothes, but I feigned a smile across my face.

Trying to be optimistic, I turned to the side and slid my hands from my chest to my waist, hoping to embrace my figure and not look as awkward.

I tugged at the short sleeves on the way to the bathroom.
They were gripping at my shoulders, which wasn't hurting, but irritating my skin to the point I could've scraped it up under my nails, until my arms were nothing but raw flesh.