You take a long breath, elbows locked, both hands braced against the sink.
You raise your head.
Your reflection greets you, a version of yourself you're still not used to.
Your [E/C] eyes look... tired.
Not just "I stayed up late" tired, but the kind that goes deeper.
The kind that lingers after eight hours of sleep, clinging to you like wet chains, refusing to let go. No spark. No energy.
Just someone trying to make it through another morning.
Your gaze shifts to the faint, pale scar on your cheek, thin, almost delicate, a reminder etched into your skin.
That stupid, thin line that looks so harmless now. Quiet. Healed. But somehow accusing.
Your breath catches in your throat.
No. Not this. Not now.
And yet the memory doesn't wait. It crashes into you like a tidal wave.
First comes the heat. Not warmth. Not comfort. Heat like fire itself is alive, crawling along the walls, curling around your lungs, biting at your eyes. It stings. It burns. It's everywhere, yet nowhere can you escape.
Then the sound, God no, not sound.
Chaos. A symphony of panic. Screams layered on screams, metal tearing, glass shattering, fire hissing, sirens wailing, but all of it drowned beneath your pulse, roaring so loud it feels like it is ripping your skull apart.
You clutch the sink harder, knuckles white, as the bathroom's cold tile tries, and fails, to anchor you to reality. The world is tilting. Shadows flicker at the edges of your vision, bright orange and violent, devouring everything.
The smoke comes next. Thick. Acrid. It fills your lungs before you can even think, clawing its way down your throat, scraping at the inside of your chest. You cough. You choke. The walls close in.
A hand slips from yours.
Too fast. Too sudden. Your body reacts before your mind even registers. You reach, grasping at air, grasping at what you cannot hold, what you can never pull back.
Then the pain. White-hot. Flashing. Across your cheek. Sharp and immediate. Confusing. You never really remember what cut you, only that it burned. Only that it left a mark that time could never erase.
And then... silence.
That impossible silence that presses down, heavy, suffocating. It conveys everything without a single word.
Your heart thrashes in your chest. Too fast, too shallow, like it's trying to escape. Your knees shake. Your lungs heave. The room tilts, the world spins, and you feel the walls close in, pressing against your ribs with cruel insistence.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
Your nails dig into the sink. Porcelain bites back. Your fingers ache, but it's the only thing tethering you to the present. You force a breath in. Long. Slow. Controlled. Another. Another. Artificial.
You open your eyes. The bathroom returns: cold tiles under your feet, fluorescent light buzzing weakly above, your reflection pale and trembling at the edges.
YOU ARE READING
Send the Dispatch (Dispatch x fem!reader)
Romance"Dude, I think I miss working as the Dispatcher..." It wasn't supposed to be like this. One minute, I was behind a desk, pushing papers. Next, I was thrown into chaos. I used to only read about it in incident reports. Somewhere along the way, I stop...
Chapter 1: Sober Days
Start from the beginning
