Upon the Gaze (Ghostface X Reader 18+)

CHAPTER SIX - I Am The Doe and He Is The Dog

"-so all you'll have to do is go through the returns, put them on this cart, and carry them back out to their individual sections of the library."
I zoned out for a moment in front of my new coworker, Shayna..? She was explaining the ins and outs to me about the library. "Do you have any questions for me?" She seemed to be beaming with an overly wide smile. Normally it was easy to tell when someone was faking a smile at their job, but oddly enough, hers seemed genuine. "No, I think I understand it all. Thanks...shy-?"
"-Shayna!" She chripped cheerfully. "If you got that all you're free to wander the library for a bit to get acclimated to the different genre sections." I swear, every word that came out of her mouth, her smile widened even more, as if her face was being stretched by the ghost of low-income jobs. "Thanks, I think I'll do that." And with that I went on my way, wandering the quiet halls of the library. Not many people were around, but it made sense. It was likely at it's busiest in the afternoons or on weekends when people actually had time to come to skim through books for an interesting story. I wandered down halls, and up the stairs. I found my way to a little area, somewhat tucked in the back of the library, behind another set of stairs that lead to the second level. Here the words of the section plaque caught my eye. "Serial Documentaries."
I felt excitement as I walked over and began trailing my finger along the many books, looking for an interesting one to pull off the shelf and take a peek in. I picked up one book about Jeffery Dahmer. "The Milwaukee Cannibal," the title read. I remembered reading about his killings a few years back. How he dismembered 17 men and boys. He was labeled a sex offender as well as a serial killer. Though he was originally only sentenced to 15 years in prison, he would die to the hands of one of the inmates. "Justice well served." I whispered with a quick laugh. I knew of many killers, and enjoyed studying their tactics for luring people into their clutches and how they dealt away with them. Perhaps that's why I am always so easily put off by nice people. True killers, psychopaths, were good with people. They're always the kind of person that everyone spoke well of, and were always in complete disbelief when they hear the news of the person having been a serial killer or simply the cause of a death they felt no remorse for.
I put the book back and figured I'd ought to be getting back to Shayna at the front. Upon returning to the front, she waved to me and gestured me over to the very large piles of books in bins and on the floor behind the receptionist counter. If I wanted to immediately lose my job, I would have groaned, knowing immediately this was going to not only be my first task at the new job, but my everyday here.
A few hours into sorting through the books, walking them on the cart, and nesting them back in their proper nook's on their genre shelves, I had somewhat zenned out. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all. It was pretty simple, mindless work, just a little tedious.
Eventually my first day came to a close. As I was walking out the front, waving goodbye to Shayna, a magazine on the rack by the door caught my eye. A certain white masked, figure with a shrieking expression, shawled in black was on the cover. "Shayna?," I called, "are we allowed to check out these magazines in the front?" She leaned over the receptionist counter. "Oh those? You can just take them. They're the week old issues that don't sell. They get given to the library for free." With that I thanked her for the info, and carried the magazine out with me.
Before turning the keys in my car to start, I found myself gazing at the imagine depicted of the Ghostface. After having a day where my mind was empty of thoughts of him, it seemed cruely ironic to see this magazine before leaving my new work place. My mind once more replayed all the events leading up to where I was now. I thought of the first night, how he pressed me against the wall, threw me on my bed and held me down. I thought of the second night, how he ripped through my clothing and caressed my body with his leather gloved hands. The way I was once again pinned with my hands above my head, and obediently took his blade to my side, to then after feel his hands gently tussle my hair. I felt a neediness rising in me. I remembered waking up to him being gone the following morning, and now I pray to a god I don't believe in that it wasn't the last I'd see of him.
As I drove home the dread rose in me. What if he moved on? Lost interest? But then why mark me with his blade? To give me something to remember him by? I'd rather have had that been a symbol of being his target then a parting gift. Parting gifts were my least favorite kind of gift. The ones that brought frowns to your face rather than smiles. The ones that left you feeling empty, like the house I was driving home to now.
It began to rain.

I pulled into the driveway, and tucked the magazine under my cardigan. I made a dash for the door, and hurried in, only slightly getting soaked. I pulled the magazine out, and carried it with me upstairs. I placed it on my desk in my bedroom, and slumped in my desk chair. I shook the mouse to turn on my computer monitor. There, once more where I had left it, was my unfinished work of the Ghostface. I sat there, silent for some time. I gazed at the imagine of the masked figure, and felt the desire to call out for him to see if he would suddenly manifest in front of me. I couldn't place this yearning. He was a killer, and I was a broken, lost individual. I was a constant failure, a wreck. Tears began to prick my eyes. What was it about this killer that brought me comfort, even among the chills of uncertainty and fear? The answer was lingering in the back of my head, but I refused to address it. Finally I got up from the chair and stood in front of my mirror. I stripped the clothes of the day from my body, and began inspecting myself. My hands dragged across my scar tissue.
I traced a memory of the day my first boyfriend broke up with me, telling me he felt like he couldn't be in a relationship at the time. The next day he was kissing another girl in the halls of our school. He always avoided such things in public with me. He couldn't bear to kiss me in a public place, let alone hold my hand. He was embarrassed to be seen with me.
My fingers shifted to another memory. My father, an alcoholic. Though he never raised a hand to me, his words cut deep. "-You'll never be wanted. -You'll burn every bridge of every person you meet. -You can't get anything right. -Pull your goddamn weight around here or get out!"
I hated crying, but even so the tears began to flow regardless of that fact, and my body and mind yearned for the feeling of numbness.
My hands shifted one more time, to the lastest memory in my collection. "Ghost." I whispered, not feeling up to it to even finishing his whole name. My hands traced over the itchy bandage. My eyes wandered up to meet my relfection's. In that moment, the image of the doe from this morning entered my mind. It felt as though my breath left my body, and tears began to pour from my reddening eyes. It was at that moment that I realized I was the doe, and he was the dog.