Cashiering isn't so bad [Creepypasta/Marble Hornets x Male reader]

Bad Company

M/n knew he couldn't hide the fact that his wrist was broken but that didn't keep him from obscuring it behind the register and under the front counter for the first hour Sally had stopped by. Eventually, as always, she got curious and bugged him about it till he caved. As long as she promised not to tell Tim or Brian he let her sloppily sharpie on her name next to the rest. It was quite the contrast, the rest of the signatures on his cast were small and neat, some in cursive and others in a different alphabet entirely. Sal's name on the other hand was obviously written by the untrained hand of a small child.

   He thought it was cute, watching her struggle to find a spot to cram her name in, but Sally seemed upset as she popped the cap back on with a sigh.

   "Don't be too bummed, after the cast comes off our signatures will be practically identical." He said, tossing the marker into a little plastic cup with his other pens.

   "I've been trying to fix my writing for yearth now... time tellth me I should be in my thirtieth. My brain thometimes even trieth to convince me, but I'm not. I'm eight. My body'th eight, my mannerithms are eight... my handwriting of all thingth ith eight."

   "You feel like you don't belong in your own body."

   "When I get the chance to think about it... yeah." She squeezed her eyes shut, blinking away any frustrated tears fighting their way to the corner of her eyes. As she was passed a tissue from across the counter she glanced towards M/n and reciprocated his small smile.

   "My ex was the same. Wanna talk about it?"

   "Thure, I just... I don't know how to cope tho I just pretend it doesn't bother me."

   "Doesn't sound healthy."

   "It's not but I'm dead tho who careth."

   M/n took a sip of his beer and shrugged. "Just 'cause you don't have a physical form to take care of anymore doesn't mean you should blow off your mental health, no reason in making your afterlife just as miserable as your original one."

   Sally nodded, her fingers twiddling together as she thought. "You're right."

   "I'm always right."

   "Tone it back narcissuth."

   "Okay—" he wheezed, leaning over his counter. "Okay. Rude."

   "You're jutht thensitive." She struggled off the stool she'd regularly prop herself on when she came to visit and swiped her bag off the counter. "Look I gotta go but if I find anyone offering free ghotht therapy I'll definitely update you."

   "Don't get smart with me." M/n cocked a brow as she walked to the door.

   "Thmart? With you? Impossible."

   "Sally!"

   Without missing a beat she threw the door open and ran out. "Bye, M/n!"

   He watched her leave, flabbergasted and unmoving till her little silhouette disappeared into the vast darkness surrounding his store. His head turned to one of the hidden cameras next to his post by the register and all he could manage was to furrow his brows further with a small scoff. Eventually he shook his head and went back to drinking his beer and sweeping since he had nothing better to do. Usually he'd mindlessly sketch in the unused pages of his spiral notebooks, but now that his dominant hand was restrained in medical plaster he had to resort to more unconventional time wasters.

   Eventually he found himself humming to the tune of whatever was playing over the store speakers as his fingers drummed against the top of the counter. Fidgeting as he was distracted by his own imagination, he was so distracted that it took him a second to register that the doors to his store had been thrown open. His eyes were quick to follow the pretty conspicuous looking guy rushing towards the counter, the knife in his hand now pressed to M/n's throat.