The Tragedy of Mystery Girl

Mystery Girl glared morosely at the toilet paper.
The toilet cubicle was drab, the tiled floor being too cold for mould to spread upon. Walls loomed like concrete slabs, bereft of moss and scuttling insects, decorated only by the scratching of children’s fingernails. Scrawled on the toilet paper in some ungodly rusty substance were two words, “Help me”.

She wondered why she was even in the cubicle; she certainly didn’t need to be. Nor did she want to. There was someone in one of the other cubicles trying to “go” and like many Mystery Girl found that concept unsettling.
Mystery Girl examined the toilet paper, it was two ply and felt like stubble. The sort of material that separated in between a finger and a thumb, like chicken skin or a flake of lichen.

Suddenly the noises started. Whoever was in the cubicle across must be constipated. Great. A bag was opened and an iPod removed, Mystery Girl started to listen to La by Old Man River, and closed her eyes.
Only to open them a few bars into the song. Her feet felt a bit damp. She looked down and stifled a screech as she noticed the spreading pool of crimson emerging from whatever lay beyond the door. It took her a few seconds to jerk her sodden shoes up and unhook the earphones; to be able to hear the screams that were deafening yet too soft to be heard over mid-volume pop.
“OH GOD NO! IT’S EATING MY HEAD!”
Crunching noises damped the screams, echoing off the frosty tiles like thunderclaps in a shoebox. Mystery Girl reached for the lock on the door, which came off in her hand smearing it with green and apricot. Hooking her fingers around the door frame Mystery Girl pulled, and the blank slab peeled aside slowly, dreadfully.

Fortunately Mystery Girl was just crazy and none of this ever happened outside her own weird weird mind.
Poor Mystery Girl.