THE BOY IN THE MIRROR
My eyes dart open. Above where I lay, the origami birds are bumping into each other and I feel the cool of a breeze on my bare shoulders. I sit up and find myself surrounded by an array of bed sheets and quilts; I must have thrashed about in bed during the night.
Rubbing my eyes I move my fingers throughout my hair, but they stop at a hair tie. I frown a little as I remove the hair tie and bring it to the front of my face. As if studying it, I stare at it, the crease in my brow becoming larger. I never slept with my hair up.
I drop the hair tie and find that I'm staring at myself in the mirror of the dresser on the other side of the room. Squinting across the room, I notice that I'm wearing something black. I throw off the rest of the bed covers and glance at my body.
With a mutter of curses under my breath, I jump off the bed and stand in front of the mirror. My reflection accurately represents the exact confusion and frustration I am feeling. Lipstick smudged, mascara all around my eyes and the bags under my eyes more prominent than ever. There is a disgusting looking bruise forming on my left cheekbone. But what has me the most confused is that I'm wearing my black dress.
Breathing a little heavier than usual, I stand, frozen, in front of the mirror, staring. In my staring, I notice a little graze on my left elbow and a few more bruises. What the heck is going on? I tear away from the mirror and open the bedroom door to right of the dresser.
I walk out into the hallway. A few aches throb from one of my legs and I grit my teeth in response. After a quick observation of the area, I find that Noah's bedroom is empty, so I go downstairs. I stop at the last step and stand still, hearing out for any kind of sound.
"Noah?" I call. There's no response and I bite my lip, a strange anxiety building up inside as questions race about my mind.
What happened last night? Where's Noah? Why was the window open? Okay, so that last question isn't that important to answer, but clarification for the other two would be most welcome.
"Just calm down Lucy. Take a shower. Clear your head," I tell myself.
Taking a deep breath, I head back up stairs and go into my bedroom. I remove the various bobby pins from my hair, placing them on my dresser and I toss my hair about, another ache coming from the spot on my head where the hair tie was sitting. In my bathroom, I remove my clothes and throw a towel over the shower door, before running the hot water. Placing the bathmat on the tiles, I get in and once under the water I try to remember the events of last night.
Vaguely, I remember getting in the car with Noah and showing up at the church, but other than that I can't seem to remember much. What happened to me? It's not exactly a normal thing for me to wake up in my clothes on a Sunday morning, unable to remember the previous night; let alone be covered in cuts and bruises.
Turning off the taps, I wrap a towel around my body, squeezing the water out of my hair out into the basin under the mirror. For a couple of minutes I stay in my position, leaning over the basin, forehead against the cold mirror. It's so frustrating that I can't remember. I smash my head against the mirror, mumbling and cursing to myself.
This is just what I need... I'm already losing enough sleep over the other night, now I'll be up all night, every night, trying to figure out what happened last night! I scream in my mind. I ball my hands into fists, frustration taking over my emotions.
"Why'd you do this to me?!" I yell out, unsure of who it's directed at exactly. But no matter who I expected to hear my anger, I'm left without the answer: well, the answer I wanted.
"I think you ought to be thanking me, rather than accusing me of things."
I suck in air sharply and my eyes fly open. Images of the church, feelings of the hand on my back, bumping into Mrs. Mitchells and meeting Ryden... Ryden's ghost. All the memories from last night hit me like a blow to the head and I feel myself go rigid. He's back.
"Well? When will I get my thank-you?" he asks. Something inside of my snaps.
"Shut-it! You're just a stupid voice in my stupid head! Go away!" I scream into the basin. My hands are trembling again. This is crazy... he's crazy... I'm crazy...
"Hey! If it weren't for me you'd still by lying out in the middle of the road!" he yells back.
My head snaps up at his words. But before I can ask him anything about what he's just said, I let out a scream that burns my throat a little. I stumble back from the mirror and basin, slipping on the wet bathmat and sliding across the tiles, back, into the wall. I hit my head hard on the wall and slump down onto the floor, finding myself sitting on very cold tiles.
"Son of a-" I groan touching where I hit the back of my head.
Although my vision is a bit fuzzy, I look up at the mirror again and, although I hope to God that it was just my mind playing a trick on me, he's still there. Ryden Mitchells is standing in my bathroom mirror, a very concerned and confused look upon his face. He looks different. He doesn't look like the good school-boy in the picture they had of him at the funeral and he doesn't look like the seriously injured, close to death boy I found in the middle of the road.
He looks normal. Like a normal boy of his age should. And that scares me more than anything.
"A... Are you alright?" he asks, stuttering a bit. We stare at each other for a moment, I unsure of whether I'll ever be able to speak words again. He breaks our eye contact and his eyes drop. A red blush crawls onto his cheeks.
"Um... your towel..." he starts.
I look down and notice that one of my breasts are about to jump out from the slipping towel. I fix it up. Holding it in place to prevent any other cases of towel slipping occurring again (although that's hardly my biggest worry at the moment), I slowly stand. My heart is still racing from my freak out and blood pumps loudly in my ears.
"You're..." I start, testing out my ability to speak, "You're in my mirror." Ryden looks down at himself and shrugs, meeting my eyes again.
"Yeah, I guess I am. I didn't mean to scare you like that... I mean... I had no idea that you'd actually be able to see me..." he says.
Step by step, I slowly walk back across the bathroom to the basin. With my free hand, I cautiously go to touch the mirror, where Ryden's image appears. I hesitate briefly, before pressing my whole palm against the cold mirror. He stares at my hand for a second, before reaching out and pressing his palm against mine. It's strange, to say the least, the feeling of a cold hard pane of glass when you're more of less placing your hand on someone else's. It feels so wrong.
Suddenly an image of a girl flashes before my eyes and I take my hand away from the mirror, in shock.
"What the-?" I murmur.
"What was that?" he asks. I frown while looking at my palm where a little cut has now appeared.
"I have no idea..." I start, before looking back to the mirror, the awe of the moment gone.
"Why are you here?" I ask him.
Ryden shrugs.
"I... I don't know."
"Then you need to leave," I tell him.
"But-"
"No. This... This isn't right. This doesn't happen. You died the other night, there's no explanation as to why I can suddenly see you. Ghost or not... Look... I'm having a tough enough time dealing with the fact that I witnessed you die... I... I don't need this," I try to explain. In the mirror, Ryden frowns slightly, shaking his head.
"I can't leave," he replies, standing his ground. I turn away from his eyes and walk over to the bath. With a sigh, I sit down on the edge and grasp my towel tightly.
"Why not?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
"I don't know... talking with you makes me feel human again."
Rewritten 19/08/2014
YOU ARE READING
How To Love A Dead Boy
Paranormal[editing-slowly] Despite doing everything she can, Lucy Ainsworth can't forget the night that she held the hand of the dying stranger, Ryden Mitchells. However; when she finds herself face to face with his ghost in her bathroom mirror, she's throw...
