My Mirror's Image

Chapter 1

Trees passed at a blur, the houses only smudges amongst an array of colours. Gentle humming of the radio did nothing to disperse the awkward silence that hung in the car. Not that it was that awkward anymore. Having spent everyday, whether eating a meal or listening to the news, there was always a silence presence.

I'm simply use to it now, ever since mum died there has always been a silence. I use to try and fill the silence, ask a question, start a conversation, anything really.

Soon I gave up, maybe after a month or two. I just stopped trying. Gave up and accepted that my own father didn't wish to make conversation, didn't even want to look at me.

I don't blame him really. For not even acknowledging me. I mean, I look almost identical to my Mum. I have her same eyes, a startling grey. No wonder he never looks at me; I even have her dimples. The only difference is that I am a boy, and my hair is shorter.

You wouldn't guess that Mum died almost two years ago. My father never finished mourning it, never accepted. I had to accept it, and I'm only twelve. When she died I had cried for days, weeks even; curled up under the safety of my quilt, head stuffed under a pillow.

Not long after, my father took down all the photos we had of her; began to go through all the albums taking out any photo that had her in it. Once, when he had left for work, I snuck downstairs and took the accumulating pile of photos. Searching through them in the cover of darkness;  my tent of sheets lit from the inside as I picked out all the pictures I wanted, all the memories I didn't want to forget.

The ticking of the indicator broke me from my thoughts. The car had slowed down dramatically as it turned right. The street here was lined with purple flowered trees.

Mum's favourite colour was purple.

My father wants to move house, to "start fresh". It's funny how as much as you want to run away, get away from something, you'll always end up back at the start, always thinking of what you're running from. Always seeing something that will remind you.

I don't think my father understands that.

We have been driving for over six hours I think. Father mentioned that the owners of the house had finally decided to down size and sell. Said they were getting to old to take care of the large house.

I hate big houses. They echo and remind me of those spooky stories. I never believed in ghosts or anything, but they still scared me to no end.

Especially since Mum won't be here anymore to comfort me.

The car came to a halt. My eyes gazed upon what was supposed to be my new home. The house reached at least two stories, with a pitched attic at the top. The whole house looks old and run down. The lawn is littered with garbage and old leaves from the past Autumn. What use to be blooming rose bushes, now are scraggly looking shrubs, half dead and malnourished from the harsh weather.

Popping the boot, my father pulls out a suitcase and another, smaller one, leaving it open for me to grab my stuff.

He doesn't even glance my way as I step out of the car.

Hauling my duffle bag over my shoulder, I grabbed my box, managing to awkwardly shut the boot as well.

I didn't bring all my stuff. The house was already furnished, and the moving people were bringing what little stuff father wanted to take along with us.

None of which contained anything of Mum's, or anything reminding us of Mum.

Lucky I saved some things before they went in the garbage, or worse, the shredder.