EXCERPT: Behind Glass

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Author: Elle Scott

Genre: YA Urban Fantasy/Dystopian

Copyright 2019 © Elle Scott


"Sometimes, what feels like the beginning, is actually the end."

She didn't know his name. But she knew his face... she knew his eyes. Blue. Unwavering. Blood-shot.

Whenever Eden closed her own eyes, his were the first thing she'd see. A broken memory from a long time ago. Something that felt close enough to touch, but always just out of reach.

He was gone because of her, or so she believed. There was never any proof it was her fault, but she felt it in her bones. She knew she'd made a mistake, somehow, somewhere in a time she couldn't remember.

And, right before she found out the truth, she made another one. Monumental.

From the outside, the exact moment of her second mistake is easy to pinpoint. It was the moment she used the powers she didn't know she had. But underneath the surface, it started before then. It began with a memory. Small, yet significant. Like a tiny spark had caught a breath of air and rolled into a light so fierce, it could blind even the sun.

When that little spark crept out of the void, a new memory emerged. The night would sear into her mind, one she could never forget.

The evening started the way it had for the last six years; with Eden's parents asking her the same set of questions. Her answers had always been the same... every night until then.

She sat on an armchair she'd chosen two years earlier. It was black for the most part, yet the seat was re-covered with tartan flannelette. Eden chose it because it reminded her of herself—worn at the edges and patched together.

"What's your name?" Eden's Dad, Alistair Howard, sat forward on his brown leather chair opposite her. The tip of his pen pressed down on his pad of paper. Ready. He was a handsome man, rugged yet poised, and at thirty-four, too young to be Eden's biological father.

Eden took a long breath in, then replied, "Eden Howard."

"When's your birthday?" Alistair asked, already writing.

"October fifth."

In the corner of the room, Eden's Mom, Lacey, sat on her own mustard-yellow chair—it had a provincial long back and faded mahogany legs. She was pretending to read Hemingway, or Orwell, or King. But Eden knew she was listening just as intently as Alistair, if not more.

"What do you remember before your twelfth birthday?"

Ah, the big one. The main one. The piece de resistance.

"Nothing," Eden replied, flatly.

Alistair glanced up, his eyes looking over the rims of his black-framed glasses. She knew exactly what his stare meant. It meant, 'Don't play games, Eden, tell the truth.'

Eden sighed. She'd gotten over the monotonous inquiry years ago. After what felt like an interrogation every night, she started to feel like she was going a little crazy. She wished she could just move on from the lack of memory and live her life like she was a normal seventeen-year-old. But it wasn't like they tied her down on her patchwork chair at six o'clock every evening. The only thing dragging her into the living room was her own desire to remember. So, at the same time every day, she showed up and watched her dad write down every single one of her repetitive answers.

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