A Life Beyond The Mirror

Smoke.

I snap my eyes open but a haze clouding my vision that not even the incessant rubbing seems to be clearing.

What in the hell have I woken up to?

The sound of crackling and screaming in the distance breaks through the ringing in my ears, causing my heart to stutter. The smell of smoke seems to thicken, flooding my senses, making my eyes water and my chest tighten around a cough.

I try to get up, panic jolting my body into action, as I stumble to my leaden feet.

“I need to get you out of here!” a strained voice shouts over the noise, grabbing my hand. Encasing them in the warmth of his, comforting and strong. His face comes into focus as my vision begins to clear all sharp angles and flushed cheeks. His green eyes filled with fear, fear for me. His dark hair, dishevelled.

A loud crash rumbles the earth and throws us forward as the skies fill with blood curdling screams.

I wake with a jolt. This is the same nightmare has plagued me over the last two years, always the same. The smell of smoke so strong, it lingers long after I wake. I swear i can smell it on my pajamas. My body tingling with goose bumps and a cold sweat layering the top of my skin, glistening with the morning light streaming through the window. Taking a few deep breaths, I swing my legs off the edge of the bed.

It was just a dream. A creepy, messed up dream, but a dream none the less. I stand stretching and rubbing my eyes, swiping away the remain dregs of sleep that linger. I take a step towards the door, before the floor rises to meet me with the dull thud of my knee as it hits the cold, hardwood floor.

“Toby! How many times have I told you not to sleep there!” shouting at the dog as I rub my sore knee. He only grumbles back in answer. Doesn’t even acknowledge my presence with the rise of his head.

“Theadora? Are you awake? The movers will be here in an hour! I hope you’ve finished packing!” My Mother’s voice echoes up the staircase, her voice light. She must have had at least 3 cups of coffee by now. The way she says my name makes me shudder.

I’ve never liked it. The odd one out. ‘Unique’ my mother always said. All I know is I never found it on one of those blasted keyrings. Or mugs. And the incessant bullying from my peers calling me Dora the explorer.

I take a look around my room, or what’s left of it. Boxes half packed, clothes all over the floor. Oops.

“Yeah mum! Almost done!” I reply, glancing at the clock as I frantically grasping at strewn clothing and throwing them into the suitcase. 11 o’clock. Shit. What is the point of an alarm if it doesn’t wake you up?

Flicking my gaze around the room looking for any remaining garments before lying on top of it. Forcing it closed with all my might and stuffing the uncooperative clothes back in that are trying to break free from the squeeze as I zip it up.

It takes me a full 10 minutes to realise that in packing all of my clothes, I have also packed my clothes for the day and I’m still in my pyjamas.

I can’t function at this stage of the morning. After a quick shower, washing the lingering shadows of the unrelenting dream, unzipping the suitcase and shoving a hand in. Like a lucky dip at the school fayre, I feel around for the clothes I can possibly wear for the day and hope by all god that I can find a single pair of underwear without having to repeat the whole packing process again. A hoodie, a script t-shirt I got when I was 14 that has definitely seen better days, a pair of jeans and by the grace of almighty God (and about 5 minutes of shuffling) a pair of underwear and a sport bra. It probably would have been quicker to open the suitcase, but the thrill of the victory from a self-made challenge was well worth the time wasted.

Pulling the hoodie over my head and pull out my dark brunette hair that gets trapped between the layers. I look in the mirror greeted by the smattering of freckles dotted over my nose, my eyes dark blue and glassy from the heat of the shower.

I throw the rest of my room into the boxes, hearing the clunk and clatter of different objects, hoping I haven’t damaged them too much.

Lastly are my photos. My most prized possessions. My fingers leaving imprints in the dust as it clings to my skin. Lifting them off the wall, being careful not to drop the frames my gaze lingering over the smiling face of my father. The picture, one faded with time and sunlight, was of the summer when I turned eight. We were in the sea, playing, lifting me out of the surf as the waves come crashing to shore. The memories flash through my mind like a reel of a stop motion camera. I smile, the tears I used to fight no longer surfacing but the hollow pain of grief ever present.

“You ready- hey I thought you said you were done?” My mum sighs walking into my room, hands on hips as she looks around, disapprovingly. She walks over, looking over my shoulder, her eyes soften at the picture in my hands.

“That was a good day.” She says rubbing my shoulders affectionately. A breath escapes her, almost like acceptance.

“Do you think he misses us?” I ask.

“I don’t know Thea, I hope so. Wherever he may be.” She says, her words dripping with disappointment. “I’ll help you finish. The van will be here soon.”

I place the picture in the tissue paper, gently folding the edges to cover it as if made of something so fragile that any sudden movement could cause it to disintegrate and place it delicately in the box.

My father has been gone for two years now. No calls, messages and hasn’t accessed any money since. Police say they can’t help us any longer. That usually when a person hasn’t been found within the first two weeks, the chances of them being found drops to abysmal odds. We searched, day and night, the site my dad was meant to be working carrying no trace of his presence ever being there. I can still hear the voices shout his name the only answering sound being the crunch of the leaves, the crack of sticks, as people made their way through the woodland. The days seemed to bleed together. My Mother’s determination turned into hopelessness and now she has resigned herself to believing he ‘ran off with another woman.’ I heard her tell her friends one night as they sat around the living room, three glasses of red into their evening as it took this solemn turn. Her voice raised, though cracking, as she called him out to the vultures that fed on gossip and the hardships of others, until their eyes gleam with the knowledge that they have insider scoop, the ability to be the centre of attention as they shared my mother’s melancholy with others.

I can understand why she would think he was cheating. Before he disappeared, he was acting fishy, restless. Like he was constantly looking over his shoulder, the shadows lurking in his gaze as he spoke. The sharpness in his tone. The fear in his posture. Then he left for work one morning and never came home. I can’t help but miss him though. I don’t think he would do that to us. He wasn’t like that. He loved us. I didn’t sleep that night. And I never brought him up again.

As we finish packing a horn blares outside.

“That’ll be them.” Mum says, swiping her hands against her jeans before moving for the door. She stops as she reaches for the handle. “I know you’re not happy about this move. But your grandmother needs us. After her fall she needs a bit of help, and the job that I start there is better than the one I have here. It will be a fresh start. For both of us.”

“I know Mum. It’s fine.” I say taping up the last box.

We are moving from my childhood home in Cheshire to Pembrokeshire. My grandmother, my fathers’ mother, has deteriorated since Dad disappeared. She thinks something bad happened to him. The doctors said that her mind has created a reality she believes to be real, to protect herself. She talks about Morgens, nymphs and witches, but the sentences don’t make sense, and honestly sounds like she’s off her trolley. She fell a couple of weeks ago and had been in hospital after breaking her hip. The doctor advised Mum that she would need a lot of help from now and she shouldn’t be living alone. So here we are. Moving across the country to live with an old crazy lady that thinks there are faeries in her garden. Sorry, not faeries, fae.

The last of the boxes are loaded into the van as step inside my home one last time and take it in with a deep breath, trying to take it all in. The height chart scratched into the doorframe. The love that once filled this house, the laughter, the warmth. Now a shell, for the next family to fill.

“Come on, Thea. Time to go.” She places her hand on my shoulder delicately. My mother is a beautiful woman, but the stress from my father disappearance has changed her. Once easy smiles and easy laughs, now getting her to smile is somewhat of a rarity. Her black hair dyed to hide the greys and her tired eyes always hidden behind her glasses.

We turned to the door and closed it behind us. One last time.