Mirror Man by Jacques Kat (ebook reader with internet browser txt) 📕

I couldn’t bear listening to them fighting all the time—especially when I didn’t know what they were saying. Hadn’t I just promised myself I would convince them I’m just as much of an adult as they are?

I slammed my hands down on the desk and forced the chair back. I wasn’t going to sit here and hide away, anymore. I got up and went down the hall to listen to their shouts; if it was about me, why shouldn’t I listen?

‘I can’t stand him being trapped in a world of mirrors and reflections!’ Mum shouted. ‘Do you think anything of this is normal?’

It went silent for a moment, then I heard another mirror smash. I bit down on my lip. That was two I would have to buy tomorrow.

‘Anna, it’s not the boy’s fault,’ Grandad said. ‘He’s got problems. You’ve never even tried to get to know the boy properly. He’s a good lad. I swear the only time you were interested was when he passed his exams.’

Grandad was right. When I got kicked out of the local school, the next nearest school wouldn’t admit me, and the bus didn’t come close enough for the one after that. Home-schooling became my only option.

Grandad found some great tutors for me, and all three of them managed the mirror situation well. Mr Spencer taught me all the science subjects, Mrs Forrester taught me English and Maths, and Mr Woods taught me Geography and History. They only taught me for a couple of hours a day—I found I couldn’t concentrate well for much longer than that. They all said I was a good student, and I passed all seven O-level exams with a C grade. It was the only time Mum had ever expressed any sort of pride in me.

‘He took my dreams away!’ Mum shouted.

I chewed on the inside of my cheek and headed back to the office. I’d heard enough.

The voices coming from the room got louder as I crept back. Mum was madder than ever. In an attempt to forget what was happening a few metres away from me, I put on my internal record player, picked up a duster, and got to work on polishing all the reflective surfaces.

Chapter Five

Grandad came back half an hour later, though the voices had died down sometime before. I could always count on him to calm her down, eventually.

‘How’s it going in here, son?’ he asked.

‘Good, Grandad. I’ve dusted everything. Not a speck of dirt or a smear anywhere,’ I said proudly.

‘Good lad. Your mam has calmed down now, and she’s getting tea on. Why don’t you go see if she needs a hand?’

‘I need to check the mirrors she smashed first, then I will. I’ll come get you when it’s ready.’

‘Alright, son.’ He smiled at me in the mirror, then quickly looked away.

I went to inspect the damage. Mum had smashed one of my favourite Art Deco mirrors. I shook my head, then waved the sadness away. I couldn’t let her see she’d upset me twice in the space of an hour.

I noticed a small sliver of glass on the floor. Every time Mum smashed one of the mirrors, she always swept up the pieces and disposed of the remnants, though she never offered to replace them, nor did she ever apologise.

I bent to pick up the shard, and a sharp edge nicked my finger. I quickly sucked the red bead that formed and grabbed a plaster from my wallet. I always kept a supply handy for two reasons: one, I hated the sight of blood (the quicker I could stop the bleeding the better), and two, I’d lost count of the number of times I’d cut myself on broken glass.

I composed myself until I spotted the other mirror she’d smashed. It was the ornate silver mirror Mr Phillips let me have. It had been in his storage area for years and was filthy. I’d taken it home and spent hours on it with a duster and a can of Mr Sheen, working in all the grooves and crevices to remove every speck of dust and grime. When I was done, it had looked beautiful and wouldn’t have been out of place in a stately home.

I rubbed at my eyes, scrubbing away the tears threatening to spill over. I knew I shouldn’t cry over a mirror; Mum had said often enough. Boys don’t cry. I never let her see me cry, and I tried my hardest not to let her actions or words get to me.

Sometimes I felt as though I could, should, shout and scream back at my mother for acting the way she did, but I forced the screams down that rose from my stomach into my chest and locked them away. Both Tina and Grandad said she didn’t mean it, but I wasn’t so sure. I didn’t see her smashing up any of their stuff on a regular basis.

I took a deep breath and walked into the kitchen. Mum was peeling potatoes with mince sizzling in a pan on the stove. Her wine glass had been topped back up. I disposed of the shard of glass and stood where I could see her reflection.

‘Mum, do you need any help with tea?’ I asked, keeping my voice low.

She shook her head. She never did after we’d fallen out or she’d had one of her mini meltdowns, as Grandad called them. I waited for a moment and cast an eye of contempt on the lit cigarette smoking away in a dish near the stove.

‘You can set the table for five. Tina and Peter will be joining us,’ she finally said.

‘Why are—’ I started, but she breathed through her nose loudly and slammed down the vegetable peeler before gripping on to the counter.

‘Never mind…’ I muttered.

I set the table while wondering why they were visiting on a Tuesday when they usually only came for Sunday dinner.

How unusual.

Though it had been an unusual