Voices

c h a p t e r 1 : m i r r o r

L o u i s a

"Who is that girl I see, staring straight back at me." - Reflection, Christina Aguilera

Who's that?

Who's that girl staring back at me in the mirror?

Who's that?

I don't recognise her at all.

Whatever I do, she follows. It's like we're the same person. But we're not.

Or maybe we are.

Who's that?

Is she trapped behind the glass, cursed to live in the mirror for eternity?

I gaze into her stormy blue eyes. Her eyes are glazed, her mind worlds away. As though she is tied down by too many secrets the world must never know.

Who's that?

A rush of wind sweeps across my face from the open window, sending a shiver down my spine. It's as if the world is trying to speak to me, whispering into my ear, telling me who this mysterious girl is.

But deep down, I already know.

Who's that?

It's you.

*

"Louisa! It's getting late. Can you cook dinner, please?" Mum shouts from the living room downstairs.

Louisa this. Louisa that. It's always Louisa. Louisa, Louisa, Louisa.

Never Lowella.

Why do I always have to do everything? Why does my older sister get the special treatment? What does she have that I don't?

She's everything I'm not.

I wonder why Mum doesn't just hire a domestic helper, since she is so busy with work all the time. We are financially more than capable too. At least that way, I can actually live my life as a teenager instead of the slave at home. I feel like Cinderella.

But then again, all I have is a pathetic excuse of a life. I don't exactly spend a lot of time socialising with people or doing what most teenagers do at my age.

Sighing loudly, I snatch my bookmark off my bedside table and place it into the open book on my mattress. Getting to my feet, I make a beeline towards the door and head down the stairs and into the kitchen as quietly as I can, not wanting to disturb anyone, knowing that Troy is probably drunk. Or hungover. Or angry at the world.

Just another usual day at the Martin-Simmons household.

I pull open the fridge door, surveying its contents. All that's left are a half-drunk bottle of beer, an empty egg carton, and an expired box of milk.

Why am I not surprised?

"Mum, we're all out of food," I call out.

"Then, what are you waiting for? The sky to fall? Go to the supermarket and gets some groceries," she yells back, annoyance thick in her voice, like I've just interrupted her from something incredibly important.

Suppressing a frustrated sigh, I grab my grey hoodie from the hook beside the door and pull it on before exiting the house.

The cool, spring breeze blows at me the moment I step outside, my hair falling over my eyes. I comb my hair with my fingers in a vain attempt to untangle it, tucking the stray strands behind my ear before shoving my cold hands into my pockets and trudging along the concrete pavement towards the grocery store, which thankfully is only a three-minutes' walk away.