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Chapter One: I broke the Mirror

JCACXXS89CA9JH3B8CA9T5NOKCAGZI0EECAJT9K5BCAMSUKNKCAE5FOIHCAZ06S92CAZ0TLEQCANLENZSCAUZ04XJCA5NBCRECAW3JLZ7CA3HK77ECAOBPQC9CA3U6J5CCATU3KMACAK8QK69CAQCV0GG I grew up in an empty house. I describe my humble abode as empty, because every piece of furniture, color and decoration was arranged and colored in a way that made it appear non-existent. Everything was correlated in a pastel plain seeking nature. If my mother had her way our house would have looked and felt like an upscale waiting room in a hospital. There was no life flowing through it, no individuality. Know that I look back it was the lack of color that made the place feel so dead. It was almost as if the open white curtains and opaque colored "everything," exuded more darkness than light. My parents treated me like I was an adult as soon as I could speak. My mother Cynthia Porter, was a former socialite due to her fathers prior success in the oil industry. She also had a heavy hand in operations related to the stock market, which became a very lucrative asset for her. My father was a successful sports writer for numerous magazines. The high paying salary was sufficient, but my father's main appeal of his job was the traveling nine months out of the year. I came to accept at an early age that my parents occupations came before me. I also came to accept that I had to be alone most of the ti me. Until I was thirteen, An eighty seventy six year old, smelly woman named Mrs. May, was my sole authority figure. She wasn’t so bad. I enjoyed her because she could sleep through anything, and napped most of the day. One time when I was seven, I lit the kitchen towels on fire and she slept through the fire men carrying her out of my house. The loneliness and boredom this old lady provided was justification enough for me for my actions. Being so bored that burning down a kitchen seems entertaining, is crazy but I was really, really bored. Months from that incident if Sarah had not come around, I might have set my whole neighborhood block into flames.

Sarah Matthews came into my consciousness on December 24, 1992. It was a Sunday morning. My grandmother was in town (staying at a nice hotel and not our house; of course) and I was getting ready for church. The last time we attended church was a year ago when my grandmother was in town. I was starring in the white Victorian bordered mirror my mother gave me for Christmas. I actually liked it, but she insisted I use the heavy metal brush that matched the Victorian woven vanity set. The brush was heavy in my little hands, and because the brush was for decretive and not hair friendly purposes; it didn’t do a good job of brushing through my uncooperative locks of hair. I was pulling my metal brush through a tuff tangle when the brush slipped out of my hand and hit the mirror. I gasped and looked to see if any damage was done to the vanity. That’s the first time I saw Sarah. She was standing right behind me. I stared at our identical reflections in the mirror. We both appeared the same age, with matching icy blonde hair, pale skin and emerald green flickering eyes. "Don’t worry Cassidy, I am not going to hurt you, I'm your best friend; you know that right?" I did know it. I knew the second I saw her. A feeling of calm, love and undeniable heat rushed through me. I felt a sense of love from her that was so strong it almost attacked me. She was surrounded by an aura of extreme, gnawing realness that was so strong her presence almost knocked my off my feet. "Your not crazy either Cassidy, and I'm not your imaginary friend." I am not so sure she was right about the crazy part, but I was eight years old; which is a little to old to encompass a made up play date. Sarah began to explain that she didn’t know why she was here. She told me that she wasn’t a ghost, supernatural creature or messenger from God. All she knew was that this is where she was supposed to be, and everything was going to be ok. "This is my first memory Cassidy, I know you feel it is too." Strangely I instinctually believed this was her first memory, but I wasn’t so sure everything was going to be ok. Was this my mind playing tricks on me? Did eight years of virtually no attention, affection and lack of human interaction allow my mind to entertain such visions? We were still looking at each other through the mirrors reflection. I was scared to face her because that would mean this is really happening. Sarah looked away from our reflections and faced me. She took a deep comforting breathe and said, "Well do you have anything to say?" My knees began to buckle, and I steadied myself on the vanity chair. I looked straight at her and the only words I conjure myself to project were, "I broke the mirror."

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