Mirror Image: Shattered Mirror Prophecies Book 1

by Bailey James

  No, that’s not what happened. Not at all what happened.

  Mom presses her lips together when I don’t say anything, narrowing her eyes when she sees the expression on my face. “Is it still fuzzy? The doctor said that might happen.”

  “No. I remember something different. Some—” I cut myself short and choose a different word, “something…scared me, and I lost control of the car. I hit the guardrail. I-I blacked out. The boy was there. Jackson was there. He knew my name and pulled me out, but he disappeared when the ambulance came.”

  She shakes her head. “You must’ve been imagining it, Lily. Someone driving by saw the whole thing and called 9-1-1.”

  “No! No one hit me. I didn’t hit anyone. I lost control of the car and—” I cut off when a deep male voice sounds inside my head.

  Lily, relax. I’ll explain everything when you get home.

  I jump. What the hell was that?

  It’s as if, for a second, I’m not alone in my own mind. Every hair on my skin stands on end. Shaking with fresh panic, I wheeze as I gulp in air. Maybe my mind really is playing tricks on me.

  “Lily!” Mom snaps, in a blatant attempt to break through my panic because Mom never raises her voice. “Calm down. The doctor said this could happen. That your mind might do this to help you deal with the trauma.” She pats my hand as we stop at a red light, sending me another concerned look.

  “Do what?” My breath still comes out in gasps. I’ve started to hyperventilate.

  How did I hear the boy who rescued me in my head? And it was his voice. I’d recognize it anywhere. Am I going crazy?

  “He said that sometimes our minds create false memories when they can’t make sense of the situation. The police studied the scene, honey. They are very sure what the witness said was true.”

  But none of that makes sense. My memory of it seems so real…

  The whole ride home I think about my rescuer. Did I imagine him? Had I somehow managed to escape the car on my own and then make him up?

  I don’t think so. I still feel Jackson’s lips on my temple. I touch the side of my head as I recall the contact, wondering if I could have imagined something like that. Maybe Mom’s right: the mind is powerful. I’m sure it can create authentic-feeling memories to protect a person. That has to be the explanation, and yet…

  At home, in front of the Spanish style house—complete with red clay tile roof—my parents bought the day before my brother had been born, Dad and my siblings are waiting for me. My sister, Rose, is the first one to rush me. She hugs me, ignoring my gasp of pain, and sobs into my shoulder. Her short black hair—the same color as mine—tickles the side of my face.

  She’s always overemotional. I thought a year of college would have cured her of it, but she seems to only have gotten worse.

  “Rose. I’m fine. Really. Just a little banged up.” I give her a one-armed hug, patting her back when she shows no sign of letting go, pleading with Dad to help me. He manages to pull her off me and pass her off to Mom before he steps up next to me, his muscular arms trembling as he hugs me.

  “How are you feeling, princess?”

  “I’m fine, Daddy. Like I said, just a little banged up.” And very confused.

  He stares at me for a moment and then pulls a big, fat marker from the pocket of his khaki slacks.

  “Ha, I get to be the first to sign your cast.” He leaves a message in his large scrawl and signs his name.

  “Daddy, how is anyone else going to sign when you’ve taken the whole thing up with yours?” I let out a fake exasperated sigh, but inside I’m grinning like the Cheshire cat.

  He winks. “I’m sure they’ll find a spot.”

  Alder, my brother, older than me by two years, hugs me as well. “Didn’t they teach you not to drive off bridges in Driver’s Ed, Lily? It’s not healthy.” He gives me a light fist tap on my good arm.

  I laugh. “I’ll try to remember that.”

  Mom claps her hands. “Okay, the show’s over. She needs rest. Upstairs, young lady.”

  For the first time in my life, I don’t object to taking a nap. The combination of the accident, two nights in a hospital bed, and the disturbing conversation on the ride home have left me exhausted.

  My feet drag with each step to my room. When I finally get there, my mirror stands at the ready, taunting me. Since Mom made sure to keep me from looking at the hospital—and the mirrors on the car had only teased me—I’m dying to know what kind of damage I’ve done.

  On the other hand, I’m not sure I can handle what I might see. I’m not usually vain, but the face is every girls’ kryptonite. The evaluation I’d done with my fingertips since I woke up had proven to me that it’s probably pretty bad, especially since every place I touched has been tender. Maybe I should wait and rest first. I’m exhausted, in pain, and obviously not thinking clearly. Why else would I have created some fake knight in shining armor to make sense of a senseless accident?

  I decide to lie down for a few minutes before I take in the damage to my face. Besides, maybe I’ll get lucky, and a minute or two of beauty sleep will fix the damage. I make a face, wincing when the movement tugs on some cuts and scrapes.

  My bed is a welcome contrast to the hospital one, and my eyelids grow heavy the second I hit the sheets; I’m asleep before I even think of taking off my shoes.

  I don’t know how much time has passed, but when I wake, my head throbs. My eyes are unfocused and gritty, but I can’t resist the pull of the mirror across the room any longer. I get up with surprising ease, considering the cast on my arm. The silvery surface of the mirror seems to glow, beckoning me closer.

  I fleetingly wonder if I’ll have any permanent scars. My mother has been evasive about the damage, and my fingertip exam only told me so much. Even the glimpses I’d caught in the side mirror had been nothing if not useless.

  At the last second, I close my eyes. My hands shake with nerves, and my heart pounds against my ribs. Taking a steadying breath, I open them. But instead of my own image, I find Jackson looking back at me.

  Chapter Two

  I stumble back, tripping on a pair of shoes I’d left in the middle of the floor land on my ass with a thump. Nothing comes out of my mouth when I open it to shout, except a strange mewling sound.

  Jackson continues to watch me, his emerald eyes sad. He looks just like he did last night. Black hair. Green eyes. Scar cutting from forehead to cheek. He opens his mouth, and it moves like he’s talking, but no sounds come out. I try to scramble up, but my flats can’t find purchase on the slick wood floor. My blood pounds in my ears. My head swims as I drag air in like a fish out of water.

  The more I panic, the more he tries to get me to hear him. He presses hard against the glass, causing the pads of his fingers to turn white. I squeeze my eyes shut.

  He’ll be gone when I open my eyes, right?

  I take a deep breath, count to ten, and then reopen them slowly, focusing on the bottom of the mirror first. I raise my gaze. My heart stutters; he’s still there.

  In the mirror, Jackson shakes his head and makes a settling gesture. When he speaks again, he uses exaggerated mouth shapes so I can understand his words: “Don’t scream.”

  My first instinct is to ignore him and scream anyway. Except he isn’t exactly threatening, trapped on the other side of the glass like that. Besides, my family will think I’m genuinely crazy if they find me yelling at my mirror.

  Okay. This is ridiculous; panicking is getting you nowhere. Relax. Calm down. There’s a logical reason for this; there always is. Right?

  “Who are you?” It’s the first question that comes to mind.

  He smiles and moves his mouth again, but as before, I can’t hear him.

  He gestures to his hand, still white against the glass. When I only continue to stare at him, he throws his hands in the air and steps away from the mir
ror.

  Curious, I slowly stand and stare into the mirror; it’s like looking through a window. Jackson’s room is not unlike mine. His is messier, and clothes lay on every available surface, but he has posters pinned to the wall—I don’t recognize anyone on them—like I do, and he’s hung a hockey stick on a bracket.

  His bed is unmade, with dark blue sheets and a comforter bunched into a pile in the middle. His desk overflows with wrappers, books, and a computer—at least I assume it’s a computer. It looks like mine—the monitor and computer all-in-one—but there’s no keyboard or mouse.

  The walls are the same dark blue as his sheets, instead of the mint green of my own, and he has a large window rather than my small dormers.

  He paces the full length of his room and appears to be mumbling to himself, kicking things out of his way occasionally. Wanting to see more, I lean forward and press my hand against the glass to steady myself; it’s warm and soft, like honey without the stickiness. He glances over and blinks when he sees me, then rushes over and places his hand on the glass over mine.

  An electrical shock passes through my arm; sounds from a radio come to me. I jerk my hand back, staring at my palm. The room is silent again.

  What the hell?

  Narrowing my eyes, I place my hand back over his. The radio sounds come back. I press harder, and the mirror ripples but doesn’t give. The now-familiar swell of panic rolls through me as my mind searches for possible answers in this madness.

  “Lily, I know this is a bit unusual, but I need you to try to relax and listen to me,” he says.

  The sound of his voice shocks me; it’s exactly as I remember it. I try withdrawing my hand, but it seems glued to the mirror.

  Oh God! What the eff? What. The living. Eff?

  I’m hallucinating. That’s the only explanation. I hit my head harder than they thought. I need to tell Mom, tell her to take me back to the doctor so they can find the hemorrhage in my brain.

  Jackson laughs. “Lily, you’re not hallucinating, and you’re not crazy.”

  A tingle passes through my body. How does he know what I’m thinking?

  “Yeah? Then why am I talking to a boy in my mirror?” I focus on trying to wake up.

  If I’m not hallucinating, and I’m not going crazy, then I’m dreaming.

  That’s the only reasonable explanation.

  “I don’t know. I’ve heard stories about this kind of thing, but I never thought it actually happened.”

  “What stories?” Why am I still standing here?

  He doesn’t answer, his eyes searching my face, and those gorgeous green orbs of his turning sadder with every cut and bruise he sees. “How are you feeling?”

  “How do you think I feel?” I snap. “What is this?” I gesture with my other hand to the mirror.

  A knock interrupts his answer. The doorknob rattles and Mom pokes her head around the door. When she sees me staring into the mirror, she gives me the same frustrated look she’d given me earlier.

  “How are you feeling, honey?” She makes her way toward me, avoiding all the stuff scattered on my floor.

  I really need to clean my room.

  Since Jackson appeared in my mirror for the first time, all my minor aches and pains make themselves known. The pain in my arm alone is enough to cause me to want to moan in agony, but I’m not going to tell her that.

  “Only a little sore.” I remove my hand from the mirror. The mirror wavers, and then only my reflection bounced back at me.

  Mom lifts an eyebrow in the way she does when she knows I’m lying. “I’m sure it’s more than that.” She glances into the mirror and sighs at our reflections. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

  I reach up to touch my face and watch as my reflection does the same, just like it’s supposed to. There’s a gash on my forehead along the hairline. The bandage covering it is red with blood. There are a few other minor cuts along my face, and I’m bruised and swollen in the middle of my forehead, directly above my nose. My green eyes are bloodshot.

  Above the cast, my right arm is a yellowish color from the antiseptic they used to clean my arm before setting it. Not to mention the substantial purple bruise across my thighs from being pinned underneath the steering wheel.

  My mother places her hand on my shoulder, pulling me out of my self-assessment. “Lily, facial wounds always look worse than they are.” I don’t say anything, so she sighs. “Honey, Tyler will love you no matter what you look like.”

  I still don’t say anything; I hadn’t been worried about what Tyler had thought, but now that thought is racing through my already overcrowded mind.

  “Soup?” she asks. It’s her go-to offering for any negative experience. Not feeling well? Soup. Boyfriend break up with you? Soup. Fail a test? Soup. Break a nail? Soup.

  I nod. It’s a go-to for a reason.

  “All right. I’ll make you your favorite if you promise to take your meds and rest, young lady.”

  Again, I nod, hissing at the pain that ricochets around my head at the movement. She sends me another look before walking away. I reach out and touch the mirror. This time it’s cold and hard like normal.

  “Jackson?” I whisper.

  Nothing. The only sounds are my somewhat unsteady breaths as I will him to come back.

  “Jackson!” I whisper, somewhat more forcefully, still afraid to speak his name any louder.

  Again nothing. I must have imagined everything. I laugh at myself.

  Definitely hit your head pretty hard, Lily, when you start imaging boys that talk to you from mirrors.

  The effort to get my mind to bring back my hallucination increased the pounding in my head. Shit. I crawl into bed and bury myself under a mountain of pillows and blankets.

  A few minutes later, Mom enters my room with tomato soup and iced tea.

  “Honey, are you still awake?” She sets the tray on my nightstand.

  “Yeah.” Not that I want to be.

  The mattress dips when she sits on the edge of it. “Here, take the pills first. That way, by the time you’ve finished eating, they’ll have started to work.”

  I hold my hand out, not bothering to pull my head out of the covers. “Just let me take the pills. I’m not hungry anymore.” My stomach twists and turns, making food, even the soup, completely unappealing.

  “You have to eat. If you don’t, the pills will make you sick.”

  I grumble but sit up and take the pills. In no way do I want to feel any sicker than I already am. I eat under the gaze of her eagle eyes. When she’s convinced I’ve eaten enough, she tucks me in and kisses my head.

  “Try to sleep, honey. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

  She makes sure the drapes are closed tight, fussing with a fold for a minute, before exiting my room. Morning? How long does she expect me to sleep? It’s only two in the afternoon.

  The door closes, leaving me in the blissful dark.

  I try sleeping, but until the medications kick in, it’s nearly impossible. Sharp, stabbing pains in my arm make me want to rip it off and toss it in the corner while the entire city of New York wages war behind my eyes with their jackhammers. Every movement is torture. I have to wonder why I didn’t feel this before when I was talking to Jackson.

  If you talked to Jackson, the other, more rational part of my brain reminds me. You might just be going crazy.

  “I’m not going crazy.”

  I get out of bed to consider the mirror again. I stroke it, but it’s still cold and hard, not the warm honey feeling it had before. I scrutinize the mirror, my eyes taking a detailed journey over every nook and cranny.

  It’s just a simple mirror. There is nothing special about it, just a black wooden frame and silvered glass, as far as I can tell. Dad bought it a year ago from the local department store when I’d broken my last one by slamming the do
or too hard.

  Since I’d sliced my foot on the glass, I’d moved it to my wall instead of leaving it on the back of the door, and now it hangs on the shared wall with my brother’s room.

  Maybe Alder’s playing some sort of trick on me.

  It wouldn’t be the first time. Alder takes being the family clown very seriously and loves playing practical jokes. This is a little more complicated than his usual stunts, but no one said he couldn’t branch out. Besides, he’s a drama major. He probably has access to a ton of cool things to punk me.

  That doesn’t explain who rescued you or how you heard his voice in your head, my rational brain reminds me, playing devil’s advocate this time.

  “Shut up.” Great, now I’m talking to myself.

  I have to lift the mirror frame one-handed to search for holes or a video camera—due to the short cast my right hand can barely hold a pencil, let alone a mirror frame—anything that would explain how Jackson had appeared on it.

  Nothing.

  Pursing my lips, I narrow my eyes at a spot on the opposite side of the room.

  Maybe he projected it onto the mirror. That isn’t too impossible of a task. Last year, my school’s production of Snow White projected the image of the actor who played the Magic Mirror onto a cheap hardware store mirror. I don’t know where Alder would get a projector like that from, but the guy is nothing if not resourceful; he probably got one of his fraternity brothers to drop it off. Or, you know, Amazon. There isn’t anything you can’t buy on Amazon.

  I grab a chair and stand on it, trying to examine the wall—still nothing. “Well, geez, there has to be some sort of rational explanation. Strange men just don’t pop in and out of mirrors.”

  I told you, you’re going crazy, rational Lily says.

  “I’m not going crazy,” I say, with more volume than I intended, as I step off the chair.

  “Talking to yourself isn’t a great way to prove that,” Alder speaks from behind me, causing me to yelp and spin around. The combination of that and the medicine, which has finally kicked in, makes me dizzy, and I fall off the chair and onto the ground.