Mirrors (Reflections Book 1)

by A. L. Woods

  Mirrors

  Copyright © 2020 by A.L. Woods

  All rights reserved.

  Photography: Boyko Viacheslav

  Cover Design and Interior Formatting: Ana Beatriz Cabús Rangel, instagram.com/_yumenohana_

  Editor: Bettye-Lynn Underwood, Red Pen Edits

  redpeneditsbyblu.com

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 979-8692073587

  Playlist

  “Ashley” by Halsey

  “Carry the Weight” by We Came As Romans

  “Your Own Disaster” by Taking Back Sunday

  “Deathbeds” by Bring Me The Horizon

  “Disposable Fix” by The Plot In You

  “Imaginary Enemy” by Circa Survive

  “Everything I wanted” by Billie Eilish

  “Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond

  “Cherry” by Lana Del Rey

  “Party Up” by DMX

  “Ridin’ (feat. Krayzie Bone)” by Chamillionaire

  “Old Friend” by Sea Wolf

  “Dark Paradise” by Lana Del Rey

  “Aphasia” by Pinegrove

  “Noise and Kisses” by The Used

  “Your Clothes” by Can’t Swim

  “Seek & Destroy” by Metallica

  “Catharsis” by Motionless In White

  “Running With Scissors” by I See Stars

  “Hard To Love” by Too Close To Touch

  “Lose It” by SWMRS

  “Knots” by Speak Low If You Speak Love

  “Helena” by Abandoning Sunday

  “Blue Blood” by LAUREL

  “Fallingforyou” by The 1975

  “Sweet Surrender” by Sarah McLachlan

  “Torn” by Hands Like Houses

  “You Are The Moon” by The Hush Sound

  “Cry Little Sister” by Aiden

  “Broken (feat. Amy Lee)” by Seether

  Scan this code to access the playlist on Spotify

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  All I needed to do was open the car door.

  My hand lingered on the handle, the metal as cold as my insides. My gaze flitted from the lever to the front door of the job that was beginning to wear down my patience. I had just sat in my car for an hour, doing the white-knuckle routine on the steering wheel while competing against traffic on the Mass Turnpike that made me feel like I was part of an annelid—and moving at the pace of one, too.

  My stress hadn’t let up when I reached my destination ten minutes ago and immediately launched into my daily pep talk: “It’s just a job, it doesn’t define you” and a bunch of other mumbo-jumbo new age mantra bullshit that wasn’t in my DNA to buy into.

  I relinquished my hold on the handle, slamming my back against the driver’s seat of my weathered Camry, frustration seeping into my bloodstream. I thought I’d heard the car wheeze under my aggression, and my lids shut in a grimace. I couldn’t afford to replace this thing right now if it shit the bed on me. It didn’t matter how much the circumstances surrounding my career sucked—it was a job, the only one I had, and I needed to make the most of it.

  It was all I had going for me, anyway.

  Conceding defeat, I flung the car door open and ducked my head out, the blustery kiss of late fall’s wind biting at my cheeks. Thanksgiving hadn’t even arrived yet, but snow didn’t wait for winter’s official arrival on the calendar; it didn’t wait for anyone. I could benefit from taking a page out of Mother Nature’s book and learn to just get the fuck on with it.

  Slinging my messenger bag over my shoulder, I closed the car door with my hip. The treads of my black lace-up Doc Martens crunched the previously untouched snow that had fallen in true Massachusetts fashion the night before, the sound soothing my nerves as I approached the door of the converted mid nineteenth century two-story redbrick building with sloped roof and decorative dormers where I worked.

  The rush of heat from the thermostat nearly suffocated me as I stepped inside, closing the door behind me, the air stifling and stale. That was the problem with being the only one under thirty in this building. Everyone else was perpetually cold, while my veins were steeled from the elements. Then again, I suppose that was a by-product of what happened when you grew up with a furnace that was barely functional half the time because your parents couldn’t be half-assed enough to ask the landlord to fix it.

  You just learned to adapt to survive.

  “Morning, Raquel!” chirped Sheryl, the receptionist with the tightest fucking curls since Shirley Temple. I didn’t know why we even had a receptionist, or what Sheryl actually did—no offense. It just seemed like a luxury to have her around, especially when our numbers were shit and we were barely staying afloat.

  Without uttering a word, I simply held up a hand in greeting. The worn hardwood floors groaned under my weight when I passed her desk, my legs carrying me farther and farther into the depths of my nightmare. The distinct scent of old newspapers, strong perfume, and body odor filled my nostrils, activating the part of my brain that screamed: “This shit again?”

  Yes, brain. This shit again.

  The breath I had been holding escaped me when I rounded the corner to my cubicle. The wraparound desk was bare because I wasn’t into tchotchkes or anything that would have provided insight into my otherwise bleak existence. There was nothing on my desk save for my computer, which was one of the earlier model iMacs from a decade ago that we had only recently acquired via donation from our oh-so-generous mayor—gifted to keep my mouth shut, but more on that in a second—a desk phone that was just as old, and an archive of past papers that I had filed and stored.

  There were no desk plants, no photos that depicted loved ones or of me doing anything remotely interesting or fun, no stuffed animals from boyfriends past or present, or even a damn compact to powder my nose at lunch or before meetings. I wasn’t into that shit. I had a single black pen and one yellow highlighter. No one needed to know anything more about me than necessary. Even the highlighter already felt like an unnecessary indulgence that my boss had insisted on.

  “Raquel!” Speak of the goddam devil, although my boss looked more like a cherub still nursing his mother’s tit—he behaved with the naiveté of one, too. I dropped the messenge
r bag onto my seat, slid my leather jacket off my shoulders and dropped it over the back of my chair. I felt his presence before he even stepped into my space.

  “It’s so wonderful that you’re here,” he said.

  I had to fight the urge to do an eye roll. It’s important to note that I have arrived at work at a quarter to nine every single weekday for the past four-and-a-half years, and Earl, the editor-in-chief, always behaved as though my appearance was a pleasant surprise akin to a gift discovered under his tinsel-laden tree on Christmas morning.

  “Hi, Earl,” I mumbled, tossing the knock-off Wayfarers and beanie to the edge of my desk. I tucked the messy locks of my shoulder-length brown hair behind my ear.

  Earl was a nice man, too nice at times, and had about as much spine as a jellyfish. He didn’t argue when anyone told him no, inanimate objects included. He once apologized to the printer for a paper jam and asked us all to respect the machine’s boundaries.

  We waited until he left for the night to free the wayward 8½ x 11 page from the clutches of the copier, and when Earl came in the next morning he thought the printer had finally had a change of heart.

  And who were we to ruin his moment?

  “Are you ready for this week’s meeting? I have dozens of ideas for the upcoming issue.”

  No, no, I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t sure I would ever be ready. I pegged him with a weak smile, willing the Dunks caffeine rush to hit me. Earl’s ideas were about as original and inventive as a kid discovering the inside of their nose for the first time.

  “Sure am!” I spoke in a saccharine tone, but Earl was such a space cadet, he didn’t notice.

  “Fantastic! I’ll see you in there.”

  I exhaled loudly as he whistled his way back into his office, singing “Good morning” to every other person he passed.

  I hated Mondays.

  Dropping my ass into my chair, I took a couple of minutes to log into my computer and check my email from the weekend. There were—to my surprise—no new story leads to cover in town. When the clock hit 8:55AM, I got up and headed into the kitchen, where I was able to grab another cup of coffee undetected—I really hated small talk—before I trudged the short distance to the boardroom, which was really nothing more than a Formica-topped round table with a bunch of black plastic chairs around it in a bright room with frosted glass windows. I tucked myself into the chair closest to the door, already preparing for my escape, staring up at the stained ceiling tiles as people began entering the room.

  The Eaton Advocate employed all of ten people: five columnists; three typesetters and graphic designers; Sheryl, whose position I was growing increasingly suspicious of; and Earl, the editor-in-chief. We were partially funded by a couple of subsidies issued to us by the town plus the revenue from a bit of advertising space.

  People wanted news faster than we could provide it, and with the shift to online sources, our revenue was dwindling and our ship was sinking faster than we could move. To make matters worse, the recession was killing the economy. People were too worried about their bottom lines to buy ads—few were spending money anymore.

  Earl started the meeting the same way he did every week, with a quick roll call (as if it would be impossible to account for all ten of us otherwise), a summary of last week’s stories, our revenue to date, and finally, by launching into his story ideas for the week. Earl was receptive to other ideas but had a tendency to err on the side of caution…lest we ruffle any feathers.

  We are a G-rated paper, after all.

  “Raquel, could you cover the fire department’s charity car wash? The mayor loved your piece last year.” Earl’s smile was earnest, honest, pure.

  I caught the scoff that threatened to leave me, the sound lodging in my throat.

  The mayor? Yeah, okay. Mayor Patrick Murphy had about as much love for me as he did for his wife (which wasn’t saying a whole lot, given he had not one, but two side pieces, the licentious Lothario). I think the words he had used to describe me during our first meeting two years ago, when I tried to get a real story out him, were, “You’re not quite the right fit for our town.”

  He could probably smell the townie on me, and shit, I didn’t blame him for wanting to take an aerosol can to me. Southie was a stench that stuck to the fibers of your clothes more strongly than a prostitute’s cheap perfume.

  I would know; my mother had been a hooker.

  Unfortunately for Mayor Murphy, he had made the mistake of getting caught quite literally with his pants around his ankles and his dick five inches deep in the pussy of a woman who wasn’t his wife last December, backstage at the town theater. Yours truly had witnessed his last four thrusts before he came all over a certain lady in red. I had laughed out loud, startling both him and his familiar guest of honor. He had scrambled for his pants, valiantly trying to steel his face and reset his equilibrium, as if what he was doing was perfectly appropriate, but I hadn’t missed the fear that had bloomed in his serial killer blue eyes. Two days later, the iMac G3s showed up, alongside a note from the mayor himself expressing his unending thanks and support for our tiny little paper.

  I wasn’t above remedial efforts in the form of computers that actually worked, or an unspoken agreement to stay out of each other’s fucking way. I could go the rest of my life without seeing his little prick again, that was for damn sure.

  Earl cleared his throat, tearing me out of my thoughts. I met his stare, struggling to keep my expression still. A hopeful glint lit up his eyes, which were flanked by horn-rimmed glasses too small for his pudgy face. His nose crinkled when he pushed the frames further up the bridge of his button nose with his index finger, his hazel eyes taking on the appearance of coffee saucers the closer the lenses got to his pupils.

  The room became quiet, five sets of eyes waiting for me to reply, their stares jumping from me to Earl and back to me, as if we were engaged in some sort of stand-off in which I had shown up with a gun, while Earl came with a little guitar and an off-key rendition of Imagine.

  At least John Lennon had sported glasses that fit his face.

  “Sure,” I heard myself say, a noncommittal sound leaving the back of my throat.

  Exaltation painted his face, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Splendid!”

  His elation made me want to bang my forehead against the table until I either drew blood or knocked myself the fuck out.

  It was a job, I reminded myself. A good job. A sensible job. My reality.

  I was doing what my parents never could: surviving through honest means. I had a bachelorette apartment in the city that was the size of a shoebox and ate up forty percent of my income. I could afford to put gas in my car without siphoning it from some poor unsuspecting fool, and my only vices were Pall Malls and my one-sided love affair with pints of Samuel Adams. They both warmed the numbness that enveloped my body every night.

  Nothing could change the fact that this wasn’t the job I fantasized about when I was pouring my heart out into eloquent purple prose while in college, or scribbling out story ideas as a teenager against the background of my parent’s belligerent screaming matches. Nor when I was binding paper together with my Crayola-inspired scrawl that depicted a story of a girl much like myself, who discovered that she was actually a princess from a faraway land, sent down to earth to redeem the souls of her malefactor human parents.

  Look at me putting my creative writing degree to work.

  I slouched in my seat, jealously flanking me when Karen, the office sycophantic, was assigned the story about the new gazebo that had been erected in the town square in memoriam of the town’s mascot, a turkey named Jebediah, who had met an untimely demise from an overzealous leaf peeper armed with a hunting rifle last fall.

  There was some meat to that story, pun intended, and he had given it to fucking Karen.

  I couldn’t believe I was getting pissed off over a turkey and gazebo. Twirling my black pen between my fingers, I looked out the frosted windows, even though I could see nothing.
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  The Eaton Advocate wasn’t the Boston Globe, The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, or the Washington Post.

  It was a community paper, and it was a job, and I should have been grateful.

  And I was in a lot of ways.

  To people back in my neighborhood, I might as well have been Arianna fucking Huffington. I hadn’t ended up another Southie statistic. I had it made. I wasn’t working the produce aisle of the Stop & Shop, pumping gas, or working the night shift at the packaging plant for minimum wage. I wasn’t bogged down by a child I had too young, or a good-for-nothing deadbeat husband who was snorting our rent payment up his deviated septum.

  I had a job, a real job, one that paid me legally, an abysmal 401(k) I only contributed to at my best friend’s behest, and was well on my way to becoming a spinster at twenty fucking eight.

  My stability didn’t snuff out the ache in my chest that pervaded me anytime I allowed myself to remember that this was not where I saw myself going when I fled my old neighborhood a decade ago to go to Boston University with nothing but my dreams of being a big-time writer coupled by my willpower to keep me going. While I worked my way toward my degree, I had dreamed of book signings, lavish launch parties, fat book advances, and a jaw-dropping house in the Cape—anything that was a far-cry from the derelict neighborhood in which I had grown up, where the exchange of gunfire and sounds of arguing had served as lullabies for my younger sister and me.

  I had dreamed wildly, without inhibition, and my dreams were what had kept me going. My dreams were going to get my baby sister and me the hell outta there.