How real can a mirror be? Imagine turning it to face a sky swimming with stars and you suddenly realize there's a whole another dimension within that mirror, but it's unreachable. It's so close on the surface—you can basically touch the mirror. But you can't touch what lays behind, can you? That's hardly something one has time to think where they're moving out. Take as an instance the eighteen year old's reflection staring back at her, never losing the opportunity to prejudice and belittle.
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You may wonder what she looked like. The reflection shows a slim figure fixing and straightening her long green dress, her movements oscillating between slow and quick. Slow when she looks at herself, quick when she thinks about finally leaving behind this place. Apart from the azure eyes that shine with a whirl of anxiety and excitement, the necklace she's wearing has a penchant to glint, with a 'Y' pendant. It was a necklace she had been wearing since birth, by what her aunt had told.
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Not much told about her appearance yet. But it is said that eyes are the reflection of the soul. However, they never managed to draw much of attention from her or anyone else. It was always the milky-white pale skin, the hollow cheeks, thin lips, and of course, a deep prominent scar that ran down her left eyebrow and cheekbone. Most of the time, she managed to hide it with her chocolate locks, but the impact it made on her face was greatly noticable.
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She took a deep breath. What everyone else thought didn't matter anymore to her. Not even other people calling her 'beautiful' and then bursting into laugher. It used to affect her much more when she was a little girl. But as she thought about it, the bullying, the insults, it would not be genuine if she said she didn't entirely care. If she was that ugly, why give her unwanted attention? They had no other job, had they?
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To say she disliked people was a small word. She loathed them. Not everyone, but most of them. They were selfish, wicked, and self-serving. While not directly harming her, she simply wasn't fine with the way the world tilted.
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How much eccentric could a girl's mind be?
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She didn't remember herself as little, didn't remember how she had gotten such marred feature. Her aunt, Mrs. Miller, who we'll be calling Monica, had told her niece had been a troublemaker, a somewhat daredevil when she had been little. She had tripped and fallen face open on a rock, and the scar had remained since than. As for her parents, the girl didn't recall seeing their faces, but she knew they had died in a car accident. Her childhood was vague, but the disdainful looks weren't.
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"Regan, are you ready?" her aunt called from the other room, snapping the girl out of thoughts.
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"I'm coming!" Regan shouted back, tearing her eyes away from the mirror. She had packed everything and she had to leave now. The luggage was unzipped, a framed photo of her parents visible. Regan bent down, casting a look at the picture. The distinctive appearance she had was a stark contrast to that one of her parents. They had been tall, attractive people, and here she was the opposite. Not only that, her facial structure differed from theirs, as day does over night.
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A sigh escaped Regan's lips as she zipped the bag. She was just about to leave when the window suddenly slammed shut. Her eyebrows furrowed, she remembered closing before. For a millisecond, a weird sensation settled in the pit of her stomach, and she felt like her own shadow was watching her.
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"The wind is strong today," Regan murmured to herself, eyeing the room once more to check if she had forgotten something. The air had seemed to grow with something eerie, but it was probably the anticipation of moving away.
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Aunt Monica was waiting in the corridor with a gentle smile on her face. "You look nice, dear," she said, giving her a pat on the shoulder. "Let's make sure we didn't forget anything."
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Regan nodded. Monica turned back quickly. After all, they had been packing the night before. The new house her aunt had bought was in California, and Regan was happy for the change. But the unease and intrusiveness whenever she did something new kept accompanying her.
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The car ride was long, a blur of buildings slowly fading and opening into a painting of clear blue sky and brown soil. Regan couldn't shake the anxiety away. It wasn't just the anticipation, it was the uncanny feeling she had felt when that window had slammed shut. She was probably overthinking it.
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Taking a deep breath, she hoped her aunt wasn't noticing. She was used to hide her anxiety in front of her aunt. While Monica was a nice person, Regan knew the perfectionist spirit of hers, and her dislike of unconventional and unnecessary agitation. So Regan had grown up to be a girl who'd appear calm on the surface, wear a smile (but only around her aunt) and call it a day.
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The hours passed, and they took breaks to eat and stretch. But Regan had no appetite, the usual travel sickness had made her almost throw up. The fresh air she had gotten when they had stopped by a gas station had been all what had kept her in line. But even there people had stared at her.
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After what seemed like an eternity, a nine hour long ride, they finally arrived at their destination.
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It had become night already, the stars much more visible than in the urban neighborhood she had been living before. The temperatures were high, and the wind blew hotter still. Their new house was just like in the photos—a white bungalow with a light blue trim. The area was quiet, with only a few people walking by.
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Regan took a deep breath as soon as she was out of the car, her mind rotating like a vortex. Monica parked the vehicle in front of the garage, and then pulled the bags out. Regan helped her, heart racing with joy despite the terrible ride she had had.
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The house was plain and simple, neatly kept, Monica's favorite. But it was good for Regan too. She hadn't hoped for some aristocratic manor. Her aunt led her to her room, where Regan began to unpack. Her muscles ached, and her insides churned with nausea. She had to eat something solid, but she didn't want to bother her aunt.
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The wooden floors cracked as she walked, and the walls were bare of any decorations. Her room had a balcony, the curtain swinging softly from the wind. Regan gave up from unpacking all at once, just pushed her bags in the corner of the room. She didn't have much clothes, so she walked to Monica's room, watching her aunt, who had strictly placed her items in place. She was organized about everything, while Regan couldn't keep a day without making her room a mess.
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"So how does the house look?" Monica asked as she placed the last book on the highest shelf.
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"It's pretty," Regan answered. She had to admit, it was refreshing, much better than their old apartment.
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"Let's go downstairs and eat something. I've ordered pizza."
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Regan nodded, desperate to get rid of the lump that had formed in her throat. They stepped downstairs, to the small living room. The couches were a little scratched—the house's previous owners had probably kept cats.
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She sat on the couch and leaned back, while her aunt turned on the TV, "Everything here works well," she approved.
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"Yeah, it's a cool house," Regan replied, her mind somehow wandering to the apartment she had left behind, to that window which had closed so abruptly. She didn't know why she was giving it so much thought. It was something that could happen to anyone. Actually it wasn't the window itself that made her mind reel.
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