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.

I let out an exhausted sigh, my shoulders sagging. I'm out of the house now, away from what I would call a living nightmare. There's no point in keeping my guard up.

And maybe if I keep telling myself that, one day, I'll believe it.

Because right now, no matter where I go, no matter what I do, I'll always have to keep my guard up since I'll never know what's going to happen next. Better safe than sorry. After all, I wouldn't want anyone catching a glimpse at the real Louisa, all battered and bruised and broken.

That is, if I even know who I am anymore.

I walk up to the entrance of the supermarket. The glass doors slide open silently as I approach, beckoning me in. I enter the store and take a red basket from the stack in front of the entrance. I've long since given up on using trolleys as I tend to be ridiculously clumsy in manoeuvring them.

But there are days like today when I question this choice. I don't get the chance to go grocery shopping very often, and knowing her, Mum will get me to go sometime soon anyway, considering our empty fridge. I might as well get it done all at once. It'll save so much time and energy. And I don't think I will be able to carry everything I need in a basket. Even if it all fits, I'm not sure if I can lift it.

Changing my mind, I replace the basket in its original spot and grab a trolley, my hands shaking ever so slightly with anxiousness, not wanting to cause any trouble or draw attention to myself with my clumsiness. Which, knowing me, will very likely happen.

Let's just hope this is not one of those times.

I head straight for the frozen food section, cutting through the snacks, biscuits, and chocolates aisle. I wonder how long I'll be here. Probably not too long; if not, Mum will start yelling at me for being out for too long regardless of my reasons. I begin to make a mental list of things to buy when all of a sudden, the trolley crashes into someone.

Curse me and my tendencies to daydream.

The person cries out, more in shock than in pain, catching my attention and bringing me back into reality. I look up, my eyes darting around, not daring to make eye contact with the person, guilt crashing over me like a tidal wave, gnawing at my heart like I've just done the unspeakable.

"I'm so sorry," I say hastily, my voice shaking as I speak, using all my willpower to hold back my tears. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

Of course I didn't mean to hurt him. What am I saying? I'm just making an even bigger fool of myself than I already have. Way to go, Lou.

"That's alright. Accidents happen," he replies, chuckling in amusement, probably at how flustered I am.

"I'm so sorry," I apologise once more, my cheeks flushed red from embarrassment, chewing on my bottom lip in nervousness.

"Don't be."

Like I said, I'm not much use with a trolley. I should probably just avoid trolleys at all costs from now on, even if it kills me to haul a basketful of items with me.

I glance up, finally mustering the courage to look the person in the eye, only to find myself staring into the warmest brown eyes ever. They're bright and happy, and I feel myself melting from his gaze. Even so, his eyes seem glazed, giving them a faraway look, like he's deep in his own thoughts, not really focused on what's going on around him, something I am all too familiar with.

I wonder what's on his mind.

His ash-black hair is gelled back neatly, making him look like he's about to go to a fancy event or party, if it weren't for his attire, a red and black flannel and dark washed jeans, with black vans to match. He is medium-built, his shoulders broad like that of a swimmer's, and extremely tall, easily towering over me.

I haven't a clue who he is, but his kindness and willingness to forgive makes me feel a little more at ease. It's hard to find people like this nowadays, what with a world that strongly believes in retribution. And sometimes, that's all some people need. And maybe, I won't feel the way I do.

Perhaps I'm reading into this too much like I always do, but that's my impression of him.

I clear my throat awkwardly, unsure how to continue this conversation. "I'm so sorry," I repeat, silently scolding myself for being so clumsy. "Umm..." I pause, contemplating what to say next. "I-I'm going to get a move on now, if that's alright with you."

My heartbeat accelerates, my mind racing, the anxiety that comes from talking to a stranger, especially in a situation like this, slowly but surely bubbling up in me, and I try not to panic.

Deep breaths, Lou. It's fine. He's just another person. Nothing to worry about.

But then, why do I feel so on edge when talking to him?

Honestly, all I want to do right now is crawl into a hole and hide. I want to be alone. Alone is where I'm most comfortable, where I'm most at peace, if you could call it that. Maybe that's why it's so hard for me to make friends.

He nods. "Have a nice day," he answers, flashing a smile, which I return, albeit a small, maybe even sad, one.

He continues standing right in the centre of the aisle, like he is expecting me to go the other way.

"Umm... I need to head there," I tell him, biting my lip to stop myself from tearing up, gesturing forward.

"Yeah, go ahead."

"You're...umm...blocking the way," I mumble, rubbing my hands nervously, eyes on the ground.

He chuckles. "Oh, sorry about that. I'll just move out of the way," he replies, stepping aside and somehow manoeuvring himself around the trolley that takes up almost the entire aisle and walking in the direction of where I came from.

Forcing myself not to look back, I trudge forward, nearly forgetting what I came here to do in the first place. Soon enough, I snap out of my trance, and reality comes crashing down on me, the familiar weight on my shoulders returning, just like every other day.

*

"This is ridiculously salty!" Troy, my stepdad, spits out, with venom thick in his voice.

I look down, wrapping my arms around myself, wanting to shrink myself as much as possible and stay out of the limelight, not wanting him to take his anger out on me. Like he always does.

He stands up abruptly, slamming his hands loudly on the table, the force from it making his plate, balanced on the edge of the table, come crashing to the floor. The sound of ceramic breaking rings throughout the room, and I wince once more, from both the sound and from knowing I have to clean up after, anticipating his next moves.

I don't understand why he's making such a huge fuss about something as petty as this. Why can't he just be grateful for once that he doesn't have to do all the work instead of blaming me all the time for everything that goes wrong in this house? It's always my fault. Everything is my fault. Even when it isn't my fault, it's my fault.

Because I, Louisa Simmons, have the power to single-handedly make everything in this world go wrong.

Would it kill for him to be nice to me for once? It doesn't even have to be a compliment. It could be as simple as not lashing out at me or getting angry at me for a mistake I make.

I'd like that.

Sometimes, I wonder why my parents—or more specifically, my mum and stepdad—can't be more considerate and understanding. To be fair, Mum used to discipline me because she wants what's best for me, as all parents are supposed to, and she can get a little hard sometimes but after Dad left, I'm not so sure anymore.

I wonder why they can't see things from my perspective. I'm just a seventeen-year-old kid, for goodness sake. I've already so many things to juggle, especially with school. I know this is hardly as much as when compared to a working adult, but I'm still learning. I spend so many hours in school and doing the things that's expected of a good student every day, and they expect me to come home and do all the chores as well.

How am I supposed to have any time to do what students are supposed to do?

And yet, I'm the one who constantly gets yelled at if I don't keep up my grades.

I just don't have the time.

I try. I try so hard. But it's never enough, is it?

"Louisa. Go apologise to Troy, now," Mum tells me with a tired sigh, rubbing her temples in disappointment. "You and I both know it's best not to upset him. Don't you try and argue with me or avoid this one," she adds, knowing my tendencies to stay out of the way until it dies down or is forgotten.

I look down, rubbing my hands nervously. It's no secret that he doesn't exactly like me, and whenever he's drunk or hungover—which is most of the time—he becomes aggressive, and more often than not, things get out of hand.

I let out a sigh, pushing my chair back as quietly as possible, and get to my feet. I walk up the stairs, slowly making my way towards Troy's room, biting my lips. I raise my already-trembling hand and knock, dreading the answer, the pit in my stomach beginning to grow.

"In," he replies curtly.

I push open the door gently, careful not to make a sound, not wanting to aggravate him further.

"I'm sorry about the food. I'll be sure to taste it and not repeat the same mistake in the future," I mutter, shuffling my feet anxiously, not meeting his eye.

"Well, hell yeah, you'd better be. You're going to regret it if this ever happens again," he snaps angrily.

He says that every single time, but he'll probably forget it by the time he sobers up. If ever.

I nod. "I understand."

"Get out."

I nod once more and take a step back, watching him turn his back to me. Seeing this as a sign of safety, I flee the room as quickly as I can.

I breathe a sigh of relief the moment I step out into the hallway. Another tragedy averted. Well, as averted as you can get when it comes to Troy anyway, considering we're staying under the same roof.

"Mum! I'm going to bed!" I call out.

"Alright, Louisa. Sleep well."

"I will. You too."

"Love you."

I pause, wondering how sincere that really is. "I love you too, Mum."

I suppose.

I make my way to my room, close the door, and lock it behind me, not wanting any surprise visitors. I need to be alone. I need some time to recharge after such a long and tiring day. I need some time without all the drama and bitterness of the world.

I throw myself onto my bed and stare at the ceiling absentmindedly. Every day that passes is one that brings me closer to graduation and thus, closer to leaving home. And as much as I want to leave, despite the pain that staying in this house has brought me over the past few years, I know I am going to miss this place. I mean, this is the place I grew up in, after all.

It's only here that the memory of Dad is alive.

But as it is, I feel so trapped and confined in this town. Don't get me wrong; I genuinely love my hometown—after all, who doesn't?—but I feel like I can't do anything I want or be myself here because I know people will criticise me. And at home? Living with Troy is a nightmare in itself.

I just don't know what to do.

All I want is to be appreciated. To be noticed for the effort I put into the things I do. Being in school every day isn't any better. The bullies, the exclusion, the huge workload. I don't need to come home to conflict, to strict rules and regulations, and to having to please Troy all the time simply because Mum says so.

I don't know what Mum sees in him.

I get that upsetting Troy is not in my favour, but why do I always get the blame for everything that goes wrong around here? I am not the only person living here.

Why do I always get blamed for everything that doesn't turn out the way it's supposed to, no matter where I go?

Why do I always have to 'take one for the team'?

Why do I always have be the scapegoat and take the fall?

Sometimes, I wonder when I'll ever be able to remove this mask I have put on for such long now, if at all. A mask that I wear in order to hide the pain and brokenness inside, to seem happy and without a care in the world, to avoid judging eyes and malicious stares. A mask that I use so often that I almost believe it's me.

But deep down, I know it isn't. And I know that I've lost myself in the turmoil that is life.

Sometimes, I wonder when I will ever be able to start shining as myself.

Because right now, I am just a shadow of everybody else.

___

A/N: Who do you think that guy Lou bumped into is? Do you think it's a coincidence that they met? Hehe. There's only one way to find out, right? Thank you for reading! Do give me your feedback as I really appreciate them and learn from them. Don't forget to vote! :D

Update [06/16]: I haven't changed much in this chapter. I've just clarified a bunch of stuff. I probably will go through this story once to improve the structure and focus on character development before actually revising and changing any plot-related stuff.

Also, this story is entered in the Wattys 2016 so please, please, please share it and vote and comment if you enjoyed it. Thank you so much for all your support.