THE UNBREAKABLE PIECE (FIRST BOOK OF THE HIDDEN WORLD) English version

CHAPTER TWO: SMOKE DURING THE STORM

Water ran down my cheeks, washing away my freckles. I rubbed my eyes several times, trying to wake up from the nightmare I was in. Just a few minutes ago, I was in Central Park under a light rain when my senses abandoned me, only to wake up again in the living room of my house with Ben and Gemma.

None of it could be possible, not if I accepted that I was starting to lose my mind. Maybe these episodes I had started suffering from last month were somehow related to the tenth anniversary of Christian's death and my mother's disappearance. I turned over that possibility again and again, trying to find a logical reason for these beginnings of madness.

I leaned my back against the tiles, and their icy temperature reminded me that everything around me was real. I wasn't lost in a dream; I really was in my Upper West Side home with my friends. I just had to find the reason that caused the thin line between reality and my whimsical hallucinations to blur. Had I really seen a hooded man across the street, watching me with his feline eyes? Or was I just imagining things because of the stress that caused me their anniversaries?

My brother Chris was easy to remember, my father's identical gray eyes, his golden hair, and the warmth of his voice lived in me like the echo of an old ballad. Chris and I were different in many ways; we didn't even look like siblings. He was tall, slim, and his presence was blazing at first sight. Even though he died young, he had already developed a charming personality and was kind to all people and animals. He used to tell me the best jokes; no one made me laugh like him. However, with each passing year, it became a little harder to remember the small details of his essence. I had forgotten what his favorite song or book was. He had become a chapter in a diary that I couldn't reread and one that I couldn't ask about. I was afraid that if I brought up Chris often, it could sadden my father. So, I suppressed the pain inside me, that anguishing pain that caused me not to see him grow up or become the person he was meant to be in the world.

I liked to imagine him in a room with many friends, all laughing at his jokes, being the life of the party. I imagined him with a beautiful girlfriend, with whom they would often discuss, just because that was their way of expressing their love. I liked to imagine him coming home after a semester in college, eager to tell me all the things he had learned. I imagined him often here with me, every day of my life, like a ghost. One that I couldn't let go of.

Unlike Chris, my memories of my mother were scarce, almost as if she had never existed and sometimes that's what I wished for. The only thing that remained of her in my memory were ashes after a great fire, and with them, a glimpse of her freckles and hazel eyes. The ones I had inherited from her.

My mother was an enigma, she had vanished from our lives just like that, ten years ago after Christian died in a car accident. Over time, I had forgotten everything that characterized her, and the only thing left floating in the air was her name. Charlotte.

And I tried, I really did. I tried to remember her laugh or her perfume, but it was as if my mind had simply erased her. Maybe my defense mechanism knew that was best for me. How could I continue to love the woman who had abandoned her only daughter?

I had spent too much time in front of the door, waiting for her to return. After years without any response, hope dissipated like a light mist through the wind.

Looking for some consolation in the void she had left, I wrapped my body with my arms. I felt abandoned by the only person in the world who was supposed to love me unconditionally.

I turned on the faucet once more, watching as my white skin disappeared in contrast to the marble sink. I looked up hoping to meet another girl in the mirror, but there was not much more than a 17-year-old with dark circles that grazed her cheeks and brown hair so messy that it seemed to have not crossed paths with a comb in years.