Another Side to the Mirror

Alain-Joel Breugelmans

Description

Meet Christine, an orphaned teenager misunderstood by her godparents and society with an urge to be who she is. One night, she steps into an imaginary utopia called Delarte. Delarte is a place where everything is possible and everything or everyone is accepted. It is there, she meets a witch called Bella and her puppet called Vera. Along the way, Bella and Vera show Christine a great deal of kindness and hospitality. Christine witnesses a show in Delarte's theatre, where she sees creatures such as flying mermaids, immortal clowns, singing butterflies and many other creatures. Stepping through the mirror again, Christine blurs life between reality and Delarte. Spiral down on Christine's journey and meet intriguing creatures from dancing corpses to singing werewolves and find out what it feels like to finally be understood, or is not everything as it seems?

Sujets

• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 27 mai 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781849897136
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page

ANOTHER SIDE TO THE MIRROR


By
Alain-Joel Breugelmans




Publisher Information

Another Side To The Mirror #
Published in 2011 by
Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

Copyright © Alain-Joel Breugelmans

The right of Alain-Joel Breugelmans to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.



Prologue

1731

On a cold, dark night, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, within a vast, empty mansion, a dark-haired woman, wearing a silky olive-green dress, franticly runs around her dusty attic with its old, creaking, wooden floorboards. Her aged face is covered with drops of sweat, and she’s breathing heavily as she moves from one side of the attic to another, stopping in certain places, opening cupboards, drawers, and wooden boxes.
“Where did I put it?” she puffs, wiping the sweat off her timeworn brow with the back of her hand.
“Michelle!” an echoed voice whispers. Michelle anxiously looks up, glancing over her shoulder.
“Leave me alone!” she shouts at the mirror, which is standing against the wall in the back of the attic. It has a magnificently carved wooden frame, whose carvings came from the hand of a talented craftsman. The carvings represent a battle between good and evil, with an army of angels on the left side of the frame, and an army of demons on the right side.
“Got it!” Michelle shouts, grasping a wooden hammer firmly in her left hand; her stride is strong and filled with rage as she storms to the mirror. She stands in front of it, looking at her own reflection, her eyes burning with abhorrence.
Dust sticks to the sweat-covered skin on her face. A drop of sweat runs from her brow, past her temples, until it forms a bead on her chin. She wipes her face with the back of her hand, standing up straight whilst looking at herself again and running her hand past the lightly crinkled skin around her eyes.
She puts her hair behind her ears, letting her fingertips caress the grey streaks; youth still sparkles from her emerald eyes. Still staring at herself in the mirror, she moves her trembling hand across the fabric of her dress, and as she straightens it, she notices a large tear in the cloth, which she brushes with the back of her wrinkled hand. Clutching the wooden hammer very tightly in her left hand, she raises her arm, sighing loudly.
“What are you doing, Michelle?” the echoed voice coming from the mirror asks her.
“This has to end . . . one way or another,” Michelle responds, lowering her arm and the hammer flies forward, hitting the mirror with a loud bang.
. . . But . . . to Michelle’s surprise, the mirror stays intact . . .
A gust of purple smoke shoots out of the mirror, hitting Michelle in her stomach and throwing her backward, and the echo of an evil laugh rings in her ears as her body hits the dusty wooden floor. She glances at the mirror and pulls herself up, moving back in front of the mirror, re-composing herself as her eyes start to tear.
“Silly, Michelle, you know what I’m capable of doing. Did you really think something as human as a wooden hammer would stop me?” the voice asks mockingly.
“Just you wait, Vera! I’ll find a way,” Michelle replies, shaking with fury as she storms away from the mirror, with Vera laughing loudly in the background.
Michelle walks down the groaning stairs, tears running down her face. She makes her way through the hallway, rushes past empty picture frames on the wall, covering her eyes with her hand, and tries not to look at the blank pictures. A sudden breeze causes Michelle to stop, and she starts to shiver.
“Why didn’t you warn us, Michelle?” an old, croaking voice asks her.
Michelle starts to sob as she whimpers, “ I didn’t know!”
“You knew!” another voice yells hoarsely.
“Just leave me alone. Please,” Michelle screams.
Vera cackles loudly, more evil than the ever, before she threateningly screams, “You can’t run from me, Michelle, just as the rest of your family couldn’t.”
Still sobbing, Michelle shakes her head vigorously, and turns and runs away, with broken tears streaming down her cheeks. The walls of the hallway flash by as she finds her way to her study. When she finally reaches the oak door, she opens it and storms into the room, slamming the door behind her. Sobbing uncontrollably, she locks the door.
The room is small and has a big wooden closet with a lot of shelves, which are filled with dusty old books. Michelle looks around the room, sighing deeply, before making her way to her heavy desk, made out of costly-looking wood, with its beautiful, expensive brown leather chair in front of it.
She falls into the chair and puts her elbows on the desk, covering her face with her hands as she continues to sob. There is a bash on the door.
“Michelle? Oh Michelle, I know you’re in there.” Vera’s voice comes from behind the door. Michelle gasps faintly and looks up; her green eyes are filled with fear and are puffed up from crying. She shakes her head vigorously and gets up, and then sits down in the corner next to her desk.
There is another bash on the door, and Michelle screams, “Leave me alone!” But the bashing on the door continues, and with every bash, purple smoke comes from underneath the cracks of the door, as well as through the keyhole. Michelle is shaking with fear; she crouches down next to her desk, breathing heavily. With her arms are wrapped around her legs, she rocks back and forth.
She closes her eyes, trying to ignore the never-ending bashing on the door and Vera’s loud cackles coming from the other side.
The following morning, Michelle is still sitting in the corner, and the house seems like it’s quiet. She crawls to the chair and pulls herself up, looking broken from a sleepless, emotional night.
She walks to the door, unlocking it slowly, and opens it to peek outside. The hallway appears empty, and she heaves a sigh of relief, closing the door and moving back to the desk. She sits down onto the chair and opens a pot of ink.
Her eyes scan the surface of the desk; she shakes her head when she doesn’t find what she is looking for. Sighing as she forces herself up again, Michelle moves toward the bookshelves. Her tired eyes move along the dusty books until they stop on a leather-bound book, the only book that isn’t covered with dust.
She extends her right hand, grasps the volume tightly, and presses it against her chest as she swiftly glides back to the wooden desk and sinks back down onto her chair. She opens the leather book and picks up her quill, dipping it into the pot of dark ink, and she commences her writing, which starts off slowly, gradually becoming more and more frantic. After minutes of furious writing, she finally puts down her quill and gets up. She looks out the window, takes a deep breath whilst closing her eyes, and lets the sun shine onto her tired face. Swiftly, she turns around and leaves the room with a purposeful walk.
Arriving in the quiet attic shortly after, she kicks up dust, sending it floating in the air as she makes her way to the mirror; the floorboards groan under the weight of her body. Looking at her reflection, she notices how old her exhausted face looks whilst she strains to keep her bloodshot eyes open.
She extends her right hand carefully, brushing against the cold glass of the mirror, and tries to stroke her own face through the glass; as she takes a deep breath, she coughs loudly from the dust burning in her dry throat.
Still coughing, she turns away from the mirror, covering her mouth with her hands. Through the blurred vision of her watery eyes, something in the shadows of the attic catches her attention.
She moves toward a heavy wooden chest hidden in the darkest corners of the attic, and then grabs one of the handles tightly, dragging it out of the shadows, toward the mirror. Michelle opens the chest and takes the mirror away from the wall; her body trembles under its immense weight. Before she puts it down in front of the chest, as she stares at herself again.
“If I can’t destroy you,” she sighs, heaving the mirror into the chest, “then I’ll lock you away forever.” She closes the chest, locks it quickly, and takes out the key. Holding it tightly in her left hand, she makes her way down the dusty stairs again, moving along the hallway before turning to go down the grand staircase. Slowly, she descends, leaning against the wall so that she can use it to support her exhausted body.
When she reaches the bottom, she sits down, looking around the white room. From behind the windows of the glass roof above Michelle’s head, the moon’s pale light smiles at the heavy looking wooden front door. The door has a large iron ring in the middle of it used to open it.
There are several more blank paintings hanging on the walls, and Michelle looks down at the aged, wooden floor, which is scarred by the years of feet treading over it. Slowly, Michelle gets up, the floor moaning beneath her as she moves to the next room, which is much darker than the entrance hall.
The only sources of light illuminating the room come from the fire blazing inside the fireplace and the candle