Mirror Image

By Jennifer Crowfoot

Dylan Masters was bullied and beaten-up most days throughout high school.

He was verbally abused, bullied, unloved and unwanted at home by a selfish, substance addicted mother and her revolving door of liquor-loving loser 'stepdads.'

His only friend, an overly protective and bad-tempered guardian shadow named Fiff.

Now Fiff isn't your average shadow.
Shadows aren't living creatures.
Shadows don't have lives separate from the person that casts them.
Shadows don't threaten people.
Shadows don't wield knives.
Shadows don't maim or stab people. They don't hurt them or draw blood.
Shadows don't revel or take pleasure in killing.

Shadows don't want a...a puppy. Oh for goodness sake.

But, this shadow does.

Fiff yearns for many things.
Cries and tears of pain.
Spilled blood.
Sex.
Food and alcohol.

Chaos.
Mischief and mayhem.

This particular shadow keeps his secrets very well hidden until the you-know-what spectacularly hits the fan resulting in some shocking and hellish revelations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer Crowfoot
• Release date: Jan 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215147139

Jennifer Crowfoot

Married, Jennifer lives with her husband and her spoilt, feline fur-baby, Hades, in beautiful rural N.S.W, Australia.When not writing, Jennifer can be found with her nose buried in a book.She also has a collection of self-published books on Amazon.? ? ?

Book preview

Mirror Image

Text copyright © Jennifer Crowfoot 2022

Cover image: Photo © pedro18

https://www.pexels.com/photo/grayscale-photography-of-man-standing-under-the-light-2828014/

Cover design by author using Canva

Smashwords Edition Licence Notes.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

This eBook may not be re-sold, or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

* * *

Disclaimer.

This is a work of fiction.

Characters, names, places, events or incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to places or incidents is purely coincidental.

Any towns or places mentioned are used in a fictional manner.

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademarked owners of various products that may be referenced in this work of fiction which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

* * *

Rating.

This story is rated 18+

It is recommended for mature audiences.

Contains adult themes.

Very strong language.

Violence.

Some scenes of horror.

Sex scene.

Written using Australian language.

Standalone.

* * *

Dedication.

For my family, love you all to the moon and back, you big, beautiful bunch of absolutely fabulous people.

I fear not the dark itself

But what may lurk

Within it.

Unknown.

PREFACE

Dylan

BITING INTO THE WRINKLED overripe skin of the less than stellar apple I’d shoved into my tatty schoolbag this morning, I pull a face as I chew and swallow, forcing the nasty fruit down.

I have no choice but to eat it.

At thirteen, I’m a rapidly growing teen, and constantly starving.

Beneath my light-blue summer shirt, my belly growls in protest as I force-feed it the apple mouthful by mouthful. My mind much prefers the lunches I regularly see – but try not too as I walk my usual route to my customary seat – lunches that my fellow students greedily stuff into their faces.

Sighing, I sag forward, spread my legs and nail the points of my elbows into the sinewy meat of my thighs. Opening my mouth wide, I stubbornly take another bite out of the sad fruit.

Chew.

Forcing the tasteless mush down my neck with a hard swallow, I shift my feet and stare at the small irregular beads and balls of grey and brown gravel littering the asphalt where the soles of my black boots had just been. This section of the quadrangle’s tucked away - almost hidden – in an unpopular corner of the schoolyard.

But for kids like me who aren’t ‘cool’ or ‘in’, it gives us the respite needed to preserve our sanity during school hours.

Seated around me, but keeping their distance, as if the thought of interacting with another human is abhorrent, are the other teenage rejects and unfairly designated ‘freaks’ of the school.

These boys – just like me – regularly suffer the sharp tongues, fists, feet and senseless bullying of the school’s ‘upper hierarchy.’

Or, in other words, the older boys several grades above us who through a lack of intelligence, think that picking on kids smarter, or somehow different from them, is a fun way to pass the boring hours until the last bell rings, releasing the restless animals from their cages.

Just like me, the ‘losers’ perch in an appearance of deceptive calm, arses planted on peeling bird-shit-encrusted wooden seating, or sitting on the cement guttering that borders the area, legs crossed before them, nibbling on food like nervous and hyperactive rodents.

My eyes skate over them, noting how they nervously look around their immediate personal spaces, their faces showing me their hopes of at least one lunchtime spent in peace.

Taking another hungry bite from my rapidly shrinking apple, I look away from their stressed, pinched faces, withdrawing back into my own silent bubble of denial. My eyes drop to my right hand, studying the last of the fruit, imagining it’s a fat ham and salad roll, or a steaming pie or sausage roll smothered in tomato sauce.

My shoulders rise and fall in a heavy sigh of disappointment when it stubbornly remains an apple.

I have to remind myself that beggars can’t be choosers, and since I’ve not had anything substantial (or tasty or nutritious) to eat since Mum’s burnt offerings for dinner the night before, I hungrily wolf down the last of the flesh around the seedy core.

As I gnaw away, pausing to spit out a few stray pips, my mind drifts away to my last hot meal.

Prepared with her usual sour-face and unsteady drunken hand, the ‘meal’ consisted of one skinny, charred sausage and two fried eggs – cooked to the consistency of flat rocks – all served up with a dose of her ‘couldn’t-give-a-fuck’ attitude and hurriedly tossed onto a chipped plate. After all, this forced ‘Mum’ time was cutting into her drinking and drugging time.

Slowly chewing my last meagre mouthful of fruit, movement in the shadows by my side catches my eye and I place the spent apple down on the seat next to me, my chest rising and falling when I realise that my regular dose of lunchtime entertainment is about to commence.

Without fail, my whole school life I’ve somehow become the go-to kid when the older kids and bullies need an outlet for their testosterone fuelled aggression and ego-filled need to show-off for their friends.

And girlfriends. Apparently, girls like the boys who know how to swing their fists.

They are, the lot of them, deadset bastards, but as I’m only one against many, and they have the upper hand, I’ve learnt to take their regular beatings without complaint and certainly without tears, or cries of pain. The anger I keep locked deep inside.

A small ripple of hope flickers thought my gut. Maybe today will be different. Maybe today will just consist of mouthed taunts and obscenities. No violence.

I get enough of that at home courtesy of my deadbeat stepfather.

The same group as usual fan out in front of me, standing tall in a semi-circle. I watch impassively as large hands are shoved down into the front pockets of worn and loose-fitting school issue grey pants.

Tensing, I rise to my feet. Squaring my shoulders, I raise my head and look them directly in the eyes, as I gather my inner fighter and prepare to meet them with the only weapon I have in spades…my courage.

Sneers and curled lips greet my upright stance, while cold eyes sparkle with vicious teenage glee and dashes of malice. The ringleader, an older boy whose name I don’t know and have no wish to ever know, glares down at me as he breaks rank with the others and steps forward.

His shaggy blonde head cocks to the side. Thick arms cross over a chest that’s typical of the footy-playing boof-heads that make up his tight gang of idiots.

Rocking back on his heels, the corner of his thin lips arcs and drops, before crinkling back up into a sly smile.

A smile which doesn’t touch his cool eyes.

My gaze drops to his mouth following the familiar pattern his lips make as he repeats his usual mantra. Hey retard. Ready for an arsekicking, you stupid cunt?

Tossing his head back he laughs before settling his eyes back onto me.

Through the gaps in the wall of bristling male bodies, I see the other kids freeze in place, watching wide-eyed as the horror show warms up. A mixture of relief and pity sweeps across their faces, and I’m silently thankful it’s me at the epicentre of this storm instead of any of them.

I doubt very much if they have the necessary training required to withstand what’s about to occur. I wish I didn’t have it, but my dysfunctional family life, and a lifetime of my Mum’s neglect and shitty parenting, plus a revolving door of abusive ‘Dads’ has set me in good stead for the years of bullying I’ve suffered.

Unfolding his arms, bully numero uno extends them towards me like an offering, his fingers lacing together, his hands pulling apart.

I shift from foot to foot, my own hands fisting and uncurling by my side as the meathead gets off on making a show of cracking his knuckles.

I don’t hear the pop and snap of his posturing.

In my mind there’s only silky black silence.

A peaceful void of nothingness.

Tucking his long blonde hair behind his ears, he cups them with the palms of his hands and pushes them out from the side of his head making him look like a Corgi.

Evidently, he seems to think pushing his ears out to the side makes him look smarter, meaner or…. Jesus, something along those lines. I really don’t know how a dumb turd’s brain works, or what it believes.

But he must believe it, because he makes a habit of poking those ears out when he sees me about the school.

My chest tickles as I gulp back a laugh with how ridiculous he actually looks. His friends – being the braindead dickheads they are – follow suit, and all at once I’m surrounded by a pack of Corgis with human faces.

Horgis. Fuckin’ Horgis.

I snicker at the imagery.

As I cackle, his face screws up, those cruel eyes narrow and hot shades of anger bleed vividly across his cheeks. His mouth narrows and pinches, turning his lips white, making him look more ridiculous. A light breeze creeps around the area we’re currently standing in, blowing his fine blonde strands forward about his jaw and moving my shaggy shoulder length black hair back.

Ignoring the wind rustled strands, he keeps his mean eyes honed on me as if he can kill me with one long deadly look.

Amused, I cease laughing and study his face in turn, seeing the angry bumps of new pimples hibernating beneath the skin across his forehead, down his jawline and speckled on his cheeks and nose, the blackheads dotting the end of his nose, the straggly blonde hairs peppering the skin above his top lip and sprouting like weeds on his chin.

At my study, his pupils already miniscule, shrink to the size of pinpricks.

I blink and glance over his shoulders at his adoring minions who stand, hands raised and fingers obediently holding their ears pushed forward, before I release a huff of disgust at their blind stupidity and look back to him, staring at the black dots on the end of his nose.

The greasy shine on his face.

Up this close to him and his raised arms with their half-moons of sweat-soaked material at the armpits, I get a sickening whiff of sour body odour.

Without me telling it to do it, my face screws up.

I don’t get why the chicks all flock to him, he fuckin’ stinks like roadkill. What does he have that appeals to them? It’s surely not for his personality, looks, or intelligence.

He’s lacking all of those things and seems more than happy to be without them. Is it because he’s good at sports?

Bored with my inspection of his ugly face, and shitted off at the unfairness of life which rewards nasty pricks like him, and kicks good guys like me in the fucking balls, my eyes drop away, drawn to the sides of his head.

Holy shit, those big old ears of his are sticking out like airplane wings. Staring at them, I can’t help myself, I laugh. My chest rises and falls with my amusement. Sticking my hands down in my pant pockets, I keep my eyes on his face and let all the fear, tension and frustration flow out of me.

His reaction to the sound I’m making is instantaneous. Thin lips pull back showing me suss teeth, while cool eyes harden, becoming hate-filled chips of ice. Releasing his ears — which unfold and settle back into place like bent rubber thongs —he drops his hands by his thighs where they curl into hard-knuckled weapons.

Laughter cutting off, my muscles twitch and grow taut, preparing to react. Removing them from my pockets, I fist and unclench my hands by my outer thighs, the muscles coiled tight as springs, when he leans forward on his toes — just enough to try and intimidate me.

From the corner of my eye, I see Fiff take shape and solidify from the feet up, it’s like watching shapes form in drifting clouds. I don’t react to him; I’ve long learnt that he only shows himself to me when I’m under stress, or in situations that may pose harm to me.

He’s been such a constant in my life so far, I’m well and truly used to him. He’s helped me out many times when I was younger and didn’t yet know how to defend myself against the heavy-hitting fists of drunken adult males. Many of Mum’s boyfriends would go out of their way to avoid me after a run-in with Fiff, telling her that I was a freak and should’ve been drowned at birth.

The worst part was that it was a statement she never argued against or denied. Her lack of defence for me, her own son, was something that hardened my heart against her.

I only wanted what I saw other little boys have, warm smiles and warmer cuddles. A proper family and a proper home. One without the rubbish littering the long grass outside, without jagged holes in the walls and dirty surfaces. One that wasn’t freezing in winter and scorching in summer. Hot, nutritious meals served regularly with a kind word and a loving tussle of my hair, instead of either no meals, or a cuff around the head when I complained of being hungry.

Coming back out of my memories, my mind goes to Fiff.

My friend and defender.

If I had to describe him, I’d say he looks exactly like me, tall and solid, a sort of mirror image.

Well, that is except for the fact that in his natural state — that’s for my eyes only — his shoulder length hair is pure white and dead straight, whereas mine is slightly wavy and black and his eyes are ebony from lid to lid, like little lumps of coal, instead of the bright green that mine are. Everything else about us is the same, down to freckles, moles, scars, matching star-shaped birthmark on our inner wrist and the way we dress. I’ve seen when he does choose to show himself to others, it’s as my identical twin, a fact which kept me safe in my own home for so long. And something I’ve never questioned.

The jerk before me shifts closer, drawing my attention out of my head. Considering I’m taller than the dickhead by several inches or so, and well-muscled from hours of hard physical work, intimidating me is a hard ask.

Fiff turns his head and tosses me a cheeky wink as he slowly raises his hand, the knife materialising in his grip shining wickedly in the light, his eyes shimmering with mischief.

I glance down quickly, seeing that once again I’m not casting a shadow.

That’s because it’s standing next to me looking for all the world like my reversed twin. I don’t know how he came to be; I only know he’s been with me like this for as long as I can remember, and I never have a shadow when he appears.

At times my only companion, he never taunted me for being deaf or for the pained noises I made that pass for words. I gave up on attempting to speak and instead put all my effort into learning how to read lips. I know how to sign a little, but not many others know how to, not even the teachers. So, it’s a wasted skill I very rarely utilise.

My ears fill with pressure and then in my head comes a deep voice, may I Dylan? He won’t feel a thing.

My eyes raise and I shake my head fractionally.

At my silent negative assertion, his grin widens and with his dark eyes on me, his arm strikes out, the knife missing puncturing the idiot’s guts by mere millimetres. It does catch his shirt, the tip opening a tiny hole in the material.

I frown first at the puncture, and then secondly at Fiff who grins wider, the knife vanishing from his hand as if made of smoke. Dark eyes harden. I didn’t even scratch the smart bastard.

I subtly shake my head at him and turn away, my complete attention going to the show unfolding before me.

You never let me have any fun.

Unaware of Fiff’s presence or the threat he poses him, and with his fair hair still tucked behind his big ears, nameless bully opens his mouth.

His breath’s smoky and smells like fish as it fans up and across my face. I concentrate on not gagging as my gaze slides to his lips, I don’t want to miss whatever wonderful words of wisdom tumble from his brain.

Sneering, he stabs at the air before my face with a stubby, bitten-nail index finger. I stare at it, so tempted to grab it and bend it backwards over his hand until it touches his forearm. Grin at him as the bone breaks and he drops to the ground clutching his hand, his stupid little mouth gaping in agony. While I’m imagining this, his lips flap again as he speaks. Watching them carefully, I take note of the way they move so I can read what he’s saying.

Hey dummy, you deaf or sumthin?

Hardy-ha-ha, how unoriginal, like I haven’t read that on someone else’s lips before. Yeah, real funny, you stupid shit-eating ape. My eyes narrow, and fury rolls across and heats my skin.

A vicious snarl rolls around my head before a deep voice rumbles, let me play with him, I won’t kill him, Dylan. I’ll just poke a few extra holes in him.

Blonde bully’s face begins to shift through various shades of red, before settling on atomic-fury. My eyes momentarily slide away from his mouth, watching with a morbid fascination as the base of his throat rhythmically throbs, before rising to spy a vein angrily pop out between his eyebrows.

It’s pulsing.

Forcing myself not to react to his anger, I remain as still and silent as the universe in my head.

Due to Mum suffering a bout of Rubella whilst pregnant with me, I was born deaf.

Therefore, these dumb turds are wasting their breath taunting me, because I can’t hear the words they chant. They know this – everyone does – but like the rise and set of the sun, they still persist in wasting everyone’s time and energy by throwing taunts at me.

Every. Single. Day.

Despite my disability – I hate that word, but it is what it is – and as I already mentioned, I lip-read; quite well actually. More than likely, I read lips better than those illiterate idiots read the written word.

Besides even if I couldn’t, their meaning’s crystal clear from the harsh set of their faces, and the rapid movement of their lips as they close in on me. Or, then again, it may’ve been the brutal shoves into my chest, knocking me against the aged wood of the seat which alert me to the fact that I’m about to cop a major arse-kicking.

I wobble precariously on my feet before regaining my balance and squaring up to the ringleader, who’s grinning nastily at me as he bobs on his toes and makes ‘come on’ motions with his hands.

Raising my arms, my fists covering my lower face, I draw the right one back and then arrow it forward, my fist landing square on his mouth. My knuckles immediately begin to burn from the impact with his teeth. I’m rewarded by his shocked eyes, a gush of blood leaking from his mouth and the tooth he spits out.

Heart hammering, I throw my other arm forward, fist eager. It connects with the side of his jaw making him stagger sideways. Unfortunately, he recovers quickly and as his friends rush the rest of the way forward to help, taking my attention away from him, I’m blindsided when one particularly hard punch to my gut has me gasping for breath and sagging forward.

Breath stolen, I absorb one more before my knees crumple and I hit the deck.

On instinct, and from many years practice, I immediately curl up, tucking my face into my bent knees and covering the back of my head with my arms to protect myself as numerous leather-footed kicks to my back, stomach and head rain down on me.

My body jerks as I relax my mind and send myself to my special place.

Shutting my senses off, I step onto the pure white sands of my private beach and with a sure steady stride, begin to walk its never-ending length. Impossibly blue waters froth and bubble as the waves break and reach out to me, perfect lacey edges kissing my feet and ankles. As always in this world, the sun’s high in the sky, its warm, golden rays beaming down on my face and bare torso. I never recall doing it, but somewhere along the way I always manage to shed my shirt, shoes and socks.

In the other world, my body reflexively curls even tighter on itself and silently absorbs the punishment. But in this one, all is peaceful. Silent. Deserted.

Even as I think that last thought, someone materialises on the hard-packed sand several metres from me. Amazed by this unprecedented disturbance to my solitary world, I stop walking.

This’s never happened before.

No one comes here but me.

But for whatever reason, there’s another person here now.

Another boy.

And he’s making his way across the glistening wet sand towards me with a swagger that screams ‘danger’.

Tilting my head, I watch fascinated.

I’m not afraid though.

Even though I’m sure I’ve never seen him before, he feels familiar. Comforting.

Warm water breaks and curls around my ankles before withdrawing with a stubborn tug. The retreating waves scour away the firm sand beneath my soles, making me sink and sway, slightly off balance. As I watch, the boy seems to flicker in and out of focus, his form winking and hazing like a dying lightbulb. I notice that each time he winks into focus, he’s moved a little closer to me.

Stopping in front of me, he reaches out, plants his hands on my shoulders and leans in.

It’s like looking at a reversed image of myself. Black is white. Green is black.

He’s also so familiar I immediately relax.

Long white hair gently shifts about his face and neck with a breeze I can’t feel, while eyes like black marbles peer at me. His hands leave my shoulders to fall at his side.

Hello Dylan, he says and I see his words taking form inside my mind, bright like when you write in the night air with a sparkler. Clearer than he usually talks to me.

I blink, because this is the first time I’ve ever seen him here. In my safe place. My mouth opens and to my surprise, perfect words exit. Fiff. How? Why?

Turning his head, a sly smile tips up his lips as he studies the horizon. Eyes back on me, he slaps a hand down on my shoulder. Never mind the hows or whys, they’re not important. I’m going to take care of you little bro, same as I always do. He ruffles my hair. Look, whenever someone starts giving you serious shit, like shit you can’t handle on your own, I’ll step in, same as always. He shrugs as if terrorising and hurting people is nothing to him.

With Fiff having my back, high school passed without too many incidents. Well, except that the bully ended up in hospital needing major surgery to remove part of his bowel and repair his liver after Fiff stabbed him to within an inch of his death.

The bully never came back to school after being released from hospital, but Fiff and I never spoke of it.

Even the new bully that waited at home with his hold over my mother and his powerful hairy fists was no match for Fiff.

But these hard and brutal lessons learnt on the playground and honed at home, moulded me, shaping the path of my adult life to come.

And Fiff stood loyally by my side the whole time.

* * *

CHAPTER ONE

THE WARM BREEZE FANNING across my face and shifting the long, unruly cut of my hair, yanks me up from the silent depths of sleep. Yawning, I stretch my arms above my head and crack my eyes open. The sight that greets me has me blinking in confusion.

Dropping my palms down flat on my thighs, I see that instead of laying tucked up in my bed, surrounded by the luxuries my high-paying job affords me, I’m facing a large ornamental pond. A pond located in a park I instantly recognise as the one my tenth-floor luxury apartment looks down upon.

Dismissing for the moment the problem of what set of circumstances have placed me here and not in my bedroom, I look around, my keen eyes noting the growing crowd of park-goers already out and about. From the young, to the wanna-be-young in their stylish and expensive gym clothes, to the distinctive shambling walk of the older folk.

A group of women push prams past me, lips flapping as they walk, while young lovers hold hands, stealing kisses every other step. Everyone’s either strolling, powerwalking, jogging or sitting on the grassy areas taking in the morning sun and people watching.

My eyes dart away from them to the centre of the sparkling water, noticing lazily moving ducks skimming across the surface accompanied by a small flotilla of motorised hobby yachts and colourful sailing boats. The ducks don’t seem bothered by the presence of the large toys; they zip out of the way when one ventures too close.

Movement from across the rippling sunlit water, directly across from where I’m sitting catches my attention. Reaching for the sunglasses I usually have perched atop my head and frowning when I find them missing, I instead change tactics, squinting as I eyeball them.

They’re just an average couple, a mum and dad who I guess at first glance to be roughly in their late twenties. Standing on the wide cement path next to a group of young people holding small boxes in their hands which I assume control the boat’s movements, they’re intently watching the sailing.

A young child squirms excitedly between them, his hands held tightly in each of his parent’s possessive grip.

Even from this distance it’s easy to see his eyes widen as his gaze darts between the closely swimming ducks and the graceful swimming trajectories of the watercraft.

Smiling, his parents throw chunks — of what I assume are bread — into the water. Much to the joy of the child and the frenzied ducking and diving of the starving waterbirds.

Glad to see you’re awake. You missed all the excitement bro. The pigs were everywhere.

From the corner of my eyes,