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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Matthew Hathaway has lost his other half.

Submitted: October 16, 2015

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Submitted: October 16, 2015



He stares at the mirror; the image stares back at him. A boy with light brown hair and hazel eyes. The hair is shaggy, not brushed for days. The skin is pale, dark bags under the eyes as a result from little sleep. The body is thin, perhaps from eating just a tad too little. The clothes as a result of this, are baggy. A deep blue sweater paired with superman pajama pants. They’re dirty, thrown on several days ago. He hasn’t changed; not since it happened.

His eyes keep returning to the reflections face. It’s familiar and at the same time, entirely different. He can’t see himself. Before he could look in a mirror and see himself, a healthy version of himself. Even now, he knows that he’s looking at himself. But there’s a small part of him, whispering, that it’s not himself. And he believes that small whispering voice. As a result, he’s been sitting and staring into the mirror for days.

In the background, where he can’t see, the room is torn apart. Everything was thrown around, knocked down. All was done in a fit of anger; an uncontrollable fury. A fresh plate of food was besides him with a bottle of water. He hadn’t touched it and it was bound to disappear in a few hours when his mother gave up and came to take it out, again. As was the routine the past few days.

Then suddenly, breaking free from his pattern, he reached out a hand to touch the image. He reached for the shoulder but is met only by the cool touch of the mirror. He pulls his hand away and stands, maintaining eye contact. For a few moments, he stands. Then he reminds himself of the cool touch, and he turns his back to the mirror finally.

He looks, almost in surprise, at the ruined room. It was always kept pristine clean before by- but no, it couldn’t be clean anymore. Not after what happened. So he grabbed a pair of shoes and slipped them on, leaving the room at last.

On his way through the living room to leave the house, his mother tries to stop him, “Matthew, wait. The visitation starts in an hour where are you going?” But he ignores her and grabs his keys, rushing to his car.


He arrives at the funeral home two hours late. When he walks into room B, clearly marked for The Hathaway Family, everyone turns to stare at him. Not just due to his appearance or his outfit, the same clothes he’d been wearing for days. Despite their stares, his eyes are only for the casket in the front of the room. His mother approaches him, pulling him aside.

She glances at his hair, “Why did you dye your hair?”

His light brown hair was now a very bright blue. “I had to, mom,” the response came out in barely a whisper and he couldn’t bring himself to look at her.

Then he pushes past her, making slow but determined steps to the casket. He had to see inside. Family members, friends, and fellow students from school kept reaching out to pat his shoulder, to whisper some words of comfort. None of it registered to him. To him, the room was empty of all of them. It was just him and the casket.

When he reaches the casket, he pauses. Just far enough away that he can’t see inside. Besides the casket are flowers and a poster with a name, Lucas Hathaway. Around the name are several pictures of Lucas. He gulps, and turns his eyes to the casket again. He steps forward and looks down to his face. But it's not his face, it's Lucas. His hair is light brown, and somehow he looks much healthier than his living twin.

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