Reflecting on my reflection (Part 2 of Mutants versus Witches)

Little bastard's actually trying to kill me!

I dodged the knife in the nick of time and retaliated by blowing fire at Devon, before launching into a roll to get close enough to kick him in the stomach.

I heard a thwang as the knife stabbed itself into a non-Simin wall, and grinned when Devon reeled from my hit.

Devon swore breathlessly, then swung at me once, twice, and I dodged, hitting his hands away with the side of my forearms.

At the third punch- duck!- I tried to sweep his legs out but underestimated Devon's weight and size.

Okay, take two. I slammed myself into Devon, and he came crashing down with me, but threw me off him after we landed in an embarrassing pile.

I got up, ready to attack again, but I forgot the knife that Devon could still control.

"Simin!" Elysse shrieked unnecessarily, while I was already shifting to avoid it, but it grazed my cheek lightly before digging itself in the wall behind Devon.

Devon met my eyes, looking panicked. "Are you okay?" He asked, hazel eyes widening in concern. "Shit, sorry, I tried not to-"

"I'm fine," I panted, putting on a smile. Honestly, it stung really, really badly, and I felt terrified when something trickled out of it. "If you really want to make it up to, let me burn off your face next time."

Elysse had run up to me, and she looked upset, touching her cool slim fingers to my face. "We should tell John, maybe it needs stitches?" She asked, and Devon nodded, dragging a hand down his face.

"Guys, really, I'm fine. Stuff like this happens-" Oh God, my face burns so bad! "-Don't bother John with this, and Devon, get that fake apologetic look off your face, I'm fine." I threw my hands up for emphasis, already turning around with a grin.

Devon rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath.

"I don't know what you said, but you better be grateful I can't be as irresponsible as you with my fire powers!" I called over my shoulder, thrumming with adrenaline as I entered the bathroom and locked the door.

Immediately I turned to the mirror, and oh God, that's a lot of blood. I think it's a lot, based on the way it's gently dripping off my jaw. And it was warm. Slowly, I pulled myself off the cliff of panic and turned on the tap with shaky hands.

I felt ridiculously babyish, carefully washing off blood mingled with tears, and being overly gentle with the cut, rinsing it off, and then patting it dry with the tissue.

Briefly, I wondered if I should just cauterize it with my flames, but then my teenage vanity kicked in.

The concern quickly changed from potentially dying from kitchen knife infection and bleeding, to holy shit will I still look good with a scar?

I leaned towards the mirror. It was angled, and now that it was sort of bleeding less, I could see that it was pretty thin.

When Devon calmed down, I already knew he was going to make a ton of jokes about how it's an improvement to my ugly face. I giggled a little a that, stifling it with my hand.

I feel so stupid. Stupid for crying over a little cut, stupid for making such an embarrassing drama out of an injury, and stupid for worrying about what Elysse and Devon thought of me now.

As I scrutinized the cut, which was welling up with blood again, I remembered how much my mother hated scrapes and scars. She used to make such a big deal about any scars I had and used to get angry when I skinned my knees.

She would totally flip out if she saw this, and start putting all kinds of stupid, herbal crap in it to make sure it didn't scar.

I reached for the scar on my left arm, the one souvenir of a particularly fun interaction we'd had with some witches, now that was an injury worth crying over. There were a bunch of more temporary, little scars too, an occupational hazard of running around, falling, and fighting so much.

Looking at myself in the mirror, at my mother's dark, dark eyes, and my father's light brown hair, I suddenly felt a surge of guilt.

Elysse cries about not meeting her parents, at every anniversary, every holiday, and I know Devon misses them. He never stops bringing up anecdotes or getting misty-eyed remembering some fun family vacation. Harry told me about his home, not that it was a fun story, but I can tell there are things he misses or at least things he wishes for.

I know I should too, I should've been calling my stressed, perpetually upset, and struggling mother at some point. I should've been missing her this whole time. But there is something wrong with me. We've been gone for way more than a year, and not once had I felt the urge to say anything, share any stories, or even feel bad past the first day.

My mom was always shouting, I remember, her voice strained from screaming and cigarettes, and she was embittered from her constant fights with my father. She found faults in every little thing I did, would lapse into days of depression, start saying weird things that scared me.

My father used to leave the house, spend hours, nights, weeks away from us. I never knew where he was, and by the time I was eight, I stopped being worried for him either.

So I guess I didn't miss it. Even knowing that there had been good moments, happy instants on trips, or days where everything seemed right, I couldn't summon the energy to care anymore.

I had a place now, a real place with John, and Harry, Elysse, and even Devon. My stomach twisted, as I remembered that I was forgetting Farsi at an alarming rate, with nobody here to ever talk to me in it. I doubted that I would get to celebrate my usual holidays the right way again, doubted that I would see my mom anytime soon.

I wondered what she was doing, and suddenly, after months, and months and months, indifference finally gave way to worry.

What if my mom did something crazy? What if my dad did? Would they ever take me back, or would I just have to hope that John never stopped doing the right things, that he never died?

My breath hitched a little, and angrily, I glared at my reflection. All those confusing little tidbits put together to make a face. My mom's dark eyes, only they looked a century younger, freed of all the stress and fighting. My dad's obnoxiously frizzy, light, wavy hair. My wonky nose, that apparently was a gift from an aunt who lived a world way.

And now the weird, twisted smile that Devon and I adopted when we annoyed each other, the little scars from my time with John, the muscles I was developing. My perpetually singed fingers, and one, sad, chipped temporary tattoo that Elysse and I had bought from a drugstore.

I sighed, dabbing at the cut one last time. Am I a psychopath? Why don't I miss them? My parents never understood me, but they had a lot of stuff going on. Shouldn't I be crying? Upset? Nostalgic?

I had effectively ruined their hopes and dreams for me, screwed up my family, my future.

I cannot do this.

I did what I had begun doing when I got worried, and cupped a little ball of flames in my hand. It took all of my control to stop it from growing, and I held the warmth close until I was ready.

Exhaling slowly, I glanced at myself in the mirror, and winced as I made myself smile. I opened the door, and ran away from my own questions, and my mother's eyes.

John was talking with Devon and Elysse, and once he saw me, he walked over with a concerned frown on his face.

"Are you okay? Zeig mir das," He murmured, slipping into German as he tilted up my chin. "Gut, it isn't too deep, no stitches." Then he gave me a disapproving look, before setting it on Devon. "Children, I hope you recall that the goal is to fight witches, not kill each other."

"Devon never meant to kill, he only meant to maim or seriously injure." I parrotted, and John scoffed amusedly when he caught the reference. "I'm fine, John, seriously. Just a scratch, we'll be more careful next time."

John tutted, turning so that he was in between all of us. "Next time, accidents get reported to me faster, ja? Devon, don't look so gloomy, she's still making jokes, she cannot be that injured."

Devon laughed shortly, and Elysse elbowed him, clearly expecting more severe consequences.

"Can I call my mom?" I asked quietly, and John smiled, looking weirdly pleased.

He handed me his phone, and dialed in my mother's number from memory, before pulling the knife out of the wall, and saying some stuff to Devon.

I waited anxiously as it rang, pacing, and debating hanging up at every single ring.

My heart leapt into my throat when I heard the voicemail message, and I listened to the whole thing, startled when my mother rattled off a website address for information on her child.

Sighing deeply, I typed in the website on the phone, and a terribly made, super boring page popped up. There were outdated pictures of me, a small stream of messages about possible sightings, information.

Heat pounding, I opened one of private contact options and began typing. Pretty soon there was a paragraph. Swearing hushedly, I deleted all of it, then typed again, then deleted it.

Every kind of message seemed fake, stupid, full of so many goddamn excuses. I couldn't say I missed her, because for so long I hadn't, couldn't tell the truth in a small message.

Elysse tapped me gently on the shoulder, and I almost jumped out of my skin. "Parents?" She asked kindly, and I nodded, a little lost for words.

"I don't know what to say," I whispered, feeling guilty and ashamed. "I haven't spoken to them since I left, and they have no idea why I left or where I went."

Elysse looked sad, and something else I couldn't read. "Seriously? Simin!" She shook her head slightly then and changed tack. "Just keep it simple. All that matters is that they know."

Thanks for the completely useless advice. But I bit my tongue and nodded gratefully. Finally, I typed something, and my fingers shook as I tried to send it:

I'm okay. Love you, Simi.

No telling if they would think it was a prank. But I felt something almost crack inside of me. For the first time, I wondered what it would be like when this was all over.

Where is home then?