Chapter 12

"Happiness exists when you don't know a thing." The Weeknd.

Rays of daylight peak through the purple curtains and the chaos of traffic causes me to cover my ears. The bleach-white walls glisten vibrantly, my pale-blue covers shift underneath me and my bed creaks after every turn I make. Coldness whips at my feet as I bring the thick blanket just above my chin.

The picture I sketched only last week remains on the desk in my room. A dark figure in the middle of the woods at night. A full moon drawn in the corner of the page and trees, surrounding it like guards. The figure is a girl and the girl is crying, her tears planting the future generation of trees which emerge at the uneven, dark grey surface.

Outside, birds chirp their melodies, each cry harmonious whilst it resonates and disappears, blending into the noises of vehicles. Slams of doors disrupt the calmness inside my home, my door frame shaking as the sound travels its way through the walls.

I am dragged from my sleep by the sound of a truck, parking outside our next door neighbours house. Well, she used to be our next door neighbour but now the elderly lady is moving else where, the 'for sale' sign plucked out of the emerald-green grass with yellow tips. Staggering towards my window, I glance down and see a man and a women standing off to the side. Several men help by loading boxes and furniture inside, grunting as they struggle to distribute the weight of the object between themselves.

"Strange," I think, stroking my chin. "I remember mum telling us about these next door neighbours but I never thought they'd come this early!"

The women has strawberry-blonde, straight hair which ends at her shoulders, her blue eyes conveying an immense amount of happiness and amusement. Her cherry-red lips formed into a smile and her slightly tanned skin almost appears to glow. She holds the hand of her husband, placing a kiss on his cheek.

The man has dark brown hair which ends in loose curls at the top and full lips with a row of perfect teeth. He has green eyes, dark, small lashes and he is above average height. He smirks and snickers as he cranes his neck to look up at the sky.

He reminds me of someone.

The warmth in his eyes are too familiar to go unnoticed.

Suddenly, I hear a diverse set of thumps and trips as someone heads up the stairs. Bursting through the door, my mother screams hysterically:

"Valentina, throw on a robe or something! Quick! Quick! It's urgent!"

"Wait, what? What's happening?"

Mother rolls her eyes.

"It's amazing how slow you are when it comes to  gaining new information, but when it come to gaining weight your super quick," she mumbles.

Ashamed, I look down at the floor. Tears well up in my eyes and a pain rises in my chest. I should be used to it by now, but I'm not.

"Sixteen years. I'm sixteen years old and I'm still not  used to the feeling her words create. To the bile that appears in my throat."

"We are going to meet our new neighbours," she explains. "Your Dad's already downstairs! Hurry up, will you?"

"What should I wear?" I ask.

As I expected, she's already halfway downstairs.

"How should I know? Just put on your grey robe and come down!"

It doesn't take a genius to know that this is obligatory and that in theses sort of predicaments, obliging is my only choice.

...

Wearing my robe, I head downstairs to the four adults, who make small talk and occasionally chuckle at some of the jokes being told. Making my way towards them, my lovely mother introduces me. 

"This is my daughter, Valentina," she smiles. 

I shake the women's hand.

"It's pleasure to meet you," I say.

"The pleasure is all mine. I'm Anne," she says.

Then, I speak to her husband.

"Hi, I'm Valentina."

"Hi," he grins. "I'm John."

Furniture is bought to the ground and we hear footsteps approach us. The couple turn their heads, telling the person to stop mucking about. I'm guessing it's their child?  The person huffs and puffs in frustration, obviously not wanting to be here. Mumbles hit the air and John grows impatient as Anne apologises for their son's behaviour.

"Dad," a voice calls. "The men said they need some help-"

My world stops.

I stare at the family in front of me.

I see the resemblance between the father and son

They are identical. An exact photocopy of one another.

As I stare at the family in front of me, the realisation hits me.

The pause is too long.

Confusion takes place on all our faces, our minds unable to connect the dots.

We are all bewildered, none of us saying anything.

And the more I repeat it, the less it seems possible.

Finally, I bring myself to say his name.

"Wyatt?"

Again. Louder.

"Wyatt!"

Wyatt is...

MY NEXT DOOR NEIGHBOUR!?