My eyelids drooped, lashes dragging weakly across my pillow-carved cheek. I felt the way I always did when I woke up: a mess of waking thoughts and heavy limbs.

But today, everything felt just a little bit more. Mythcrest High School – the new prison I would now be spending the rest of my education – was sitting ready and tall, out of my sight but clear in my head.

Butterflies fluttered in my stomach, as though trying to tickle me into a fit of nervous giggles despite my struggle to stay calm. Despite the excitement buzzing in my fingertips and adding a small spring to my movements, moving schools in grade eleven hadn’t exactly been what I imagined for the remainder of my teenage years.

But alas, I am a child. I have no control over the decisions of my mother.

When she first told me about the move – not just to a new school but to an entirely different state – I had stomped to my room so loud that the floorboards rattled, before pressing my pillow hard into my ears and trying to block out the internal screams pounding my eardrums.

She’d left me alone for the rest of the night, clearly giving me much-needed space, yet all I managed to do after I woke up was convince myself that it was all a dream.

It wasn’t.

As they say: denial is a river in Egypt.

What had first been angry tears and grunts of frustration quickly morphed into a heavy feeling weighing in my chest, an unfamiliar ache pressing at my insides and forcing a small sob to erupt from my throat.

In moving, I’d be leaving everything behind: the town I grew up in, my childhood friends, the only house I’d ever known, and most painful of all, the memory of my father.

It was clear that mum had been on edge since my dad’s disappearance five months ago had been ruled as a murder, but I couldn’t bring myself to understand why she would what to move away from everything we’d built as a family. From the only place we’d been a family. Mother said the move was for my own safety.

Despite my lack of understanding, it would be naïve of me to say there wasn’t a sense of fear every time I stepped away from the comfort of my house, or uneasiness whenever a stranger on the street looked at me funny. After all, they never found the body. They never found the killer. All they found was the forever-missed memory of a loved man and his grieving family.

It would make sense for my mother to fear that father’s attacker was after us to, as though some gang wanted us gone. It wasn’t something I often blamed her for, because hierocracy wasn’t something I prided myself for, but I couldn’t help but constantly question one thing: why my father?

It wasn’t as though he was a particularly social man. He had a warm smile, emerald eyes that always gleamed, and found the good in people who were past the forgiveness of society itself.

He didn’t party, gamble, or do drugs. Sure, sometimes he would drink a beer or two, and work always kept him out of town, but he was the friendliest man you’d ever come across.

As I sat up in bed, the baby blue sheets pooling around my hips, I couldn’t help but imagine what life would be life if he hadn’t been stolen from existence.

He would knock gently on my door, welcoming me with his brightest smile and a small wave. He’d ask how I slept and what I fancied for breakfast, before hugging me good morning and pecking my forehead quickly.

Sometimes, in my dreams, he would return, entering my room and apologizing for his disappearance. He would tell me he loved me, hug me good morning, and ask what I wanted for breakfast. But then I’d wake up. My room would be dark, smile dropping and hands clutching my doona for the gentle comfort I might never find again.

I sighed, trying to remove him from my mind. Today was supposed to be a happy day, and whether a dead father or not, nothing was going to get in my way.

“Kaitlin!” Mum’s voice rung up from the kitchen, clinging weakly to my ears. “Are you awake?” Her voice was soft, questioning, as though not wanting to disturb me from much-needed sleep had I not been.

“Yeah?” I called back, purposefully lining my voice with excitement and trying to place a mask over any hints of sadness. Mum didn’t need that reminder today, that for the first time, dad wouldn’t be there for my first day at school, halfway through the year or not.

“Get ready for school, please, then come down for breakfast.”

“Mhmm,” I mumbled to myself, pushing up from the cloudlike mattress and wobbling slightly on my still-asleep feet.

Just as I was about to move, my bedroom door creaked open and my mum’s sleep-riddled face popped around the opening.

“How are you feeling?” She asked gently. “About your first day at Mythcrest.”

“Good, I think. Excited.”

She looked at me sadly, head tilting slightly and eyebrows furrowing. “Are you okay?” She asked. “You seem… down.”

“M’alright,” I mumbled noncommittally, avoiding eye contact and motioning for her to move as I paddled towards the door.

She didn’t press, moving away tepidly and watching as I passed her quickly. So maybe I wasn’t putting on the mask I thought I was.

Because despite feeling almost shaky with excitement, considering all the new opportunities I’ll have in a new town surrounded by new people, echo’s of my now forever-gone father still haunted my mind.

The light of the bathroom was piercing against my unsuspecting eyes, and I lifted my hand to shield its rays. The room was small but had everything you could need.

A double vanity was in the centre of the room, with a cupboard beneath each, the entire vanity below a large mirror that seemed to reflect everything from the toilet on its left to the shower on its right. It wasn’t perfect, but it was all I could ask for.

The large square tiles were cool against the soles of my feet, soothing my mind as though every nerve ending had been cleansed.

I pressed my fingertips into the sleep shirt I was wearing, living up its hem and pulling it over my head, before doing the same for my shorts and underwear.

The warming wasn’t warm, but I had a feeling some coolness would be good for me. I let the water run over my back, freezing away tension and loosening the knot forming slowly in my brain.

I hummed contentedly, grabbing the honey-scented body wash off the shower-shelf and massaging it thoroughly into my skin, pressing gently into the spots that where still tender from sleep.

The problem wasn’t finding the will to get out of the shower, like it would usually be. I was too excited and nervous for that. The problem was finding something to wear.

I knew absolutely nothing about Mythcrest High.

Where there social expectations I didn’t know about? Would people judge my clothing choices? What if I make a bad impression and everyone hates me?

Opening my closet door with probably a little more force than possibly advised, I ran my fingers over possible choices. Baggy shirts, cropped singlets, jeans, and track pants where all shortlisted, but I ultimately went for something that wasn’t too daring for a first day, but also allowed me to show some much needed self-expression: a pair of black jeans that sat low on my hips, a cream tank top that hugged me in all the right places, and a blue jumper over it that sat loosely across my shoulders.

To top it off, I grabbed the golden heart-shaped necklace that my father had given me for my thirteen birthday, as a small symbol of love and remembrance. Maybe that way I could pretend he had been with me all along.

After pulling on a random – probably mismatched – pair of socks, and simple jogging shoes, it was time to sort out my hair.

It wasn’t entirely messy in the mornings, but it made me feel good when my hair felt fresh and neat. It was like it was placing me on a pedestal, ready to tackle the world.

I had wavy brunette locks that reached down to my waist, and bangs that still hadn’t grown out fully after I’d cut them impulsively two years ago. For today, I decided to go simple: a good-old trusty ponytail never failed to make me feel presentable.

I swivelled on my heels slightly, smiling unconsciously as excited nerves plastered a grin on my face. My green eyes often stood out against my pale completion and dark hair, but mum used to tell me about how green orbs symbolised healing, growth, and the spiritual presence of a loved one.

Younger me liked to imagine myself as some super-hero, saving people and helping them believe in the best version of themselves, but now I couldn’t help but look in my eyes and see my father staring back. It was oddly comforting, knowing he was right there.

All I had to do was reach into the mirror and pull him out.

The space from my bedroom to the kitchen was short, but every time I walked down the stairs and into the family room, I couldn’t help but visualise what should have been there: a familiar window that always shined with light, colourful-hand painted murals on the walls, and family pictures covering every blank surface.

Every morning was a surprised when I woke up, expecting to see colour and love and life, only to be faced with a grim emptiness. Sure that hole was slowly being filled every day, but something would always be missing.

My new house had creaky, scratched floorboards, peeled beige paint on the walls, and outdated furniture. It was home. Or at least it would be.

It wasn’t as though I hated it. I’d already been allowed to paint my walls – blue seemed right, bubbly and energetic – and of course memories had already been made: laughing with my mum as I spilled flour all over my brand-new dress while baking cake, trying and failing to build new furniture, and the excitement of organising this empty canvas.

But there was a weight we both ignored: it didn’t feel quite complete without dad.

It was obvious mum felt the sting too, and although she tried endlessly to put on a mask and convince me everything was fine, the flame of happiness that had been in her eyes for as long as I could remember had been blown out. Disappeared completely. The thought made my heart ache.

Now wasn’t the time to keep reminiscing on dad. I had a new school to explore, new people to meet, and a new life to start.

Mum met me at the small wooden table as I took a seat, handing over a piece of toast lathered in peanut butter, (which is the best way to have toast, might I add), and a small, steaming cup of coffee.

I took small bites, chewing carefully before swallowing. The task was hard, as though something was blocking my throat and trying to force the food back up.

“What’s up?” Mum sighed, sitting across from me and staring me with her chocolate brown eyes.

"Huh?” I asked, plastering on a smile and making sure it crinkled the edges of my eyes. Don’t think about dad. Don’t think about dad. Don’t think about dad.

“You just seem a bit sad today.” Her voice was gentle. She wasn’t quite pressing for me to give her all the answers, simply trying to break through the mask I had shielded over my heart. She seemed to notice the change, so she spoke quickly “—not that you aren’t allowed to have sad days, obviously. You just seemed to excited yesterday.”

Her head tilted again, a habit she had when she was curious or questioning.

“I am excited,” I muttered, briefly thinking about brushing off the conversation and changing the subject, but mum deserved truth. She was struggling just as much as I was. “I’ve just been thinking about dad,” I admitted.

She smiled sadly, eyes watering slightly. “Of course, I think about him too.” She reached a hand across the table and rested it on my empty one. “Please don’t get too down in the dumps. He’s probably smiling down on you from… wherever he is. I’m sure he would have been so excited for you, and as long as you know that in your heart you’re not alone, everything will be okay.”

I hummed in agreement, smiling slightly and contemplating her words. She nodded briskly, as though satisfied with my reaction, but she didn’t manage to hide the escaping tear she wiped from her eye.

Mum hated when I saw her cry: she seemed to think she would be letting me down. But I hated it when she thought that. She deserved to feel her emotions, and I hated that she felt like she couldn’t tell me how she was truly feeling.

Today, specifically, I didn’t want her to feel anything bad, so I ate my toast with a smile on my face, washing it down with a large swig of coffee and a sigh of genuine contentment.

I raced back up the stairs, brushing my teeth quickly but thoroughly, before kissing my mother on the forehead, giving her a tight hug, and walking outside to my Toyota.   

Driving was a recent achievement: a license had recently been added to my life list of accomplished life goals a few months ago, and in celebration, my family had pitched together to buy a Toyota. It was very old, with fading grey paint and a rusty engine, but I loved it all the same. It was mine.

Dropping into the rusty seat and buckling the seatbelt over my chest, I pressed the key into the ignition before pressing my foot down on the pedal.

Following the directions I had stored in my head from that first drive to the new house, I managed to find a spot with a filled parking lot and the chitter-chatter of high school children. Mythcrest High School.

Through the safety and cover of my car window, I looked at the massive brick building, four stories tall and reaching endlessly to the thin whisps of cloud. Concreate stairs led up to blue wooden doors in the middle of the building, guarded by a cheddar tree on each side.