The Strangest Day In The Life Of Marigold Bradshaw

Up until the Summer she turned twelve, Marigold Bradshaw was a bright happy child. She would wrinkle her nose when her mother would gently tuck a marigold behind her ear and introduce her to everyone as "my favourite little flower", but really she loved watching how her mother's face lit up and the coos of attention from others. She had a big carefree laugh that was easily won and a large group of friends. She took school seriously and her favourite subject was art; in bad weather she'd spend hours painting in their conservatory with her tongue poking out in concentration, only stopping when the light finally drained from the day. In better weather she'd be outside with her friends as much as possible. This was what she headed out to do on the strangest day of her life.

That morning, she ate a simple breakfast of cereal and orange juice. She then gifted new paintings to her parents, a marigold for her mother, a chocolate Labrador for her father. These gifts were so frequent they were not really a surprise any more but her parents feigned shock and delighted at her talent. She left the house with that sense of excitement at the promise of the day that's so much more frequent in children than adults. Behind their row of houses was a small area of sparse woodland with a shallow stream cutting through the middle. This was where the children all found themselves, rigging up ropes to swing across the stream and climbing trees. For the more cautious of parents it offered the luxury of looking out their window to check on their children, although Marigold's parents scarcely did as they believed wholeheartedly in raising a fiercely independent child and for them that started with trusting her.

On that day as the Sun began its slow descent, Marigold was the last to leave. Or so she thought. As she jumped across the stream, two children stepped out from behind the tree in front of her. She recognised one as her friend Sara and was going to greet her happily when she realised the other girl was Sara's exact double. Her greeting stopped in her throat and was replaced by a squeak of confusion, Sara wasn't a twin. She'd known her for two years, she'd been to her house several times, she knew Sara was an only child. The two Saras noticed her confusion and both grinned, a touch too wide. They spoke in perfect unison:

"You're one of our best friends so we wanted to tell you first. We know how lonely it can be to be an only child Marigold. We have a way for you to have a sister forever."

Marigold continued to stare with a growing fear blossoming out from her stomach. She realised they were even blinking in sync as they spoke again:

"Most people don't realise they already have a twin. They're just trapped there behind glass mimicking your movements."

One Sara, Marigold wasn't sure who the 'original' was, leant forward and pressed a folded up piece of tattered paper into Marigold's hand. The other Sara leaned forward at the same time and put her empty hand towards Marigold's.

"It's so easy Marigold. You just say those words three times in the mirror and out they come. It takes a bit of time but eventually everyone will think you've always been two. Let her out."

With that the two Saras turned in the direction of their house and skipped out of sight, each picking up the same foot at the same time. Marigold stayed rooted to the spot trying to figure out what she'd just seen for so long that she was home past curfew for the first time. When she walked in she was so pale her parents jumped past anger onto worry and assumed she was ill and bundled her into bed.

Marigold slept soundly until three in the morning when she woke with a start. Replaying the events in her mind she convinced herself it must have been a bizarre dream but then her hand caught the edge of the tattered paper where she'd pushed it under her pillow. Curiosity nagged at her until she gave in and went to the bathroom. Staring into the mirror she began to recite the words:

"Long-lost twin flames reunite-"

The shock stopped her words as she watched her reflection's expression begin to darken. Real Marigold screamed while mirror Marigold laughed humourlessly with a glint in her eyes. Her parents came running and tucked the hysterical Marigold back into her bed and on her terrified insistence they tore up and burned the paper.

Up until the Summer she turned twelve, Marigold Bradshaw was a bright happy child. After that, her light dimmed. She was no longer interested in socialising, instead she watched the ever-growing number of twins from her window. Her school work took a hit, and she rarely laughed any more. She still poured her soul into paintings but they took a much darker tone. She still had a reasonable life but didn't reach the potential or happiness promised by her younger self. She achieved moderate success with her paintings once she was in her thirties and was invited onto a few television programmes for interviews which she graciously accepted, as long as the mirrors in the dressing rooms were covered up.