A glance at the clock beside my bed causes momentary confusion as to the actual day. A quick calculation proves that I have been asleep for fifteen hours. Impossible. I roll upright and look out the window. Bright sunshine lighting up the small park beneath my apartment block, cars threading along the motorway to Dublin, small and bright as boiled sweets. The River Lagan flicks to my right like a silver scarf, and the city sits in the distance, a cluster of bridges and boats, mint-green domes of old buildings and shining skyscrapers. On mornings like this, Belfast reminds me of an old fable I once heard of identical twin sisters, separated at birth. After many years they were reunited, one haggard and hunched from years of service, her face dull and drawn, her eyes hollow and black. The other sister turned heads wherever she went, her eyes shining, her smile bright, her posture straight and upright. The beautiful sister made the haggard sister realise how she too could appear, and so she became beautiful for the first time in her life.
What do You think about The Boy Who Could See Demons?
