Hi, I'm writing a story, and I was wondering if I could

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Hi, I'm writing a story, and I was wondering if I could have critique on this beginning? Here it is:


Whenever I looked into the mirror, I saw my father’s eyes.

I'm unsure of when I first made the connection between my eyes and his, but I once couldn't pass a mirror without discovering that part of him staring back at me.

I always admired my father, so one could imagine the empowerment that overtook me each time I caught a glimpse of my reflection. One also might be able to imagine the devastation I felt on the night he died.

I shouldn't have been awake when the police came to our door. It was the exhilaration of late-night horror movies that kept me rooted in the living room way past my bedtime, sat comfortably in dad’s leather armchair, eyes on the television with the sort of fixation a predator might reserve for prey.

A knock on the door sounded at the exact same time a jumpscare played on television, and it took everything I had to swallow a shriek that would undoubtedly wake my mother.

Scrambling to my feet, I grabbed the TV remote and shut the program off. The living room submerged in complete darkness.

The doorbell rang now. Multiple knocks followed. Footsteps echoed in the hallway, and I mentally cursed myself for not going to bed earlier.

In the darkness, my mother kicked over a potted plant on her way to the door and cursed loudly. I could see her silhouette bend down to put it back in its place, then abandon it after the doorbell rang once more.

My mother pulled open the door, wearing just her pink robe, and blue and red flashing lights illuminated the entire room. Two police men stood in the doorway.

Meanwhile, I slid off of dad’s armchair and onto the floor. Silently as I could, I began army crawling towards the stairs.

“I'm sorry to disturb you at such late hours, ma'am, but we have unfortunate news regarding Robert Amory,” one of the officers said in a low voice. I froze. Although I was only nine years old, I suppose it didn't take a genius to realize something was wrong.

“My husband? What happened?” It was clear in her voice that she was worried, and understandably so.

“He was hit by a drunk driver on the highway,” the other police officer continued. My mother gasped. “To our knowledge, killed on impact. I'm very sorry.”