For my 11th birthday, I was allowed to create flyers for the celebration with my parents a few days before it. I made one little mistake; however, I was too good with Word for my age, which resulted in my parents asking me how I learned to use it so well in just under two months and also why I hated Comic Sans so much all of a sudden which I, unfortunately, loved as a kid. Thankfully, I never liked Papyrus, so I guess I deserve half a point there. Speaking of Papyrus, a friend I had in middle school wrote about the Egyptians using it, which is just downright embarrassing. Surprisingly, there's a font even worse than both of them called Comic Papyrus, which I only suggest you look up if you hate yourself. As for my favorite font, I quite like Baskerville; it makes anything you type look so formal and fancy. I mean, I could write about the banalest thing and still have it look beautiful. Why do you think I use it? That's one point for pseudo-intellectualism! I swear I'm the long-lost great-grandson of Dean from The Iron Giant.
"I'm not a kid anymore," I pouted.
"Guess not; you'll be wearing a suit and tie soon at this rate," my mother joked.
Like hell, I will be... I'd rather be buried alive.
"As long as I won't have to sit in a box with my back hunched all day, I think I'll be fine," I replied with a small smile. My biggest nightmare is that I'll get one of those crummy office jobs and have to sit in a cubicle the whole day while my boss whines and groans about every little thing while hopped up on a gallon of caffeine. I can't even have any without turning into a nervous wreck; just one cup is enough to get me to shake like my washing machine; I swear that thing will explode one day...
"It's not all bad; my office has an espresso machine," my dad said, stretching sleepily.
"They taste horrible," I said, sticking my tongue out in disgust. I once had two shots of it, and it tasted like agony in a cup. My history teacher once told me about this girl in his class who had six espresso shots at once and how her heart got all messed up due to her having long QT syndrome or something.
"Sure, but nobody has them for their taste; if coffee didn't stimulate you, then it would have lost about 99% of its drinkers. Sometimes you have to decide which is worth more," he said, going into the kitchen to get some coffee.
As soon as he came back from the kitchen with a cup of joe, I smelled the pleasant scent of coffee and felt relaxed by it. I've never cared much for it, but I would be a liar if I said that it didn't smell amazing. It's too bad it gives me horrible anxiety if I drink it. This one time, I had this drink called Reign, and I swear I had heart palpitations for two hours; I was so anxious from it that I was shaking all over the place. Guess that's what happens when you drink the equivalent of three cups of coffee all at once...
"So... how does it feel to be eleven?" my dad asked, kneeling to not have to look down at me. He was around 6'2 if I remember, making him by far one of the tallest members of my family. His dad was only around 5′4, so I don't know how he grew so tall.
"I don't care that I'm eleven; I just care that I can see the both of you happy. I see my birthday as any other day, but you are everything," I said, trying to hug both of them at once.
"You know... you're a very unusual child, Clive. When I was your age, I cared more than anything about my birthday," my dad said, chuckling.
"Being strange isn't bad, Dad; being the same is boring to me," I said, smiling at how beautiful the moment felt to me. I cheated to get it, but I certainly didn't regret doing so.
"I wish I were more like you when I was younger," my dad said, brushing my hair.
Maybe one day I'll make that happen...
* * *
A loud knock at the door startled me.
"That must be Malcolm," my mom said, winking at me.
I'm sorry, but who's Malcolm? Is my memory failing me already?
As she opened the door, I caught a glance at his straw blond hair and sapphire blue eyes, and the memories suddenly hit me like a punch to the stomach. This was the kid who wrote his paper in Papyrus, this was the guy who once short-circuited all the outlets in biology class by sticking a wire there on a dare, and most of all, this was the person who for the longest time had been my only friend in the entire school. I experienced memories I hadn't thought of in years at that moment. I couldn't believe that I had just forgotten him completely; how did I forget such a huge part of my life? My mind is genuinely my worst enemy; it always does the opposite of what I tell it. If brain transplants ever happen, I hope they give me the brain of some surgeon or someone just as bright. Uncle Dante is a surgeon, but I certainly would NOT want his brain. I don't want to know what goes on inside his head. I took this one test to see which disorder he had, and it returned with ASPD; I can't say I'm surprised... I think we should diagnose him with arrogant shithead personality disorder, but that's just me.
"Malcolm!" I called out happily to him. I'm not exactly sure why I was so happy at that moment to see him; it was as if I had known him my entire life.
"Hey, you'll never guess what I got you," he said, winking.
I genuinely won't after all these years.
"Is it a telescope?" I asked, making the wildest guess possible.
His jaw dropped from surprise before he squinted his eyes in suspicion. He gave me the look of "You cheated to guess that."
"Are you wearing X-ray glasses?" he asked, looking all over my face.
"No, and that's not how they work," I replied, laughing.
"Whatever, happy birthday, loser," he said, hugging me tightly.
"Thank you. It feels like I haven't seen you in forever," I said, dreading the moment that he'd eventually let go.
"I saw you yesterday, though," he replied, confused.
"I know, but do you ever get this strange feeling like you miss someone before they've even left?" I replied as he finally let go.
"You get that too? I thought I was the only one!" he said with his mouth open in surprise.
How did I ever virtually forget this guy? What made me forget so much of the past? Perhaps going forward in time will reveal it someday. The only problem is I don't even know where to travel to!
"I get that too," my mom replied with a small smile towards my dad.
"Ew, I don't want to hear that," Malcolm said, sticking his tongue out in disgust.
My mom began saying something in response but couldn't finish her sentence because of another knock on the door.
Who could it be now?
"I believe that right there is Ricky and Rosie!" my dad called out to me.
It's going to be so weird seeing them old after the photo album...
"Oh, Calvin, you look so handsome!" my grandmother said as she went inside.
"Grandma, my name is not Calvin," I said, laughing a bit at her mistake.
"A slip of the tongue, my dear, look at how tall he is now, Harry!" she said, looking over at my grandfather, who looked just as confused as I was at her mistake. My grandmother mixed up names constantly and once called me Jackson, her Poodle; you always had to remind her she got your name wrong; it got annoying.
"I'm afraid my name is not Harry, but that certainly is one growth spurt! You must have grown about five inches since I last saw you," he said, hugging me.
"Grandpa, how tall are you?" I asked out of curiosity.
"Depends. I used to be 5'4 in my better days, but now my back is imploding. Value your back while it still works, Clive; it won't always be there for you. Remember, lift with your knees, not your back," he said, chuckling.
Time works a bit differently in my case. I can experience twelve lifetimes in just one day. It's scary how much power I possess; I can change everything and everyone if I so desire to. Can I trust myself to be responsible with this? I doubt it... Now, I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds. I am the ferryman that will carry you all to hell.
"What'd you get for Clive?" Malcolm asked curiously.
"Oh, hello there! I almost didn't notice you," my grandmother said in a surprised tone, finally noticing Malcolm.
"I got you a ferrofluid display, my boy," Ricky said, brushing my hair as my dad used to.
"What...?" the entire room asked in confusion, excluding my grandparents. They were really into science and, particularly, chemistry. My grandfather was honestly the type of person to become a mad scientist. He taught me not to mix bleach with ammonia as a kid because I had a habit of mixing everything around the house to see what would happen. Usually, nothing would happen, but I mixed vinegar with an eggshell one time, and it wholly dissolved twelve hours later.
"You explain this one, Ricky; my memory isn't nearly as sharp as it used to be," she said, patting him on the shoulder and sitting down at the nearest table.
I can tell.
"Now I assume all of you know what a magnet is, right?" he asked the entire room. We all nodded in response.
"Well, in 1963, a man working as a scientist at NASA named Steve Pappell created ferrofluid as a form of rocket fuel that could function in zero gravity due to having a magnetic quality to it. Ferrofluids are colloidal liquids of either nanoscale, ferromagnetic, or ferrimagnetic particles that get suspended in a carrier fluid. They usually use either an organic solvent or water for it. They also coat it with a surfactant to prevent clumping. Does that explain everything?" he asked all of us.
"Yeah, definitely," I lied unconvincingly.
"It's okay that you don't understand it, Clive; it's magnetic fluid that you can play with," he said, winking.
That sounds kinda fun.
"It's always the simplest things that we find the most fun in," my mom replied with a small smile.
"Or people are just lazy," Malcolm said lazily, stretching. I swear I did not know how I forgot about Malcolm; it's like someone simply wiped away my memories from existence. What was it that could have caused something like that to happen?
"It's a lot like in nature; many people pick the easiest option even if they know that it carries risks. In college, they taught me about the ID, Ego, and Superego in psychology class, why it was t-"
"Dad, we don't need to hear another verbose explanation about how cool your college life was. We get it that you were popular and loved by all the girls and your teachers," my dad said, rolling his eyes. That was the first time I had ever seen him do it.
"I'm sorry for rushing this, but can we eat the cake?" I asked impatiently.
"What's the rush, Clover?" my grandmother replied.
Oh, boy, Clover is new...
"It's just... this happens every single year, and I just want our family to be happy. I know that sounds crazy, but you guys all mean so much to me," I said with a pained smile from remembering my proper timeline. Was I right to change reality like this, or was I ruining every other timeline as a result? A small part of me didn't care how much damage I caused as long as I was having fun; you would have probably done the same thing in my shoes.
"Well, kid, that was the smartest thing I've ever heard you say!" Malcolm replied, putting on an elderly voice, not unlike my grandfather.
"Shut the hell up, Malcolm," I replied, annoyed.
"Swearing is immature, Clive," my grandfather said, shaking his head.
"Bite me," I countered.
"I'd rather not; cannibalism is illegal," he said, chuckling.
"Anyways, let's all settle down," my mother said awkwardly, chuckling.
We all sat down at the table and discussed cutting the cake into six slices, which, unfortunately, became an entire debate. Everything in our family became a massive debate, no matter how small it was. I'd say that I was different, but I was just like them deep down. One of my problems is that I make a big deal out of nothing and then act like the other person is the one to blame. I also have a habit of taking everything to heart; criticism always makes me feel like I'm worthless. Sometimes, I even feel suicidal when someone tells me something negative. There are these train tracks near my house, and I have considered jumping in front of the train; I was always too scared to try it.
"Clive should get the biggest slice," Malcolm said, shaking his leg; he was ADD to the max and took Ritalin ever since he crawled out of the womb.
I can't believe I still remember all of this...
"No thanks, I want to be fair to the rest," I said, frowning.
"We can't fit too much anyway, dear," my grandmother said, smiling.
"What's your excuse for eating so little?" my mother said, glaring at my father.
Potentially cancer.
"I don't think that this applies to the current discussion," my father replied, annoyed.
I zoned out while everyone was arguing until I saw what looked like an amaryllis on the cake. The flower was golden-orange and had red tips on its petals. At that moment, it was as if the universe itself were mocking me.
Oh please, no, it's just like the one I put on his gravestone... October 18th, 2019, was the day my world turned upside down. I still remember everything about that day, it was raining like crazy, and my mom walked into my room with tears in her eyes. I remember punching trees in the nearby forest after he died from how angry I was at myself for not giving him more attention. My hands became all bloody and bruised, and even a drop of hand sanitizer would burn like a blaze. They also became swollen, and the slightest movement would cause immense agony. We put hydrogen peroxide on it so they wouldn't get infected. Do I regret doing it? Sort of... The truth is, no matter how hard I punch something, it will never get rid of the most immense pain of my life.
My flashbacks started speeding up to where I got vertigo from thinking so much. I wanted, more than anything at that moment, for them to finally stop. My stomach hurt more than anything from the anxiety, and my heart felt like someone trapped it in my knees. I genuinely felt at that moment as if I was dying. I felt this sharp sensation all over my body as if a thousand needles were stabbing me, and each prick would get progressively more painful. It felt a lot like when your foot wakes up but about a thousand times more painful.
"Stop!" I accidentally yelled out loud in agony. Everyone froze in place at that moment and became silent again.
"I apologize that you had to see that," my father replied, sighing heavily.
Yeah, the amaryllis kinda sucks, I agree!
"Why does this always happen every year? I mean, why are we so dysfunctional every time we meet? This has to stop; we're family after all!" I replied, shaking my head in disappointment.
"Because nobody wants to listen to anyone in this family, we only care about our own opinions and act selfishly," Ricky replied, frowning.
"He's right," my father replied. I never expected him to agree with him.
"Let's try this again, okay?" I replied.
"Alright," my mother replied calmly.
"Equal pieces of cake for everyone and a simple birthday song, nothing too extravagant. I'm talking about you, Malcolm," I replied with a tiny smile.
"Got it, boss," he replied with a double thumbs-up and a goofy grin.
After my father cut the strawberry cake into six pieces, I asked him to give the slice with the flower to Malcolm because he meant a lot to me. That wasn't the real reason for my choice, of course, but explaining it would have led to him thinking that I was either on drugs or insane, and I'm not sure which one would have been worse.
"That's a nice flower," Malcolm replied, patting me on the shoulder.
I wish I could agree with you, my friend, but I don't. The flower itself isn't the problem, but rather the memories I have associated with it. I have never hated the colors orange and red as much as I did on that day. At least it wasn't a blue butterfly, I suppose... I still remember how it landed on his grave and sat there for minutes as if it was mourning the loss of my father along with me. I wish I could fly away with it, never to be seen again. I'd get a new identity along with plastic surgery, and everyone would think that I died years ago while I was secretly exploring the world. I'd leave everything behind me, but it wouldn't be too shabby. I would be the man who sold the world.
"Ready for us to sing, Clive?" my grandmother asked with a smile. My mouth dropped about four feet due to her being able to get my name right.
"Yes," I replied, nearly choking from being so emotional.
Despite the birthday song that ensued being awful and full of Malcolm adding stupid lines, I felt a sense of happiness that I had not felt in a while; it was as if I was genuinely a kid again. When I was a child, I always wanted to be older, but now I realize the most significant time of your life is when you're a kid. Trust me; you should keep your childhood as long as you possibly can. Nothing is worse than a childhood that's lost too early; it affects you for the rest of your life.
As I blew out the candles that spelled 11 following the song, Malcolm instantly asked me what I had wished for.
"You know you're not supposed to tell anyone what you wish for, right?" I asked, laughing.
"Come on, I'm your friend," he replied, practically begging me.
"I'm good," I replied with a smirk.
Now you might ask what exactly I had wished for on that day and why I didn't decide to tell my only friend at the time about it. The truth is if I told you, it wouldn't ever come true, so for once, I am going to keep something from you. Perhaps you think I am wrong about it, but I promise that my wish is far too important to disclose. As to whether or not wishes can come true after death, I do not know, but sometimes you have to believe in something because if you don't, you'll have nothing to believe in at all.