Change The Past

The old man picked at his mangy clothes, but looked me straight in the eye. His pupils were huge, he was probably on drugs.

Then he pointed at me and spoke in a congested and raspy voice.

“So you would like to live somewhere else, eh?”

I shrugged in passive agreement, my arms wrapped around my chest, my eyes staring into the clouds.

The sky was getting darker by the minute; I knew that my mom would kill me if I got home soaked from the coming storm, so I tried to wrap this conversation up.

“Yeah, I would. And not even somewhere else, some time else, you know? Today in general, around the world, is shit.”

I really had no problem swearing in front of the man; he was old and homeless, I was sure he had seen his fair share of things uncouth. I continued with another nonchalant shrug, “But whatever, it’s good to dream right?”

I shrugged a third time, this time more in a more conclusive way, if that was possible.

“It’s not like there’s some fucking time machine.”

I had hoped, with my words, the guy would stop asking questions, but he just stood there, looking like inside his head there was a tiny robot chipmunk, saying things to him.

I stared back at him, rolling awkwardly on the balls of my feet.

Right then, out of nowhere, the man just started…cackling.

He was laughing in a way that made spiders run up and down my back; a laugh as if like he had never laughed before. Sure, I was creeped out, but not scared - I was used to people being sketchy.

But then it all got a little too weird.

I had turned to look down the street towards my house - feeling uneasy standing with the crazy man - wondering how many of my siblings my mother had yelled at for me being late, and when I turned back, the man was gone. There was no possible way he could have just disappeared, but there was no other option.

“Fucking hobo,” I swore under my breath.

Then I felt a warm drop of the sky splash on my cheek, a red warning sign screaming at me to get home. I guess I turned around to quickly towards my house, because I felt dizzy, all of the sudden, like I was being pushed down into a small box I didn’t want to go in. A loud bang silenced everything throughout the streets, and scared me so much I jumped and snapped my eyes upward, looking for a lightning bolt equal in size.

But instead of a lightning bolt, I saw the old man. I opened my mouth to ask what the hell the noise was and to scold him for being weird, but then it all went dark.

Everything had changed.

Instead of standing up, I was lying on my side - on a pillow, in fact.

Instead of my jeans and my Ramones hoodie, I was wearing pajama pants and a big t-shirt.

Instead of the rain and the breeze, there was stillness and a blanket wrapped around me.

And instead of the loud bangs that could have woken the dead, there was the annoying whine of an alarm clock.

It was all a dream.

Sitting up, I reached for the alarm clock. When I felt its vibrations against my hand, I ripped it out of the socket, enjoying the nice tearing sound, and threw it against the wall before I laid back down. It was kind of a ritual on especially upsetting mornings; I went through about 25 clocks a year.

“Mmrrghh…” I groaned as I finally slid off my bed ten minutes later, the image of that weird old man still going through my head. How did all seem so real?

Rubbing sleep out of my eyes, I shrugged; I guess everyone has dreams like that once in a while. I chose to ignore it.

Something caught my eye. There was another clock on the wall.

"Strange," I thought, but it was probably just my mom putting it up there so I would have some sense of time in the morning. I was always late, a bad student; I was recently expelled, hence me wandering the streets, talking to old, homeless men.

The clock, which made me nervous with all of its bright pinkness, read 6:45 in the fucking morning; I couldn’t believe it. My mother must have set my alarm clock early, that whore.

“Fuck this,” I told myself as I wandered back to bed, which, strangely, had different sheets and a different comforter. Again, my mother must have changed it. She never liked my taste in things.

"Odd, she also must have put that mirror up against the wall too," I thought as I moved closer to inspect it.

At the present time, it was the only thing I was slightly happy to see my mother put in my room. It was antique and large, with a swank, gold, vintage border around it.

It was only when I looked inside the mirror did I realize it was not my mother who put these things inside my room. Not even my room.

I stared at the shocked expression of this girl in the mirror; this girl who copied everything I did.

She ran up to the mirror’s glassy surface as I scurried up too. Her hand touched her side the glass, my hand touched my side. She breathed statically as she tried to push through the clear wall, looking for the secret of the trick as I hyperventilated, searching for the culprit. Her eyes had the nervous tinge in them that I felt squirming around in my head.

But her eyes were a dark, forest green and as big as a doll’s, whereas mine beady and a black shade of brown.

Her hair was bluish black, long, straight, and soft. My hair was fried, mousy brown, with streaks of red.

I looked down at my shoulder, ready to prove that it was me, not this impostor in the magic mirror, but what I found wasn’t my own.

Instead of that regular, choppy strand of red, it was black, flowing down to my waist. My elbow was pale, like porcelain, not bruised and scratched and tan from being outside all day. My hands were thin and long, not chubby and stained with ink. The fingernails were manicured, not bitten down the stub with chips of black covering the enamel.

This was not me.

“No,” I whispered without hope, looking back at the mirror, pressing my cheeks down, making faces, hoping the mirror wouldn’t be able to send them right back to me. My thoughts zoomed straight to the grimy old man. What we were talking about? God, he was cackling. It was so creepy, but what was the last thing I said?

“Yeah, I would. And not even somewhere else, some time else, you know?"

I muffled a cry with this stranger's hand.

Oh god. Had he? He couldn’t have. There is no fucking time machine, like I said! He was homeless - not magical, just crazy. There was no possible way he could have done something like this.

I had to find a way to jump out. I flipped over the mattress, opened all the drawers, threw out all the clothes, tapped the walls for hollow spots. Nothing. I was trapped.

The last thing standing still with its bearings was a calendar, hanging crookedly on the wall. I sneered at its flower pictures, this girl who resided here was sick. But the only thing sicker than her was the fact that it was still September, but 18 years earlier, in 1989.

Suddenly, there was a knock on my ribbon-coated door that was as loud as my heart beat. I froze, my eyes wide.

Who was behind that door? Were they expecting this girl I was...in? Her flowers and pretty face and her pink collages? I chuckled softly at the irony.

If they were, tough shit, because I couldn’t give it to them even if I wanted to.

The person spoke through the door. It was a boy; his voice sounded familiar.

“Hey, Sam, mom told me to make sure you were okay. We heard some crashes.”

“Shit,” I mumbled. I couldn’t do this, but I tried my best. Maybe I could fend these fuckers off until I found a way out.

“Uh...yeah, I mean, no, I’m fine.” Her, Sam’s, voice was deep, sort of velvety, and it left a vibration in my throat. My, Blythe’s, voice was raspy and high pitched - another reason to be opposite.

“Can you open the door? I have your shit.”

I wanted to say no, but from what I knew, this girl was a goodie-too shoes. She would probably give somebody a blowjob if they said please. God damn it.

Crawling through the wreckage of the room, I made sure to open the door just enough to see my face. I would clean up later, maybe.

The door creaked open, I peeped out, and I lost my breath.

There he was, Mike Dirnt, standing in my doorway. What the fuck kind of trick was this?

He was wearing plaid pajama pants and a plain black t-shirt, and he looked tired as shit. The thoughts reeled through me. How did this happen? Do we live together? Are we dating? I couldn’t even comprehend enough to say something.

Sighing, he held out a book to me. “I can’t fuck-” He paused, looking guilty. “Sorry, I forgot you don’t swear, but anyways, I can’t believe mom woke me up before eight o’clock to give you your god damn textbook. That’s total crap.”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t swear? What the fuck? Of course I fucking did. And supposedly, Mike Dirnt was my brother. Or, step brother, that is. This was impossible.

“Sorry,” I began, “that you had to wake up.”

Mike gave me a weird look as I took the book, reaching out slowly and sliding it from his grasps. I still couldn’t believe it was him. He eyed me cautiously before asking me, “You okay, Sammy?”

“Yeah. Yeah,” I stuttered.

He raised his eyebrow. “Okaaay, then. I’m going back to sleep. I couldn’t care less if I was late to school, but you, on the other hand, go to,” he paused, flaying his arms around like a girl and, with a high pitched voice, continued, “private school!”

Private school? Was this girl some kind of fucking nerd too? Shit, that old man was going to get it.

All I could do was nod, my mouth agape, and he started to open the door across the hall, which I assumed was his room.

“Oh! Mike!” I couldn’t help myself. He turned around, his eyes half closed, as if while he walked those two feet he had already started to go back to dream land.

“Yes?”

“You,” I paused, promising myself a good beating when I closed my door, “You don’t have to uh…not swear in front of me. It’s cool.”

Mike laughed. “Cool? When did you start to say stuff like 'cool'?” And with that, he shut his door, leaving me staring blankly at the old wallpaper lining the hallway.

I sighed in defeat and exhaustion, letting the door out the grasps of the skeleton finger tips that were, now, my own. The door slowly opened, revealing the filth it was hiding, and hit the side of the bedroom wall with a slight thud. This was going to be hard.

“Well, Mike,” I retorted to his shut door, “I guess I started saying 'cool' when I woke up and I wasn’t me.”