There’s a bright flash. Well, it would be pretty ridiculous if it was any other kind of flash, but this thing hurts my eyes.

I don’t know where I am for a minute, and then, suddenly, I do.

I’m back home. My childhood home. It’s like I am a member of some audience. Watching in silence, unable to move or say anything.

Then I see myself. I’m bitching and whining, saying I want a bicycle. Is this a memory? Oh yeah, I see why. Dad’s not too crazy about me screaming my lungs sore, and he hits me. Like that’s supposed to help.

I’m on the floor.

Squirming in pain.

I think I may be bleeding. Mum comes over and tries to console me. Mum did that a lot. I loved her.

She places my head on her chest, and for a minute, everything is okay. I’m surrounded by bliss. All my troubles have gone away. For a minute

“She got what she deserved,” Dad says to mum. Not a trace of regret in those eyes. I want to believe this is discipline, that this is one of those spare the rod and spoil the child moments. That daddy knows best.

No, dad, what I deserved was a bicycle, I want to tell him. I can’t. I’m sobbing a lot, and I can’t form any words. If I performed well this term, I’d get a bike. I performed well, so I expect him to keep his end of the bargain. Seeing as he hasn’t, there’s only one thing left to say.

“I hate you!” I manage between sobs.

He moves to hit me, and then there’s another flash.

I’m in High School.

I was not too fond of those uniforms. This time around, I’m in the Chemistry Lab. We’re doing “Practicals.”I think I remember this.

I have gotten over my loathing for dad after he dumped me in this place. The old man’s dead, I can’t hold a grudge. It wouldn’t be right. My classmate slides a note over.

“Meet me at the back of the chapel after class. We need to talk- E”

I hate that she never writes the full form of her name. There’s something wannabe-ish about the whole abbreviation thing.

Everyone’s doing it, but that doesn’t necessarily make it okay. Or cool.

Right on time, the bell rings. The teacher decides to ignore it. Figures we can rely on his droning voice for sustenance. Mark speaks up and lets him know we can’t.

He doesn’t use tact and says something like, “Go away. We’re hungry!”

The teacher is not amused. Mark has to write an apology. Fifty times across the board. His martyrdom is not in vain. The rest of us are allowed to go and have lunch.

We’ll probably call Mark “Yesu” after this incident.

I decide to skip the meal. Something about weevils swimming in my gravy doesn’t quite do it for me. Fuck the extra nutrients.

I meet E where she said she’d be. She’s excited, which can only mean one thing. She’s got some gossip.

I’m wrong, she’s trying to play matchmaker again—this time with a senior. I decline, and we talk about how frustrated we are with life. It’s a topic we always visit, but it feels nice to know you’re not suffering alone. Misery loves company. For all her shortcomings, E is alright by me.

We keep talking and seemingly get lost in the moment. We embrace.

We’ve done this countless times. It’s not a big deal. and yet today, it feels a bit different.

I draw back. My hands wrapped around her waist. We look into each other’s eyes. We connect without words. It feels like telepathy. I know what she wants, and she knows what’s on my mind.

I draw her close, and our lips meet. It’s perfect.

Until the scream.

The school nurse saw us and snitched.

We are in the Headmistress’ office. Heads hung in shame, listening to him go on and on about how what we did is wrong.

Curiously, E keeps trying to hold my hand like she’s trying to be defiant. Trying to say, “Fuck it!”.

Our parents come to pick us up. I see the look on my mother’s face, and that’s when I feel something. It’s not regret as such. I enjoyed the kiss.

My mother is disappointed, and that makes me feel awful. I have hurt her. I didn’t want to hurt her, but I have. At that moment, if it makes sense, I want to die and be swallowed whole by the ground.

There’s a flash.

Everything else passes by so fast.

My mother’s second wedding. I didn’t like the guy, but it made mum happy. I was all for making her happy. Even if it meant keeping quiet when I was abused by her husband, it was a small price to pay.

My first day at the university. Not at all memorable. I got wasted and ended up in bed with someone I didn’t know. The sex with her was good, but she had the aesthetic appeal of a bar of washing soap.

My first real relationship. It lasted all of a year then the cheating started. I tried to take it for a while, but it got to a point where I figured I’d had enough.

Then I’m standing over a grave and looking at a coffin. I pick up a mound of sand, and a lump forms as I toss it in. I never got around to making things suitable for the coffin’s occupant. I begin to cry. Then it quickly evolves into wailing. I make the unrealistic wish that many before me have, that I could turn back time, that I could make it different.

Then it’s dark. There’s noise all over the place. Sounds of gunshots. Screams.

Then there’s silence In the distance, there’s a light. It seems far away, and I begin to walk toward it.

As I get closer, something feels wrong. I feel, in my gut, that I may not be doing the right thing. Then I feel a tug at my hand.

I look down, and I see myself—the young me.

“It’s not yet time.” She says with urgency about the way she delivers the words. She seems to be trying to pull me away from the light.

“Time for what?” I ask her. I mean, I ask myself. It isn’t very clear.

“It’s not yet time!” She insists.

I try to shake her off, but her grip is firm.

Suddenly there’s a bright flash. Some overzealous writers would describe the kind as ferocious as a million suns.

I realize I am lying down. Looking up. There’s a man in white standing over me. Next to him is a woman. A nurse, I can’t hear what she is saying, but her lips move to form the words, “It’s a miracle.”

The man in white nods his head.

He peers into my eyes, aided by light from a small torch. After ascertaining that I am alright, he stops and says something.

This time I hear it.

He says, “Welcome back, Dorothy.”