February flash tale #2 - "Closet"

(Ah, let's just read it today!)

It’s Esmeralda’s fault. Looking back, I wonder why she didn’t just get rid of it. But she has always been sentimental. And a control freak. And just a little paranoid. So, I shouldn’t be surprised that she kept it.

This morning, I was three years old. And for months, maybe a year, I was a normal little boy. How did it happen? I had no idea, no memory of a time before, save for a blurry, murky dream where I was much bigger, wearing grown-up clothes and having a grown-up conversation, and Esmeralda pointed something at me, something that made me go to sleep. I would wake up from that dream and discard it, just nonsense, not realizing that I had things upside-down.

And you know what? My life was good. A stable home, a loving mother. I didn’t even know how good I had it. But I didn’t get to be three the normal way. Esmeralda turned me three, she switched her husband for a little boy. Because...well, because of sentimental, control freak, paranoia.

I was a happy three-year-old. Just as silly and energetic and adorable as any other. And this Sunday morning, when Esmeralda engineered a game of hide and go seek, I was more than up for it. Because for this game, the rules were both simple and exciting. I could hide in the living room or the bedroom. No trying to get past the child-proof lock on the bathroom cabinet, no sneaking outside to play with the traffic.

These games never lasted too long. Because really, how good are giggly, excited little boys at hiding? Not great. And I get now why Esmeralda liked the game – a chance to get five minutes peace, an opportunity for grown-up phone call, knowing that her little boy really couldn’t get up to anything too bad. Because I always ended up racing upstairs to my bedroom, getting distracted by my toys, and then when Mommy came to look for me, calling for me in that sing-song way of hers – Dahhhhhh-nee! Dahhhhh-nee! - I wasn’t a difficult find.

But she would extend the game and building the tension, look around my bedroom, pretending not notice the giggling, wriggling creature underneath my comforter or stuffies.

Dahhhhhh-nee! Dahhhhh-nee!

Until she was crouched beside my squirming, chortling form, and then a moment of silence, she must have counted to five in her head, and then she would pounce, pulling away the comforter and gathering me in her arms, and I would scream, and she would tickle me, make as if she would gobble me up, until I was gasping and red-faced, begging for mercy.

Yeah, it was a good game. Maybe we’ll play it this afternoon.

Esmeralda was a good mother; I have no complaints about that. She hadn’t done this to hurt me, in fact it was clear to everyone around us that she was devoted to me. Still, the dressing up was a little much, you know? Looking back, I didn’t care. I was barely more than a toddler, and so I tolerated Esmarelda clothing me in those old-fashioned jon-jons, bubbles, and shortalls. Every day, I was smocked, I was appliqued. I can remember the women seeing me on the swings at the park or in the stroller, and they would always compliment my outfit.

What a handsome young man!

Isn’t he the cutest!

I would smile, because sure, it felt good to be the center of attention.

And then this morning, everything changed.

Because Esmeralda didn’t get rid of the gizmo that turned me into her little boy. And because instead of hiding in my bedroom, for once I chose to hide in hers.

And what is a little boy going to do, when he crawls inside Mommy’s closet, surrounded by her clothes and scents, and finds tucked away in the corner, a chunky black box that looks so much like a TV clicker?

It wasn’t for me. I could tell, right away, that this wasn’t mine. But there were two large buttons, one red and one green, and as I peered through the murky light at my newly-found treasure, I didn’t even have to think about whether I should play with it.

Which would you press first? Green or red?

I got lucky, progressing my age instead of regressing further, otherwise you wouldn’t be reading my story. Instead, Esmeralda would have found me sucking on the gizmo like it was a pacifier, and then she would have gotten rid of the device, right? And there would have been no more ‘hide and go seek’, not for a newborn.

I got lucky a second time, adjusting my mental age before my physical form. First came understanding, the return old memories and intelligence. I left the closet, crept over to the bedroom door and closed it. I took off my red shortalls (after I cringed at the rainbow suspenders, and how my name was appliqued on the bib) and underwear, and then decided that the next button would likely give me back my physical age.

Right on the money.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror, a wave of motion-sickness almost bringing me to the floor with a crash, but I held on to the closet door, steadied myself, and admire my adult body like I was enjoying the return of an old friend. Hey, like Esmeralda, I guess I’m sentimental.

“Dahhhhhh-nee! Dahhhhh-nee!”

Esmeralda was at the foot of the stairs, calling up. Warning me. A promise of tickles and giggles and cuddles. All the good stuff.

I had some time, enough time, to turn myself back into her little boy. And part of me thought that would be a fine plan, something even better than before, because it would be my own decision this time, you know?

But then I looked down at the shortalls with the rainbow suspenders, and I knew that I was tired of behind dressed up like a doll. And wondered about all the outfits designed for little girls. The ruffled jumpers, the smocked bubbles. Everything appliqued of course, with matching ribbons for a three-year-old's hair.

What a darling little girl!

Isn’t she the cutest!

I heard Esmeralda’s feet on the stairs. She continued to call my name in that sing-song way, and I felt butterflies in my stomach. The thrill of being looked for, and then the frisson of being found. Except this time, finally, Esmeralda would the one getting surprised, getting tickled, reduced to helpless giggles.

I hear the questioning note in her voice now, as she searches my bedroom. I’m not underneath the comforter, I not half-covered by stuffies.

“Danny?”

She walks along the hall, stops outside her bedroom door.

“Sweetie?”

Does she know? Can she guess?

It’s okay. She won’t be anxious for long.

I hold up the gizmo, finger poised on the button, ready for her to open the door.

THE END

"A Parkdale kid gets into Mommy's closet and starts playing dress-up, only to find in there old memories and means to turn back the tables, potentially completely switching wardrobes with their regressor-turned-regressee." - Anonymous1812