Merry Go Round (Of Time)

By: Charlotte Shum

For the 42nd time, the machine brightens up and envelopes you in its gaudy light.

For the 1st time in a while, you’re home.

You stumble out of the strange machine, gripping the structure as you adjust to the familiar environment. The room is filled with the smell of play-doh and pencil shavings; the nostalgia engulfs your nose.

It’s been a while since you came here, but nothing’s changed. Even the hands of the clock are in the same place.

Now pacing around the room, you get a chance to see what it was really like, from an adult’s perspective, that is. It’s messy and lived in; the toys held your childhood memories are everywhere you step. You brush your fingers on their grubby surfaces, smiles and frowns appear on your face.

Nostalgia isn’t what you’re here for; you know better than to waste more time.

Sighing, you glance at the old flat, digital clock. It’s half past six. They’ll be back any moment now; you don't have a second to waste.

You rush out of your old bedroom and into the hallway; rectangular boxes and square crates scattered everywhere you walk—keeping the hallway just as it was before you arrived seems way harder than you originally thought. Moments after, you open the door to your mother’s study with a satisfying click.

Mother was always very organized to the point of obsession, so it’s a shock the room is as untidy as it is. Almost all the furniture—including the bookcases—are missing. The walls are bare—only one curtain is dangling off the window casing—and only her desk, that ancient lamp your mother love much more than she did you, and a litter of boxes all wrapped and sealed remain.

You walk across the room, searching for an out of place container, hole, or something; however, you’re soon distracted. Outside the half-hidden window, several headlights—from a car and a bright yellow truck—illuminate the street. Two figures, both tall, lean, and professionally dressed step out of the car; followed by a group of well-built people in uniform and a pouting child.

It’s shocking, really, that the moving company came so early; it doesn’t seem that they’ve finish packing yet with the desk and your old room, you remember the house being completely spotless the last time they came—but who are you to judge?

You rifle through the drawers of the study desk, hoping to find a clue or if you were lucky enough, the actual object.

Tapping through the drawer bottoms, you find that one feels hollow. Anxiously, you slide your fingers against the base and find the object, hiding in—well—plain sight.

Huh, this was a lot easier than you thought it would be. Leaning on the desk, you bend down and grasp it. As surprisingly boring as that was, you’ve already obtained what you needed, and as usual, freely pranced around the room after a mission well done.

In the middle of your victory dance, you hear the door unlock downstairs, you freeze just for a moment; the fight or flight instincts you thought you’d eliminated kicking in. Right, you forgot—half-past six, not a moment to waste, it’s different this time, they said.

You hurry back towards your room, stumbling and floundering and jumping over all the boxes, all the crates, all your toys. Leaving a mess doesn’t matter anymore, you’ve already gotten came for and all that matters is that you follow orders and actual listen for once—no one wants to get stuck in the 2000s.

Finally arriving at your bedroom, you find yourself staring back at you.

No, not in a mirror, but your younger self, with all those bruises from playing tag and the worn-out Polkadot socks Mother hated but never threw away.

“Who’re you?” The younger version of yourself eyes you suspiciously, clutching your, no, his toys protectively. Somehow, Mini-you managed to get to your room quite literally moments after your parents opened the door.

“I’m with the Moving company,” you say, trying to sound as convincing as much as possible. While Mini-you would have definitely wanted to know that you are you and about time travel and stuff, you can’t tell, well you. Who knows what effect that’ll have?

“No, you’re lying, where's your uniform?” Mini-you seems twice as suspicious as before. He’s now standing in front of your machine as if trying to block you from it.

“That’s…never mind. Step away from the machine, please? I’ll tell you who I am if you do?”

“No, you're a liar, I don't trust liars.” Mini-you points his index and middle fingers at his eyes then at yours, before backing away towards the machine.

Mini-you aggressively leans against the machine which starts familiarly vibrating. You stare at the machine, before turning your attention back to the miniature version of yourself, eyes widening at the pod as if it came out of one of your old science-fiction comics.

You breath out your mouth a couple of times. There wasn't anything about this type of situation in the manual! Panicking, you wrap your arms around Mini-you—you don’t want to know what happens when a version of yourself remains outside of a vehicle while time traveling—who immediately pushes against you, causing you both to fall into the pod. Just before you can stop the machine from bring Mini-you back with you, it zaps you both back to the office, with your arms still awkwardly tangled with his.

Wearily, you stumble out of the bulky machine, gripping on the structure as you readjust to the familiar environment. The one you’ve been calling home away from home for the last decade or so.

Dusting off the dirt from your grimy shirt, you hear Mini-you fall onto the floor next to your feet, hands still grasping his toys. This time, however, his arms are shielding his eyes, probably from that stupidly bright light.

“Where’m I?’” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes.

You ignore Mini-you and decide to think about your impending doom. You can practically hear the lectures you’ll receive once your supervisors find out. You massage your head before sighing again for who knows how many times at this point. “They’re definitely gonna demote me after this.”