All Over Again - J.S. Lewis

I feel myself moving through space but I don’t have any control over it. I make a weak effort to move my arms and legs but nothing happens. There is nothing around me -  just a pink-grey fog. Maybe it’s a mist. I’m not sure how to describe it but it’s very soft.  I think this is how moving through a cloud might feel, not a real cloud made of water and physics, but the clouds in the sky that look like they could support you. 

I try to see through it but it’s too dense.

 I don’t know how I got here or who I am. I have no sense of time. I might have been here seconds or centuries. None of this matters to me.

Slowly the mist recedes and I find myself moving down a street. I still have no control over my body so I allow my gaze to wonder disinterestedly.

After a while I realize that I’m following a girl. She is wearing a white blouse and a blue skirt, her hair is in a bun at the top of her head, her back-pack slung low, hands in her pockets. Her pace is a little slower than those around us and her head is down. There are several other girls wearing the same outfit, as well as a few boys in the same color scheme except in pants

We come upon a pair of gates with a security guard leaning on them. Cars line up at the entrance, each letting out one or two students before pulling off in a steady stream. The guard nods at a few of the cars, shouting greetings to parents he knows. Boys stop to talk to him thereby partly blocking the way. There’s loud conversation and playful shoving. I want to hear what they’re talking about but my body keeps moving as the girl I am following squeezes by them.

We make our way down a path. Groups of children huddle on benches, peering into open books, pens in hand, backpacks open on the ground. Others stand around talking and laughing. Again I want to stop and hear what they’re saying but I can’t. The girl slows her pace as we reach stairs leading into a building. Slowly she drags herself up the steps. When she reaches the last one she takes a deep breath and lets out a long sigh that sounds as if it came from somewhere other than her lungs. She grabs the railing and like an old lady she pulls herself up to the landing. I wonder if she has an illness before a bell rings and she takes off briskly.

I follow her into a classroom where she takes a seat at the wall closest to the door. She puts her head down and closes her eyes. She doesn’t open them until the end of the period. Halfway through the next class she gets up to use the restroom. Instead of going straight there she first wonders through the empty corridors. I wonder how someone can look so alone in a building full of people.

In the bathroom as we walk by the mirrors I see a faded reflection of myself. I don’t question why I can see it, only what it is that I’m seeing. The shock startles me out of apathy and my body stops moving as the girl enters a stall. I’m still staring at my image as the toilet flushes and the girl steps up to the sink. Our reflections line up side by side. The only difference between them being that mine is an older version of hers. She looks up but apparently doesn’t see me. The longer she stares at herself the lighter my reflection becomes until I eventually disappear. She nods as if she has come to a decision and then leaves the bathroom.

Questions go through my mind but I don’t have answers to any of them.

Back in the classroom the girl still has her head down facing the wall. I peer over her shoulder to see if she is asleep but her eyes are open. Her eyebrows are furrowed and she looks as if she is having an argument with someone

The last bell rings for the day and she gets up. I’m surprised at the complete change, now she just looks sleepy. She gives a weak smile to a few people before heading to the teacher’s desk and handing in an assignment.

Although I am free to do whatever I want I know I am supposed to be with this girl so I don’t move from her side as she waits to be picked up after school. When her mother arrives she climbs into the car and instantly closes her eyes. Her mother looks at her expectantly and a little hurt but doesn’t say anything.

I try to remember anything about myself, or the girl. It’s a little weird to keep calling her “the girl”. I know she is me when I was younger and that our name is Erica.  But I can’t call her that. I can’t call myself that either, at least not yet. I still don’t know either of us well enough to be on a first name basis.

In about an hour we pull up to a small house. The outside is neat but not particularly impressive. The grass is low with an attempt at a garden beneath the front window as a means to divert attention from the home’s otherwise washed-out appearance.

The girl goes up to her room with its twin bed, dresser and desk. I watch her take her books to the desk to study. Four hours later she is still on the same page. She assumes the same position she has been in all day. Eventually, she packs up her books and goes to bed. Lying beside her I listen to her whisper something. I can’t make out what she is saying but it sounds like a prayer or a chant. I soon drift off.

In the morning my mother calling my name jolts me awake. Wait, my mother? I don’t live with my mother. I hear her again and I feel the bed beside me move. I don’t remember going to bed with anyone last night either. Who could be beside me?

I recognize it as my own face as the person jumps out of bed at a third call. I clamp a hand over my mouth to stop myself from screaming. My brain reels with the information it is receiving. Racking my brain, I remember the day before… and some of the day before that.

Two days ago, I was in my apartment. Now I’m here.

I sit in my room trying to figure out what’s going on but even with my memories I still have no idea what I’m doing here. I decide to keep following myself until I figure it out.

On the way to school my mother tries to strike up a conversation but doesn’t receive a response. When we arrive my younger self mumbles a goodbye but doesn’t look her in the eye. I feel ashamed but I can’t do or say anything.

Annoyed, I march angrily behind her until we reach the gates. I remember the security guard, not from yesterday, but from twenty years ago. After I had graduated, he was arrested for selling drugs to minors.

We walk down the same path we did yesterday. I recognize some of the students. I was never friends with any of them but frequently keep up with their activities online.  We arrive at the building for the seniors and I watch myself climb the last few steps to the top. Had it always been this hard every day? I can’t remember, but watching her is too painful. I have to look away.

Today is exactly like the one before. They had all been the same. Why had I come back to this specific point in time? After lunch we take another stroll to the bathroom. I remember those little walks. I could get away for a short time without actually going anywhere.

I stand staring at my reflection for a few minutes before I realize there are no sounds coming from the stall. I walk through the door to find the younger me sitting on the cover of the toilet. I crouch in front of her, hands wrapped around my knees, not wanting to sit on the floor even though my body isn’t corporeal. Her eyes are closed and her body jerks from holding her cries in. What could possibly make a child so sad? I can’t remember anything traumatic happening around this time that would cause so much pain.

I want to say something to comfort her but I know she won’t be able to hear me. Reaching out to touch her hand I hope something gets transferred. Instead, her eyes fly open and she stares right at me.  I quickly stand up, backing up to the door of the stall. She looks like she is about to scream so I spring forward again. I make quieting noises when gurgles and squeaks start coming out of her throat. Someone comes into the bathroom and uses the stall next to us. I put my forefinger to my lips to indicate that she shouldn’t speak until the other girl leaves. Eyes wide, she nods. When we hear the door close I stand as far away as I can in the small space.

She stares at me in wonder and confusion. After a few seconds she finally lets out a strangled, “What?”

In short concise sentences, I tell her exactly what happened yesterday.

After a pause she asks, “Are you here to save me?”

“From what?” I ask. I don’t remember needing to be saved from anything.

“You know…this” she says, arms spread wide.

The pleading look is in her eyes again. I get a flash of an image of myself in a mirror twenty years later with the same look. I finally understand.

What could make a child so sad? The same feeling that puts desperation on an adult’s face.

I kneel down again and say in a clear voice, “No one is coming to save you, ever.”

I use a piece of toilet paper to wipe at the tear tracks. She pushes my hand away. Her eyes bore into mine. I know she is looking for hope so it doesn’t surprise me when she asks, “Are you happy?”

I think about everything that happens after I leave this bathroom twenty years ago, everything leading up to the moment in my apartment when a book, a glass of wine and a pistol are lined up on my coffee table.

I want to tell her “No. This feeling you have is all there is for you, and all there ever will be.” But I know that’s not what I’ve been sent to say. I know what will happen if I don’t, so I give myself twenty more years and say “Yes, I am.”