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Part 3- The plot begins to take on significance. (I Promise.)
Writing is significantly harder when you’re two years old and are therefore not supposed to logically be able to write. But then again, most two-year-olds have only been around for two years, and therefore lack the wisdom to want to write, the experience to have things to write about, and the perception to know what things to write about. This is my second time around the course, of course, so I am able to write, however slowly and painfully, my thoughts.
My second birthday was coming up much faster than I remember my first coming up, and so I began to plan out exactly how I would prevent my grandmother, grandfather, and uncle from boarding the train that killed them. If I could prevent this, I was certain that my life would turn out much better this time.
I wrote out ideas (kind of) of what exactly to say to them to prevent them from doing so. To say anything that would have any significant effect on them in terms of what they were going to decide (as the advice of a two-year-old must be taken with a grain of salt) would involve explaining my rather unorthodox situation plainly, and would of course, require that what I call my “cover” would be blown.
But I was prepared for it, if it had to come to that. If it would save three lives, I was prepared to sacrifice knowing exactly what the next 92 years would bring. The way I knew them now, they brought nothing but sadness and loss. I, as you might imagine, didn’t have any problem with giving up that particular future. It was more of a burden off of my shoulders than anything. I was prepared for whatever it brought with it.
I was now able to reach low shelves and take things off of low shelves, and put whatever I was currently holding on a low shelf. I know you take this for granted, but imagine being trapped in the body of a baby for 2 years with your mind as it is right now. There is no worse prison than your own body. But slowly I am regaining the freedoms of motion. Trust me, knowing how to walk and to run and to do anything really won’t help you learn how to do those things any better if you start over. It’s like being trained to fly a jumbo jet with crisp controls and nearly everything automated for you, and then trying to fly a tiny single-engine plane with a wobbly steering wheel with landing gear you lower with a hand-crank. You don’t realize how much of what you do every day is automated, like breathing.
During my first few weeks I often forgot to breathe. As you might imagine, I didn’t remember how to hold in “by products” either. Also, I forgot to blink and would always wonder why my eyes were always so dry. Of course I can do all of those things NOW, but still, it took two years. Well, almost two years.
Soon, after all of my planning was through, my birthday arrived. Many family members showed up, not nearly as many as had shown up the year before, but enough to call it a party and not a gathering. There was cake, and presents, and finally, almost at the end of the party, my grandparents and uncle arrived at last, and my uncle knocked at the door. My father answered the door, let them in and gave them each a hug. I was opening a present at the time. As I recall, it was a miniature Xylophone. At the sight of them, as I had previously resolved to do, I stood up, walked over to them, and looked them dead in the eye as I said, “Hello. Welcome to the party, I trust you’re having a good time? Enjoying yourselves?” They were struck dumb. I seized the moment and continued. “I know you’re shocked. If a two-year-old started talking to ME like this, I’d be struck dumb too. But I have something to tell you, something very important.”
“… And… what might that be, Torrey?” My Grandfather, who seemed to be taking all this a bit too well, asked me. (Two things… One, my grandfather as I later found out was senile, which may have accounted for his unexplained and frankly unwarranted acceptance of the situation. Two, my name was often shortened to “Torrey.” Only later, in my teens, did people begin to call me Sal.)
“In a couple of weeks, you were planning to board a train.”
“Ah, yes. We were.”
“Do not get on the train. It is going to crash, and everyone on it is going to die. Postpone your trip.”
“… Excuse me?”
This is where my REAL plan began. “I am the ghost of the conductor of the train, and I have possessed your grand-son. I traveled back in time to warn you. But the international laws of time travel state that I can only warn one group of people, and I cannot warn myself.” (Of course, this was complete bull. I just needed a cover story so ridiculous that it defied explanation.)
“Um… Eh?” I think my grandfather at this point was at his wit’s end. “Oh… er. Well, then, yes… I believe… Hm. Alright, Torrey. We can postpone our trip if it will save our lives.”
“My time here is finished. I must return to the sand-lords of hell, to which I sold my soul to return here.” (Now, I was just toying with them, I was having too much fun with this.)
“Oh… well… good luck with that, as it was.”
I then, finishing the act, plopped onto the floor, and tried my best to look as though I had begun to cry. My family dismissed it as a freak incident, and never spoke of it again (I think not, at least).
The party soon ended with a bit of a tense air surrounding the departing guests. My parents remained wary of me for several days following that incident. And two months later, my grandparents and uncle were still alive.