Midnight. 12:00 AM, on a Saturday night, or now a Sunday morning. 12:01 AM. My feet don’t reach the edge of my bed.

“What is happening?” I whisper, and gasp realizing my voice was five times higher pitched than what I had grown used to. I jolt up and out of the covers, nearly falling on my face when the distance to the floor ended up being much farther than what I had become accustomed to. I examine the room, looking for the lightswitch. Finally, my eyes catch sight of it and I stretch my arms to flick it on. I had never thought that I would see this room again. The walls were pastel green and ballet-slipper pink. My comforter had Disney princesses all over it. I swear just about everything was either princess themed or a shade of pink that contrasted every other shade of pink in the room.

I’m in complete awe. My itty-bitty feet scamper over to the mirror and I rush to cover my mouth so I don’t wake up the rest of my family, who I assumed was with me. The image before me is NOT me, or at least it hasn’t been me for 9 years. Suddenly, the harsh truth dawned before me. I am five years old again, even though my brain is functioning as a normal fourteen year old’s would. Tears escape my eyes, at first simply grazing my soft cheek, and then begin to pour out like a hurricane. I felt like a hurricane; anxiety and stress and confusion and destruction consume me and I lay back on my bed, practically kicking and screaming. I sit up again, as I realize that my sobbing had not woken anyone up. How can my mom not hear me? Why isn’t she coming to my rescue? I run for the door and, once it opens, it registers that wherever I am is not my old house. Instead, a glass divider stands before me. My fists collide with the glass several times but, my small body is not robust enough to even make a chip. I pound on the glass more and more, but nothing happens. My hands fly in the air and bury my face, covering it like a mask. With tears flowing and blood boiling, I crawl back into bed and, soon enough, drift into a deep sleep.

7 AM. I am somewhat taller, maybe stronger, yet still lanky and weak. The lower half of my legs explode in pain, the growing pains I remember from my childhood. The kind you feel when you are going through a major growth spurt and seem to keep you up at night, tossing and turning, piercing your skin with deadly agony that is just so indescribable. I had awoken in the playground of my elementary school. More specifically, the wooden bench parked beneath a stumpy, bloomed tree and across from another identical bench. I was not only alone, but I was now eight years old. I cautiously position my feet on the wood chip covered ground that I recognize all too well. My eyes evaluate my now 4 foot body, which is dressed in Justice clothing and sparkly sandals that I adored. A smile ran across my face as I remember playing tag around these same slides and monkey bars. My hands glide through my knotty, light brownish-blondish hair, which was tied back into my signature ponytail.
“Am I dreaming?” I mumble. My legs take off running up the concrete hill that led me into the school. But, another glass shield kept me from making it past the top of the hill. Hot with frustration, hands curled into fists so tight that my nails lightly dug into my palms, I drop to the ground and pull my knees to my face. There I sat, reflecting on the purest moments of my youth. Third grade, fourth grade, something like that. What was I doing? Who was I even friends with? Why are my memories escaping my mind, now of all times? Although I am the farthest thing from tired, I somehow drift into another deep sleep.

3:27 PM. My eyelids are pried apart and, after blinking multiple times, I see that I am in my happy place. The cool sand engulfs my smooth, tan skin and I lay my head back down in the dune. Flags are dancing in the wind above my head and waves viciously crash before me. I am eleven years old. Some of my best memories have been made here, at the Jersey Shore, in my little corner of the world, Chadwick Beach. At no more than a mile or two long, it always felt like me and my family were the only inhabitants that mattered. Everyone else was just background noise to fill in the gaps. Despite my love for this place, I have always had a fear of the ocean. It is beautiful, mysterious, and always changing, but maybe that is what scared me the most. The ocean is such an almighty power that it could easily sweep me away, and then what? Could the very thing that fascinates me be the monster to pry me from reality? Right now, I am muddled and simply disoriented, so I dive in. With no thinking, no questioning what could happen, and no paranoia, I submerge my head underwater and lay on the surface until everything faded into black.

My face arose from the position it laid in across the table. I peer around the room and see that I am at my fourteenth birthday party in New York City. I recognize the decorations, the aroma, and especially the smiling faces staring back at me. These mock wax-figures were frozen, however, they still gaze into my eyes, silently. I glance at the time on my watch; 9:01 PM, on September 14th, 2015. It is my birthday and the exact time I was born, right down to the minute. 9:02 PM and my friends around me seem to unfreeze and, in unison, pick up their ‘Happy Birthday’ singing right where they had presumably left off, as if everything was normal and everything was fine.

“... to you! Happy birthday dear Nikki! Happy birthday to you!” they all exclaim with smiles from ear to ear. I analyze each of their faces, tilting my head from side to side. Obviously, this was quite out of place, as one of my friends yelled across the table for me to “Blow out the candles and make a wish!”.

I nod, close my eyes and, one by one, extinguish the flames in front of me. Cheering and whistling fills the room and then, finally, everything was dark again, and I was back to sleep.