Hello, I'm new here... this is a short story I wrote a while ago...

The day I was 5

I’m about 5. I’m looking down at my chubby hands dismantling a Lego creation and they’re plump and smooth, unlike the 30 year old hands I’m so used to seeing. My skin feels soft and clammy and my hair is still the fluffy baby kind that, in normal time, has long since gone, replaced by a wiry mess that’s prone to frizz in the summer heat. It’s
Summer now and I’m out in the garden with what looks like the remains of a mud pie about to set hard beside me. There’s a worm trapped in the dried muddy mess, it will most definitely die like that. I remember this day. It was the day my Dad tried to teach me to ride a bike and I failed.

This has happened to me a few times. The first time I went back was on my 20th birthday. I was out celebrating with friends at a local restaurant when it happened. I’d just enjoyed a King Prawn starter and I nipped off to the loo before the main course arrived. No sooner had I gone through the cubical door, there I was in the middle of the school playground playing skip-rope with my two best friends. Suddenly I was 8. They didn’t have a clue I’d really just turned 20. They carried on turning the rope regardless of my blundering forgetful efforts and then we all went off to the canteen together to eat lunch, until my original self resumed charge and I went back to being 20 again.

I have no idea why this happens, but it’s my best kept secret. The boyfriend I had when I was 18 had an unexpected visit from my 24 year old self and thought I’d suddenly become a sex goddess overnight. My parents were delighted at my maturity and the cleanliness I had suddenly adopted, only to be disappointed by the return of my teenage self. Teachers marvelled at my high test scores only to give the real me a detention the following week suspecting me of cheating. Admittedly, sometimes it didn’t pay off. One question that haunts me is, when I’m occupying my younger self, where does my younger self go to?

I imagine the 16 year old me suddenly finding herself driving my car, whilst I sit her GCSEs. I try not to think about it.

The best days to turn up on are those where I made a huge mistake the first time round. Like when I dumped Ryan Samuels at high school. The following day I realised what an error I’d made and it was too late because he’d asked out my friend Sally, just to spite me. At the time I watched them for a year and a half feeding each other in the school canteen and holding hands on the way home from school. It killed me. I’d give anything to go back to that day now and put things right.

He wasn’t the best looking guy in the school, but the reason I was attracted to him was because he made me laugh on a regular basis. We’d be sitting in Maths and he’d draw stupid pictures on my pencil case that would have me in stitches or on the bus home from school, he’d mimic driver so perfectly I would double over in fits of giggles. The only reason Sally went out with him was because she knew it would make me hurt. The only reason Ryan went out with Sally was to make me Jealous. Ryan and I were best friends. Inseperable. Soulmates. It was a terrible mistake.

My Father is calling me and I answer in an alien high pitched voice which surprises me.
“Coming!” I say back as my five year old self and wander up to the house reluctantly. I know he’s about to teach me to ride the new shiny bike that awaits in the kitchen and I know how I’m going to fail miserably and not learn how to do it until I’m 23, but I’m still excited. There’s a small part of me that believes I can do it differently this time and the desire to please my father overrides my five year old fear.

When I enter the house I know to wipe my feet and I know to hide the shock of seeing my parents young again. It has become second nature to me now. I’m looking at the gleaming red bike my Father has bought. There are multi-coloured ribbons tied to the handlebars so that when I ride it, they fly out prettily. I remember so well and it’s propped against the kitchen counter waiting for me to fail. I blink back a tear that’s creeping into my left eye.
“Shall we teach you how to ride it?” says my father excitedly.
“Yeah!” I say with a strange 5 year old noise, trying to sound enthusiastic. My mother is clutching her tea towel to her and smiling at me. I look back at her apologetically.

As we wheel the bike out onto the tarmac, I think back to this day the first time round. The fear; the sweat; smiling so as not to disappoint my Father and my poor white knees, expecting the worst. I remember climbing aboard terrified of its shiny newness and holding my breath as we started off along the tarmac, my Father holding onto the seat behind me saying “I’ve got you, I’ve got you”. Then me looking back to see him far behind, not holding the seat at all, but projecting his voice from afar. I looked down in horror, at the wheels speeding beneath me and the ribbons flying. I was going along by myself and I couldn’t do it! I felt the bike wobble and I knew it was all over. Before I knew it, I was on the floor with bloody knees, the mangled bike lying beside me.

I approach the bike with trepidation and climb aboard, amazed at how easily my five year old body mounts the leather seat this time. My chubby feet find the pedals and I brace myself. My Dad is behind me smiling a huge toothy grin. The same one I mirrored back in the kitchen. Now my face sports a grimace and my whole body tenses.
“I’m sorry” I say to him, unable to help myself, but he doesn’t hear, he’s already pushing me along the hard tarmac excitedly and telling me he’s got me.
I know he hasn’t got me. He’s going to let me go in a few moments, and I’m going to fall. I know it.
As I glide along, my feet find a familiar rhythm on the pedals, even though I’m five, my 30 year old mind knows what to do. You never forget how to ride a bike, it’s true. I’m pedalling myself along and I can hear my Dad’s disjointed voice shouting from afar. “I’ve got you”. I know he hasn’t, but it doesn’t matter this time. I’m doing it all by myself. I’m laughing. Laughing in my five year old voice with sheer joy.

Later I drink milk, eat custard creams and rejoice my victory. Tired out, I slip beneath the covers of my five year old’s bed and welcome the cool familiar feel of the pillow against my face. I’ll sleep well tonight, knowing that when I wake up I’ll be 30 again, but somehow I’ll be different.

Morning comes with a jolt and even though I realise I’m in my own flat, I check my body just in case. My spindly legs and rounded tummy have been replaced with my familiar 30 year old curves. Something’s different I realise. But I’m not sure what. Then there’s a knock at the door and I wrap myself in my dressing gown to answer it.
“Who is it?” I say into the intercom.
“Hi” He says simply.
Something about his voice sounds familiar.
“Ryan?” I say.
Same sweet voice, just 30 instead of 16.