Most mothers are nurses, possibly school teachers, but my my mom was a writer. Not just any writer an author of well known thrillers. Everywhere I go: “Hey has your mom finished that new book yet?” or “Can I come over to your house to met your mom?”. Don’t get me wrong I love my mother, but after her passing I was mostly relieved of all the comments and questions that bombarded my everyday life. That was until people gave me their sympathy which made me wish she were still alive. Collectively after the whole funeral mess I decided to go into her old library of books and try to feel some connection with her. Some of the books were collateral damage including some of the ones she wrote. Books were scattered all across the room, in stacks, and on tables. It was almost like out of a horror movie. Something caught the corner out of my eye. On a table there lay a copy of the last book my mom wrote but never published. It lay on the edge of the table with absolutely nothing else around it. There was a page sticking out. I slipped out the page to keep from wrinkling but the page was actually a note. The paper still seemed fresh and crisp and white. It read: “I was murdered, do not laugh.” I looked around the room as to see if there was some kind of prank camera and someone was about to round the corner with a microphone and video camera. Nothing happened but there came a knock from the front door. To scarred to move, my mind raced 150 miles an hour. One thought came across my mind: “Run.”

Sometimes I wish I had another life. Like one where I am not an only child or one where I actually have a talent that gives me recognition. But sometimes wishing can become sinful, when the wish actually comes true. It happened to me. I woke up to an alarm on my phone playing some jingle I had heard a million times before, but when I opened my eyes I wasn’t seeing my bedroom. Well, it was my bedroom but I never had matching white furniture or an attached bathroom. I immediately sprung from my bed opening up the door. What once was a small hallway elongated into a hallway with three other rooms. Not only was the hallway longer my house was four times bigger than what it used to be. I walked down the hallway glancing at all the doorways. Two of the doors were decorated with Star Wars stickers and Marvel characters. I opened the first door and peeked in. A man who looked very much like my father maybe at the age of 16 was still sound asleep. I closed the door immediately and continued down the hallway. Where the living room was, was now a small set of stairs. Which at the bottom was a big living area with a flat screen tv, video gaming system, and two large couches. Sitting on one of the couches was my father though he was wearing a suit when he normally wears his mechanics uniform. He looked much younger for a fifty year old. “Hey, Sweetie,” he said calmly as if nothing was wrong. “How you feeling this morning?” How could he be acting this way our house wasn’t our house and we had strangers in our bedrooms. “Who is the boy sleeping in the room upstairs?,” I asked confused. He gave me a weird look. Then his face relaxed and he broke into a smile. “I know your brother drives you crazy but it’s not something to kid about.” “My brother,” I said still confused. “Are you feeling alright?” I didn’t know how to answer. I was flabbergasted. There came a creaking at the steps. A younger boy than the one I saw earlier about the age of nine or ten. Stood at the edge of the last step. “Good morning, son,” my father said to the young kid. “Morning dad, morning sis.” Where in the world was I? Where was my house? Where was the norm I was so used to?