Jason's Journey

The Morning After

Waking up is always the shittiest part of the day for me. In that moment before I open my eyes, the disorientation is nauseating. I don't feel like myself. I don't know where I am. Most of the time, I don't even know who I am.

It's not like I want to wake up that much. I don't have anyone or really anything. I've got my tiny studio apartment and just a few pieces of furniture. I don't really have any friends or family that's going to miss me, not even a pet. I guess really my therapist is probably going to be looking for me. I mean he's legally obligated to, but deep down I do know he is the only one that really cares.

I'm that depressed and lonely guy that everyone glances at once, feels sorry for, and then averts their eyes until I'm no longer in view. I don't even blame them. I'm never really put together anymore, not after getting kicked out of college. I bet I smell too because sometimes I don't remember to shower before going to find food somewhere.

I know I'm just 20, but I really think that I've figured out the truth to life and society. Success is just luck. Some people manage to wake up with parents who give a crap about them, help them make the right choices, and all that happened is that in the womb, they just won the lucky ticket.

They won, and I didn't.

Okay, I'm done thinking about this crap. I've got to get up and get something to eat. I'm fucking starving. When I roll over on my side and stretch, my body feels weird. I crack open an eye, and nothing is making sense. I'm surrounded by wooden bars, and I'm in one of those rooms fancy people have for little kids. There are tons of toys of all different shapes, sizes and colors on the shelves and all kinds of furniture placed around the room.

Where the fuck am I?

My ears are ringing, and I can feel the panic building in my chest. I pull back the blanket covering my body, and nothing could have prepared me for this. My entire body is the size of a kids. My shaking hands are smaller and chubbier. I don't even remember ever being this small. Even my clothes are my size too. I'm dressed in some blue pajamas that zip up in the front, like this was bought right out of one of those baby sections in the store.

I sit up, and the first thing I notice is how unsteady I feel, like more than the usual disorientation in the morning. It's like my movements are sloppy and uncoordinated. I flex my toes, and even that feels out of sorts. I stand up, and before I can even fully put my weight on my legs, I topple over and land on a pillow face first.

I sigh with relief because my face was so close to smashing into the wooden bars, and I know how much that would hurt for the next week. Well, I guess that's assuming this whole thing is real because I'm honestly not fully convinced. I try to stand again, and this time I hold onto the wooden bars for support. Peering over into the room, it all seems so surreal. They've got framed posters and shit. Like these people have got to be making really good money, because I've never seen a kid's room so well stocked like this–not even in movies.

Next thing I know, the door opens, and a woman comes walking in. Her black hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she's obviously of Hispanic descent, average height for a woman, with a medium build. I swear I've seen her before, but I honestly have no idea where or when that was. She's smiling at me, and as soon as she reaches the crib, she pats me on the head and rubs at my back. It's like she can sense my distress or something. I wonder if she knows whatever is going on and maybe she will fill me in.

"What the hell is going on?" I ask, or at least try to. Because nonsensical babble spews out of my mouth instead. Like even I hear it, and I have no idea what the fuck is happening. I know for sure I'm trying to talk, and it's not coming out right. I don't have a speech disorder. Did I have a stroke or something?

"What is happening to me?" I try again, and all that comes out of my mouth is, "Wa-up-me?"

It's like I can't talk properly, and for a second it looks like she's listening intently and maybe she understands what I'm trying to say.

"Does the little Jason want some breakfast? Are you hungry for some num-nums in your belly?" she reaches over and rubs at my belly, and I am just stunned.

No. There's no way any of this is real. It's illogical. It's impossible, and yet she knows my name. I still feel the aching pain in my stomach of being hungry, and the room looks, feels and smells so realistic, much more than any dream I've ever had.

She reaches for me, and I instantly move backwards in the crib until my back touches the bars behind me.

"Aw, my little boy doesn't want to come to Mommy today?"

Mommy? What the fuck? I've got to believe this is some weird dream because it was Mother's Day or some holiday and I'm imagining having a mom or something. Yeah, this is all in my head, and I'm going to wake up at any moment.

She reaches in, grabs me and puts me against her hip, and I am so scared of falling that I immediately latch my arms and legs around her. She holds me with one arm and uses the other to place me on a table. I guess she trusts that I won't jump over the sides because she turns her back for a second and grabs some wipes.

I've never been one for much babysitting or dealing with brats in general, but I definitely know what she's doing when she unbuttons the bottom of my pajamas. I immediately put my hands over my undies. Even if this is a dream, I'm not gonna let a stranger see my junk. That's not happening.

"No," I say, and that one actually seems to come out right.

She smiles, "No? Is a little someone feeling grumpy today?"

I glare at her. I don't know why she insists on always talking back to me in that sing-song voice.

"No, don't touch me," I cross my arms, and again the words are all garbled and actually sound like, "No twe me," but at least the tone and nonverbal cues don't get lost in translation.

It looks like she seems to understand, so she puts down the supplies she had in her other hand. "I guess Mr. Tickles is going to have to wake up a sleepy little boy," she says and pretends to look around for something.

"Wait, no!" I plead, and it sounds like, a short shriek, but before I could try again to form coherent words, she attacks me with tickles and reflexively I'm giggling and shrieking. For a second, I get lost in the laughter, and it feels nice, like a release I never knew I needed. She stops tickling me, and while I'm giddy and relaxed, she takes the opportunity to take off my PJ bottoms.

I stop caring about what she's doing while I'm high on whatever endorphins are circulating in my brain. I notice all the clouds painted on the ceiling, all white and fluffy, just like something else in my peripheral vision. I look back at the woman, and I notice some diapers in her hand, and that's all it takes to make me explode.

"No!" I scream and start kicking at her.

"Jason, no!" she says firmly and grabs both of my legs in one hand and wags her index finger in front of my face. "I don't know what's gotten into you this morning."

I growl at her, mostly having given up on using words to convey my feelings. I try to pull my legs out of her hold, but her grasp is unyielding. I try again and again until I completely tire myself out. I guess this woman is really patient because she just waits silently until I finally still from all of my exertion to finish diapering me.

Dream or not, I'm pretty pissed that she actually put a diaper on me. I glare at her some more when she slides a pair of shorts onto me and puts a small shirt over my head.

She purses her lips while looking at me. "It looks like Mr. Tickles needs to make a return," she says and before I have a moment to scramble away, she rubs my pits and toes, making me a giggly and relaxed mess once again.

"Alright, now  you're ready for some breakfast," she smiles, pinches my cheeks and pulls me into her arms.