Lost Days

 Years before I became "The Flash", I was just a kid. A kid with a mom, which is more than I have now.

9 years old

"MOM! I can't find my soccer socks!" I yell.

"They must be in the wash, Barry!" she calls back.

"Mom," I whine, "I need those socks! They're lucky! I've never won a game without them!"

I look at myself in the mirror, taking in my rapidly reddening face and dirty blond hair. Mom always tells me to brush it, but it always looks the same, even if I do.

Sighing, I pull a different pair of socks out of my drawer and wrestle them on. Then, I grab my cleats and shin guards and run downstairs.

"Mom, I can't believe you didn't have my socks ready," I say, pouting, while we're in the car.

"Honey, you can't expect me to wash your socks all the time. Your last game was only yesterday!" she comments, mildly annoyed.

I don't speak the rest of the way to the game.

It's the last few minutes of the second half, the game is tied, and I'm running down the field, dribbling the ball between my feet. Just as I go to kick and score, a player from the opposing team steals the ball, dribbling down the field, and scores on our goal. The final whistle blows, and I stalk off the field, ignoring high-fives from both teams alike.

Back in the car, I yell, "This is all your fault, Mom. My socks weren't ready!"

10 years old

She's so beautiful. Cassie Harrison is her name, and I'm going to ask her out. Now, though, I stand in front of the school bathroom mirror, slicking back my hair with water and trying to talk myself out of it.

The fourth grade dance is three days away, and although all the teachers tell us that we're supposed to go with friends, everyone is asking girls out. So I'm going to. But I've been gathering my courage for the past week, and I have yet to actually ask her. I tell myself that now is the time, and stride confidently out of the bathroom.

I lean against her locker, trying to look casual and constantly running my hands through my hair. I smooth down my jeans and tug at the hem of my shirt. Then, I realize that she must be outside already, since the lights in her classroom are off.

Taking, the stairs two at a time, I force myself to slow down. Checking my breath for the twentieth time, I step outside. Instantly, I see her long blond hair, and, thank God, she's alone.

"Hey, Cassie!" I call, taking great care to make sure that my voice doesn't crack or tremble.

"Oh, hi Barry!" she responds brightly.

She knows my name, she knows my name, she knows my name! My brain repeats like a mantra.

"I was, um, wondering if, um--" I begin.

And then I hear a car horn, and I turn, horrified. Sure enough, it's my mom with her usual greeting.

"Is that your mom?" she asks, looking confused.

"Um, yeah, I've got to go," I say, then run towards the car.

"Mom!" I shriek once I get inside, "How could you do that? You interrupted me! I told you not to honk!"

"What did I interrupt?" she asks.

I don't talk to her for the rest of the ride.

11 years old

Mom tucks me into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin.

"I love you, Barry," she whispers.

"Mom, that's cheesy," I say, rolling over and getting the covers tangled in my legs.

She sighs, then murmurs, "They grow up so fast." She shuts the door.

I wake up what feels like moments later to the sound of yelling. It's my mom.

I run down the stairs, turning into the living room. I screech to a halt when I see the swirling yellows, reds, and greens around her. She's on her knees, weeping.

A primal scream that turns into her name erupts from deep inside of me, "MOM!"

But there's nothing I can do. My dad comes up beside me, and starts yelling for her, too. There's nothing either of us can do.

We're both still screaming as the light engulfs her, and she collapses.

Gone. Just like that.

Present Day

All those times I just took her for granted, and it took losing her for me to realize that. Now, I would give anything to have her honk the horn and embarrass me just one more time. I would give up everything to have one more day with her. But I won't get it, and I can't help but feel like I wasted the days I had.