September 13, 2019
“The Virus is spreading. I repeat; the virus is spreading.” The woman on the screen had the same face as any other news reporter: strict, neutral, and self-contained. The words coming from her mouth could have been referring to a local animal adoption or another shooting downtown, but no. The words that blasted through the internal speakers of my television were the most profound I had ever heard. History was being made and stolen at the same time.
Each channel featured the same story:
“What is the Kyokos Strain?”
“What Now?”
“I Can Keep my Mental Facilities? Find out tonight at 6”
“SALE ON DIAPERS, ONESIES, AND ALL YOUTH CLOTHES AGE 1-10!”
The world has already gone mad. I try to call my mom and she doesn’t answer. I try to call my dad, and it goes right to voicemail. Fuck, what if they’ve already regressed? A panicky sensation rises in my chest. What will I do? I’m just getting started being an adult. I can’t start taking care of my own parents. Oh my God. What if I regress? All of that hard work, gone. The degrees on the wall meaning nothing. What will happen with this house? What will happen with all of the houses? Will there still be adults left? Ah, there’s the panic attack.
September 23, 2019
The Virus has been reported to have spread one week ago, and the school I work at has been shut down. The number of students started to outrank the number of teachers. I don’t think I’ve changed…much. It could just be me over exaggerating, but I’m pretty sure my facial hair has stopped growing in. All of my clothes fit the same, which is great. I would hate to end up like my dad. Poor guy went from 42 years old to 12 years old in under a day. A receding grey hairline became a mop of curly brown hair. His face went from scruff and matured to tiny and cherubic. His 23-year-old son became his legal guardian. Worst part: he still remembers being 42. He just mopes around the front yard, holding a stick and drawing nonsense patterns in the dirt. Every time I ask him if he’s alright, he looks up to me with bright eyes and says, “Stop asking me that, Andy. I’m fine. I’ve said that a million fucking times by now.” I still can’t help but hold back a small grin, hearing a 12-year-old boy say “fuck” with such a serious expression. One of these occasions, I begin to walk away from my preteen dad when he says “I miss your Mom, Andy. We met each other at this age, ya know.” I slowly turn around, not knowing what to say
“Crazy. Me too, bud.” My dad gives me the eye. No matter what age he’s at, he still knows who holds dominance. Being called ‘bud’ could be the ultimate insult to a man like him.
“Never call me bud, Andy. It’s dad and will always be dad!” He yells the last part and stomps away. The pamphlet says tantrums will become more evident as he settles into his new age.