Yes. That's what I want to do. I know the request doesn't completely change the history of the world but, that's the point. Yes, I know I only have one chance to go back. Yes, I understand that I could undo any one of the world wars. Yes, I know I could prevent millions of lives lost. YES! I understand I could do so much more. It's just... if I undo any one of those events... I would be where I am now. WE wouldn't be here. Not only does my small decision let "future" me make bigger choices, it also just benefits me now. So, yes, I want to go back to June 13, 2018.

It was my birthday. The worst birthday I've ever had in fact. I was just becoming a teen. That morning I awoke in extreme pain, emotional and physical. Momma had left for great-grandma's funeral and my legs decided to not help me. I was alone in the house, legs in excruciating pain, and yet, I still had to go to school. Walk to school, 2 miles away.

Professor, please send me back. I want to tell my great-grandma to hold on a bit longer. I want to set medicine by my bed, ready for pain. I just wanted to have a good day. I don't want a day to still haunt me years later. So, yes, send me back for my selfish desires.

“Wrong number,” said a familiar voice. I slid down the bathroom wall and took a deep breath in. I held it for about 30 seconds before it came out in a scream. Not an angry scream. Nor was it scared, or sad, or even anxious. It was a mix of disappointment and relief. Disappointed it had to end like this, relieved for the same reason. I stood up and walked over to the mirror. A person with something on their mind but no intention to share looked back at me. Copying my movements, mocking me. She looked tired and fed up with her life. She picked up the knife and let the side of the blade glide up and down her forearm. I turned the blade and pressed it in her arm. Not so hard as to inflict a lot of pain, just enough to draw blood. She looked down, I looked down, and saw a stream of blood flow to the counter. I lifted my hand and dropped the knife. I fell to the floor. I started to sob. I screamed, this time with all the emotions missing in the first.

He must have heard me, the bathroom door was suddenly nudged open by a wet nose. He was larger than the life I was so ready to take away. Ernie came over and plopped down next to me; looking at my wound, he started to whine. I leaned into him and he tried to lick away my tears. Ernie started sniffing around and looked down. He stuck his snout on my cut. Sensing that it hurt, he licked it. Boy, did that sting! We just sat there for a while like this, Ernie licking my arm, me giving him neck rubs underneath his collar.

I should probably clean up her mess. I tapped Ernie and we got up. After a short adventure to the kitchen to get paper towels and bleach, I stared blankly in the mirror. I took off my shirt, turned on the tap, and began to scrub everything. My shirt, my arm, the sink, the mirror, the floor; nothing was missed. Nothing needed to remember what she had done. I definitely didn’t. I looked down at Ernie, he cocked his head as if he knew what we both knew. I wouldn’t forget.

I turned off the tap and, pulling out the first aid kit, quickly bandaged up my arm. Ernie sat down and watched me. I’m glad that he found me when he did. I don’t know if I'd be okay if he hadn’t.

I put away the kit with Ernie in tow and sat down on a couch in the living room. Ernie quickly followed suit, laying his head on my lap. I should call her again. Home didn’t feel like home without Maria. Maria was my wife.

Our romance was one you’d expect to see in a cheesy Rom-Com. We were best friends since birth, partners since high school, I became her wife after college on a beautiful May day. I loved her. I’d like to think she loved me. Two years into our marriage, we got Ernie. About a month later we decided we were ready to have a kid. So we went to the sperm bank and I got artificially inseminated. Maria and Ernie were so sweet, neither of them left my side during my pregnancy. When the time came, Maria rushed me to the hospital. There were no signs of anything wrong with our child. We even picked a name for our baby girl, Elizabeth May.

The birth itself was painful but our little May was beautiful and quiet. Our little May wasn’t crying. Our little May wasn’t breathing. Our little May wasn’t alive. Maria never forgave me. A week after we lost our May, it was May and I lost Maria. Mays’ funeral was scheduled for after her mom and I separated. The smallest coffins are the heaviest. The weight was too much for Maria and I to carry, even together. On May’s birthday I made the mistake of calling her.

Ernie and I sat on the couch, him being the only thing stopping me from calling Maria again. As if sensing my wanting to get up, he leaned more into me and looked into my eyes. I stayed.

I awoke earlier than I was used to, to Ernie needing to go outside. He was sitting at the front door, leash in mouth, whining. I reluctantly got up from the couch. Ernie stood with me and started to wag. I smiled at him and he wagged more violently. Once I got to him, Ernie dropped his leash and I hooked the latch onto his collar. We ventured out the door.

Although it was early in the morning, it was still bright and warm. A suburb for young parents was where Ernie and I called home. Ernie did his business. I stretched wide and yawned, accidentally letting go of his leash. A brown blur zoomed in front of me and pranced back with a ball in his mouth. I smiled and crouched to take the ball from him. It took me a second to get the tennis ball from Ernie, but when I finally had it, it didn’t stay in my hand for long. Soon a bright green blur flew in front of me and Ernie followed.

I felt something I hadn’t felt in years. It was a strange feeling, hard to describe. It was a mix of bliss, contentment, joy, peace, and yet, somehow, melancholy. However, I felt if I knew for certain that I would be okay. That everything would be okay.

Ernie sprinted back toward me and gave me the ball without a fight. I threw it again. I overshot a little, the ball rolled to the other side of the street. Ernie, being such a good boy, ran across anyway to get it. I screamed. I didn’t see the car until it was too late.

The noise was horrendous. The screech of the car tires harmonized with Ernie’s cry. The car kept going. I ran to Ernie. He had the ball. So much blood. He wasn’t breathing. He just stared at me. I picked him up and brought him inside. Not worrying about the bloody clothes or tears. There were no tears. There was no time for crying. Inside, I laid him down on the couch and covered him in a blanket.

I screamed. Not an angry scream. Nor was it scared, or sad, or even anxious. It was a mix of disappointment and relief. Disappointed it had to end like this, relieved for the same reason. I stood up and walked over to the mirror. This time there was nobody to stop me.