My childhood will never happen again is a short story written by Janine Magan and shared with The Ugly Writers under the theme Retrospective for the month of September
It was finally time for me to move out. I had always been excited for this day—to be free from the toxicity I called home. Yet, the thought of missing this place lingered like a leech, sucking the life out of me. How could I miss something that hurt me?
I roamed around one last time, hoping to engrave every crack and every leak into my mind. I wondered if I would ever see my bedroom again. Our family dog stood by the door, probably thinking I would be back tonight, as always. But I wouldn’t be.
I left my plushie, the one I had slept with for the last 18 years, behind. I thought it was best to leave everything. I was going to start anew. This wasn’t just a new chapter; it was an entirely different book—one that I would truly write on my own, without the terrors of others. From now on, every mistake would be mine alone, and every achievement, my own.
I took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of resin and varnish that defined my home. Nostalgia seeped in with it. I wondered if my new place would smell different or still remind me of rotting wood. Not much had changed over the years. The dining table where I often ate alone was still there, the old sofas were never replaced, and the piano no one had played in years still sat on display.
Before, when all this furniture was new, I never thought I’d want to leave my home. The idea of living somewhere else haunted my sleep. Yet, here I was, dreaming of that day, and it was about to come true.
I went back to my bedroom and sat on the floor. I saw my younger self playing with the dolls I had now hidden away. My books were now covered in cobwebs. I used to read them nonstop as an escape, and this was where I hid to avoid people. My bedroom was my safest haven.
If only it were that easy. Now, I have more places to be. Everything I experienced before would never happen again.
The driver honked, signaling me to come down. Well, here I go. I brought my heavy luggage and looked back for the final time. My mother asked me if I was okay, and I smiled at her.
“Just sentimental because my childhood will never happen again.”
