My most miserable memory must have been my eleventh birthday. I did not know a single person who had showed save my friend Ronaldo, who never was much of a talker when others’ were around. It was a dark, heavy day and the clouds were constantly tinkering on the edge of eruption. None of this mattered though.
Two hours into the silent fiesta, a rickety old grey minivan pulled up. A man got out who was wearing a suit that looked to be more expensive than his vehicle. He was very neat and clean looking, and as I watched from the backyard he talked with my parents before grabbing a large trunk and disappearing through the front door of the house.
The man emerged 15 minutes later in a robe and a different set of eyeglasses. What amazed me most, though, is that his hair had changed. In fact, all of his facial features had changed. The man, although he had certainly not looked old before, now looked no different than some of the children at my party. He walked to the back of the yard, got up on the makeshift pallet stage, and introduced himself as “The Magical Mister Mystery”.
The “magic” show was a pathetic bore. Kid stuff. Even at 11, I was too mature for that shit. But I couldn’t take my eyes off his hair, and face. What had happened? I thought to myself. He didn’t look real, not by any means.
The cheap phony approached the climax of his show and I couldn’t have been more ready for him to have finished. He brought out his trunk, opening it slowly for the millionth time, tricking the audience into being amazed every time. But this time, he brought out a dummy. While all the mothers jeered and smiled, I couldn’t help but notice that there was something quite disturbing about this doll. The head.
The head of the doll seemed to have the skin and hair of the man I saw in the suit, yet the doll depicted a child…. and Mister Mystery over there was looking more and more like a child. I ran over to my mother and tugged on her pants, whispering, “there’s something wrong with that man”; but she ignored me after a hard “Shh!”
The man was wrapping up his act at this point. He closed his trunk and began heading back towards the house. Deliberately taking the long route, I watched as he walked past the solitary Ronaldo and dropped his hat. “Be a dear, my boy, and help me with that, would you?” I watched as Ronaldo picked up the man’s hat, and together they disappeared into the house.
I didn’t think much of it. I was 11, for mother’s sake. With Ronaldo gone, however, I sat alone, unnoticed, as the other kids played and cried, patiently awaiting my friend’s return. It was at that time I heard the clink-clunk of the old minivan starting and I walked to the fenceline to watch the strange, awful magician drive away.
I barely caught a glimpse of the man as he pulled away. But it wasn’t him that I saw. In the passenger seat, looking vacant, empty; expressionless as a ventriloquist doll, was Ronaldo. And his hair had changed. His skin had changed. And so had the man’s.
I ran back into the party yelling “MOMMY! DADDY! HE TOOK RONALDO”. But, I was assured, there was no Ronaldo. There never had been a Ronaldo, all of a sudden, according to every one I knew.
That was the last birthday I enjoyed.
This is my entry into @svashta 's "Constrained Writing" contest. It's a very, very cool concept I just found out about and I strongly encourage you all to go and check it out :) This is a work of fiction, I hope that that is obvious :D