Random stories

I always knew that being considered “mature for my age” was never as good as people made it sound. A week ago I woke up looking like I was in my mid-forties instead of my mid-thirties, I had extra aches and pains that I never got to grow into, and my soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend now looks like she’s young enough to be my daughter. It had been nice to get the validation that she was an immature brat though.

I shook my head and pulled myself out of my thoughts, double-checking the address of the house I was sitting outside of. 1201, belonging to the Allen’s. The parents had several CPS complaints against them, citing possible neglect of the three children, two girls, eleven and eight, and an autistic boy, nine. Christ, I worried about the oldest daughter, looking at her last time had been like looking in a mirror.

*You’re so mature for your age.*

I took a deep breath and walked up to the house. Hesitantly I pushed on the cracked doorbell, listening to the faint ring echo in the house. My dread heightened as the bell faded and footsteps took it place. After a minute, a young woman answered the door. My stomach dropped as I took in her appearance. She looked like her mother, with dark wavy hair and Italian features, but with her father’s blue eyes.

I had years of practice though, and none of my horror slipped past my professional mask as I addressed the girl, “Hi Alice, do you remember me? I’m Ms. Calloway, I know I look a bit older than I did last time I was here. Are your parents home?”

She nodded and said quietly, “Please come in.”

The house looked better than it had the last time I was here. No left out rotting food, no beer bottles, the rug even looked vacuumed. In the living room, another young woman with blonde hair was carefully building a LEGO tower with a little boy. As I watched her with the boy, it felt like the wind was knocked out of me. She looked like she could be his mother. I cleared my throat and blinked back the tears that threatened to spill over at the sight, and focused back on Alice, who was observing me anxiously.

I gestured for her to continue moving, and I followed the young woman, who should have been a child, toward the kitchen. Two teenagers were watching YouTube on their iPhones while eating pizza, with crumbs scattered around them.

I cleared my throat again, this time feeling rage bubble up inside me. I put on my best blatantly fake smile and addressed the teenagers, “Hello Mr. and Mrs. Allen, I’m Ms. Calloway from Child Protective Services, I’m sure you remember me.”

The two teens froze, then looked up at me with slightly frightened expressions. I turned to Alice, my fake smile turning into a sincere, gentle one, “Why don’t you go play with your siblings Alice? I need to have a talk with your parents.”

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Submitted by themanganut on Sat, Apr 30, 2022 to /r/WritingPrompts/

The prompt

Oops, the simulation messed up. Everybody has been re-aged to match the maturity of their inner person. This has made office life a little strange