Few Days Later
Tobey lay flat on his bed, staring at the ceiling like it had wronged him.
His eyes? Glossy.
His hair? A mess.
His brain? Completely fried.
"Man… this thing is getting out of hand. My brain can't take this anymore."
He tossed the crumpled research paper beside him. It fluttered down like the remains of a failed prophecy.
"Either parts of this are missing, or they're so well coded I can't crack 'em."
Pause.
Let's stop right there.
This boy—a five-year-old—just said he might be able to crack a research paper that even fifty-six adult scientists tapped out on.
Ego?
Delusion?
Hope?
Let's call it Tobey Syndrome.
Symptoms include: excessive creativity, questionable logic, and a dangerous love for frogs and tools.
Anyway.
He was still staring at the ceiling. Like answers lived up there.
(They don't. Spoiler.)
Suddenly, he blinked. Glitched.
Then sat up like he just downloaded a suspicious update to his thought process.
"I think I… no—wait, yes… wait—"
His eyes darted around the room.
"Last time… Mom said she doesn't remember her past."
His voice lowered to a mumble.
"…Amnesia?"
He rubbed his forehead like a stressed-out professor.
"I did find that book on neuroscience, right? Went through it just to see how things work... kinda..."
Yeah. That's right.
Tobey—our tiny, sleep-deprived chaos gremlin—skimmed a neuroscience book because he wanted to understand how brains remember stuff.
Was any of it retained?
Maybe.
Was any of it safe to apply in real life?
Absolutely not.
"I just need to… give Mother her memories back."
Pause.
Look.
Don't ask me how he got there.
I'm still emotionally recovering from his peanut butter sentient creature lie at dinner.
(Yes. That whole story was fabricated. He never made a sentient sandwich spread. It was a flex.)
Back to Tobey.
"Now I have to think how to do that…"
He sat up. Grabbed his Linux-based tablet—because obviously, he doesn't use Vindows.
(He believes it's easier for his dad to track him on mainstream OS.
Which raises more questions, but let's not.)
He opened Brave browser like the edgy genius he believes he is, and typed:
how to get memory back
The screen lit up with suggestions. Hypnosis. Therapy. Familiar locations. Aroma therapy.
Tobey scrolled. And scrolled. None of them were possible without adult supervision.
Then he saw it.
The ancient method.
The classic solution from cartoons and sitcoms.
Hit on the head to restore memory.
He blinked.
He stared.
He hesitated.
But then…
"I have no other choice."
And somewhere, far off in the distance, the gods of reason wept.
he dramatically standing in the middle of his room, hands on hips
"It's time… to give her memory back."
He squinted at the ceiling like it owed him answers.
"Let's get this going."
He marched to his wardrobe and threw it open like he was preparing for battle.
Black shirt? Check.
Black tight jeans? Check.
DIY socks stuffed with cloth? Absolutely.
The uniform of mischief had returned.
Then it hit him.
Literally.
What was he going to use to smack someone's head back into remembering their forgotten past?
He turned slowly, eyes scanning the room like a general preparing for war.
His options:
Hammer: Too obvious. Also murder-y.Metal ball: Might work, but also might send her to another timeline.Bat: Stylish, dramatic, but not subtle.Brick: What is this, a 90s cartoon?Vase:
Now that... that had potential.
He is holding the vase like a sacred relic
"This one sings to me."
The vase was ugly. Heavy. Probably cursed.
Perfect.
He raised it like Simba from The Lion King, while the narrator softly wept in the background.
[Narrator, whispering with divine despair]
And so, a five-year-old boy decided to brain his own mother…
for the sake of science.
Somewhere, Freud just un-alived himself again.
He is tightening his belt of madness
"DIY memory restoration. Let's go."
And thus began what may go down in history as one of the worst ideas ever conceived in a bedroom filled with stolen biology books and questionable judgment.
A plan forged not from malice…
…but from sleep deprivation, ego, and just enough YouTube science documentaries to be dangerous.
Him gripping the vase like an ancient relic
"First, I'll get behind her and hit her."
(Said with the confidence of a war general and the brain of a cartoon character.)
He tiptoed down the hallway, channeling every stealth skill he'd ever learned from spy movies, his father, and that one time he snuck cookies at 2am.
The hallway light was soft—morning light, peaceful. Too peaceful.
And then he saw her—[Mother], strolling calmly down the corridor with a cup of tea in hand, completely unaware that her five-year-old son was sneaking up behind her like a tiny memory-restoring assassin.
He was ready.
Muscles (tiny ones) tense.
Vase? Steady.
Nerves? Nonexistent.
Morality? On vacation.
He crept closer.
Then he stopped.
And realized something devastating.
His height.
He was a good two feet below her head.
At best, he could reach the lower back.
Maybe the hip.
Certainly not her brain.
In his mind, mid-squat, gripping the vase, he realized
"…Right. My highest point is… her butt."
And no amount of jumping was going to make this heroic act of medical madness any more plausible.
His hand lowered. His face crumbled. The vase—still gripped with destiny—was now just a fragile reminder that he was five.
Just five.
And very stupid.
[Narrator, sipping divine tea while watching this trainwreck unfold]
"Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached the 'realization' portion of our regularly scheduled disaster."
"Tune in next time to see whether Tobey rethinks violence or simply builds a spring-loaded ceiling trap instead."
Next Day
Tobey lay flat on his bed, staring at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed him.
Again.
The ceiling, for the record, remained innocent and entirely confused.
him muttering to himself
"How the hell do I give Mom her memories back…?"
His arms were sprawled out like a dramatic novel protagonist having an existential breakdown.
One hand flopped to the side, scratching at his head like answers might just fall out of his scalp.
Spoiler: they did not.
A mountain of open books surrounded him—Neural Pathways and Memory Regeneration, DIY Brain Hacks for Kids (questionable at best), and a Google tab still open to:
"Can you safely restore amnesia by lightly bonking someone on the head?"
(He was on page six. Page six of a search result. That's how you know the bad ideas were getting good.)
he slowly sitting up like a broken action figure
"I think… I should use the rope to make Mother fall."
A pause.
Then the worst smile in human history stretched across his tiny face.
[Narrator, now flipping through a heavenly insurance policy]
"Oh yes. Because nothing says 'loving son' like planning a tactical tripwire for your mother in the name of memory restoration."
"He really said: 'Trust me, I'm five.'"
Emotional damage? Pending.
Legal consequences? TBD.
Hilarity? Guaranteed.
Tobey, hunched over in Father's workroom like a gremlin with a mission.
His eyes darted around, scanning shelves packed with high-tech tools and mysterious equipment.
But no—he didn't want to disturb [Father]'s tools.
This wasn't a mission for drills or electric saws.
This was rope business.
"…Need something humble. Something classic. Something unforgivably sharp."
He grabbed a work knife from the corner cabinet like a rogue ninja borrowing from the temple.
"Thank you, forbidden tool."
He returned to his room with the rope in hand—long, thick, stubborn—and began cutting it like a movie villain preparing a final act showdown.
Strands flared. Friction sparked. Sweat?
Minimal. Because our boy was on it.
Then came Trap Deployment Phase.
The house became a war zone of questionable engineering.
[Mother's Room]:
A rope tied loosely from the doorknob to a strategically placed stack of pillows.
He called it the "Gentle Collapse Starter Pack."[Stairs]:
A loop across the middle step—subtle, classic, deadly.
For insurance, he added a water bottle as a distraction decoy.
"Physics. She'll never see it coming."[Kitchen]:
One string rigged to fall an empty pan.
Another to tip over the box of plastic forks.
He called it "Dinner Time Surprise: Deluxe Edition."[Living Room]:
Rope under the carpet.
Loose end taped to the TV remote.
Why? Even he wasn't sure. But it felt right.[Father's Workroom]:
He added a sign:
"Caution: Secret Father Lab. Tripwire for Memories Only."
Professional. Polite. Slightly alarming.
After setting everything up, he stood in the hallway, arms crossed, surveying his masterpiece.
him muttering to himself with a grin far too smug for someone still learning to tie their shoes
"All traps: online.
Now all I have to do is wait…
…for Mother to come up from the basement."
He leaned against the wall dramatically, as if waiting for the sound of a majestic fall was a noble act.
Every creak in the floor?
He tensed.
Every sigh from the AC vent?
He raised an eyebrow.
The suspense?
peak
[Narrator, sipping divine chamomile]
"Oh, to be five years old again…
Setting traps for your own mother to unlock lost memories, while the gods weep gently into their popcorn."
"And to think—he hasn't even considered what happens after she remembers."
loud thud as someone crashes onto the floor
The sound echoed from the kitchen like a warning shot.
Tobey's eyes sharpened.
He clutched the vase with both hands, tiptoeing like a dollar-store ninja.
"Now I just need to hit the vase on her head," he whispered, visions of cartoon stars circling above Mother's unconscious head dancing in his brain.
"I think it came from the kitchen."
He made it to the door.
Paused.
Breathed.
Then charged in like destiny couldn't touch him—
snap!
sharp hissing sound hissssssss, followed by a sudden movement
Instant regret.
Something grabbed his leg.
Tight. Cold.
Too perfect.
He didn't fall—
he was yoinked.
Now upside down, spinning like a broken ceiling fan, the vase slipped from his hands and bonked harmlessly on the floor.
"…Huh?"
His eyes darted to the ceiling, to the rope, to the trigger—
This wasn't his work.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
Then it hit him.
Not the floor.
The truth.
[Narrator, spitting espresso in shock]
"Ladies and gentlemen… she tripped his trap card."
From the hallway:
Footsteps.
Steady. Graceful.
Powerful.
Mother walked into view, arms crossed like a final boss.
There was no fear in her eyes.
Only vengeance.
And bubble tea.
"Tobey," she said, her voice calm, "you're not the only one who reads books on psychological warfare."
She picked up the fallen vase, inspected it, and casually set it on the table.
Tobey, still hanging, mouth open like a Wi-Fi router trying to connect:
"…you knew?!"
She leaned in with a smirk.
"I knew the second I saw you measuring hallway distances with a banana and a spoon."
[Narrator, now crying]
"She baited the bait.
Set the trap.
And reverse-carded his unusual soul."
Somewhere in the realm of gods and popcorn,
a slow chant rose:
"Shalit! Shalit! Shalit!"
He dangled.
Defeated.
Swaying side to side like a sad piece of laundry.
Mother didn't say a word.
She walked right past him—
like his flailing meant nothing.
Boiled water.
Dropped a tea bag in.
Even added a splash of oat milk. The fancy kind.
Tobey blinked upside down, slowly rotating like a rotisserie chicken.
"Are you… just gonna leave me like this?"
She didn't answer.
She poured her tea.
Sat down at the kitchen table.
Crossed one leg over the other.
Took a sip—
siiiiiiip…
The audacity.
He groaned.
"This is psychological torture."
She raised an eyebrow, calm as a lake at dawn.
"No, this is called 'consequences.'"
Tobey wriggled like a desperate worm.
"I was doing it for the memories!"
Mother didn't even look up.
"what"
rope creaks dramatically, threatening to snap
Tobey froze.
So did the spoon in Mother's tea.
They locked eyes.
One second.
Two.
Then she took another sip—
unbothered.
siiiiip…
And reached for her phone.
Click.
A photo.
Tobey gasped.
"YOU DIDN'T—"
She smiled.
"Scrapbook material."