What I Did

  I shouldn't have done what I did.
   I shouldn't have done what I did because everything was alright and suddenly, out of nowhere, that one-legged friend of his appeared followed shortly after by that twisted, frightening and unpredictable Willie Wonka friend and the one-legged friend had soon taken his prosthetic limb off and was going between attacking and defending with it and his moral-free girlfriend was in the background, laughing maniacally or egging him on or something and the axminster carpet in the garage kept bugging me.
   It was horrible and frightening and I closed my eyes, at first pretending not to be there, but soon relishing my moment as Dorothy. Before I clicked my rubies together I would take a while to become aware of the sensations I was having.
   I was, even for a child, perfectly proportioned and I felt very clean and smelt of a nice neutral soap, happy and excited at the same time. As Dorothy, I knew I was special and good but at the same time I had very little ego.
   I decided to open my eyes and continue to be Dorothy, it was such a pleasant, optimistic sort of a feeling.
   "I have to leave," I said loudly. "My auntie will be wondering where I've got to, and to be frank, she'd be none too pleased if she knew I was here with all of you."
   I got up unsteadily and stepped over something revolting on the grass. I went through the front door backwards and said quietly, "Goodbye," as I shut it.
   It was dark outside and unwelcoming. After six hundred miles I stumbled upon a railway station. There was an old dishevelled gentleman sitting on a bench under a lamp. I sat down next to him.
   "Dorothy?" he said.
   "I didn't know you knew," I told him.
   "You forgot," he replied.
   "Oh goodness, yes," I remembered and immediately clicked my heels together the appropriate number of times.
   At home, safe, I thought I shouldn't have done what I did, but then I started to get bored and lazy and interested in myself again. So I employed one of those deformed chaps to burn me a little whenever I remembered or felt like that again.
   I haven't done what I did before again, probably because I'm not too keen on the burn, the way it suddenly seems to come out of nowhere when you least expect it, and burns you.
   I know I shouldn't have done what I did, but being Dorothy for a while was great, especially the immense sense of freedom the pretty dress and white ankle socks gave me.