It was just another evening spent at home in the summer before my senior year of highschool.

I found myself babysitting my two younger step siblings once again, and being overall bored. I had that hanging sense of dread that whispered, "I should do my summer reading," but then again, the lazy part of me shoots back, it takes so much effort. Instead I was ensuring that the two little tornados didn't destroy anything and miraculously get me blamed for it. That always seemed to happen whenever they screwed something up. Then I would have to deal with the repercussions.

I tapped the play button on my phone and started listening to the soundtrack from my favorite movie over again. Humming, I started picking up a few toys that the kids had left behind. This wasn't so bad, I thought to myself, maybe today will finish off as a good day.

Then the door of my house slammed open, and banged shut again. And with those loud bangs, my hopes for the ability to fall asleep fell out the window. They didn't fly, they fell. Flying would insinuate that there wasn't a sense of dread weighing it down. And I just knew that they would make some sort of remark that would lead to a full-fledged screaming match at me. This wasn't new.

And my name would be called. My horrible, awful name. If anyone's parents were on crack when they named their child, it was mine.

"Thorston Kazmaier!" I hear, and cringe.

What did I not do this time?

I'm in my room. Shameful tears streaming down my cheeks. I know that I shouldn't let it get to me, have been told so supportively a million times from my friends, from the rest of my family, but their words are like a whip lashing down upon my heart at every turn. I flip open my computer and click the instant link to Netflix. A tear splashes down onto my keyboard and I hastily wipe it off with my sleeve. On my recently watched list is Labyrinth, and I desperately hit the play button. As I listen to the soothing music, my tears slow and I quietly blow my nose. Wouldn't want them to hear me. It might inconvenience them in some way.

I mouth every word, as often I do to make myself feel better. It slowly approaches the scene where Sarah wishes away Toby, and I grow silent. I can never say the words. I believe that everyone believes things just a little bit, to the point where they are unable to ever speak out loud the spell, the magic words, the rash wish.

But today I am fed up, and I know, I know it's not real. However much I wish this whole world of fantasy was real, it will never be.

And so, when she says the real words, I silently whisper. "I wish the goblin king would come and take me away," I'm breathless from false anticipation, as I barely utter the final words of the wish.

"Right now."