The Reset Slap

When I was younger, something strange always happened whenever I got into trouble and made my mom angry. The routine was simple: she'd yell, her frustration spilling over into anger, and then she'd hit me—just once, a slap or a quick swat. It was nothing unusual for a kid growing up in a strict household. But what wasn't normal—what I never told anyone—was what happened next.

Everything would reset.

Not just metaphorically, either. One moment I'd be standing there, tears stinging my eyes, my cheek red and hot, and the next, I'd find myself back before the incident had ever happened. It was as if the entire timeline rewound itself. My mother wouldn't have any memory of what I'd done. Hell, I wouldn't have any consequences to deal with because, to her, the mistake had never happened in the first place.

As a kid, I didn't think too hard about it. To me, it was like a cheat code for life. Got caught sneaking cookies from the jar? Bam, reset. Failed a test? Reset. Even when I did something really bad—like breaking my mom's favorite vase—it would all go away after one good slap. It taught me to seem like a good kid. Everyone thought I was so well-behaved, so obedient. But the truth was, I wasn't. I just never had to face the consequences.

That was years ago.

Now, I'm grown. Old enough to know better. Old enough to understand that whatever "gift" I had wasn't normal, wasn't natural. But I still relied on it. Why wouldn't I? It had gotten me through so much. Until now.

Because now I've made a mistake—a real one. Something terrible. Something so catastrophic that even as I think about it, my stomach twists in knots. I've tried everything I could think of to fix it, but nothing's worked. There's only one option left. The old way.

So here I am, standing in my mother's living room, trembling, desperate. I tell her everything—or at least, enough for her to know I've done something horrible. I beg her to hit me, to slap me like she used to when I was younger.

But instead of anger, she just looks at me, confused. "What are you talking about?" she asks, her voice laced with concern. "Why would I hit you?"

"Just… please!" I shout, panic rising in my throat. "I need you to. I need it to happen so I can fix this!"

She takes a step back, her confusion deepening into fear. "Fix what? Honey, what's going on? You're scaring me."

I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, each beat louder than the last. This isn't how it's supposed to go. She's supposed to yell, supposed to slap me. That's how it's always worked. That's how I fix things. But now, she's staring at me like she doesn't even recognize me.

"Mom, please!" I cry, tears streaming down my face. "Just hit me! You don't understand—I've done something terrible! I need to go back, I need to undo it!"

Her face softens, but not in the way I want. It's not pity, not forgiveness—it's dread. "I don't know what you're talking about," she whispers. "But I'm not going to hit you. I've never hit you. Not ever."

Her words hit me harder than any slap ever could.

Because in that moment, I realize something horrifying: she's telling the truth. She's never hit me. Not once.

So why do I remember every single time?