The Bricks of War
The door was closed, and as I put my hand on the handle, I felt afraid of what I might find.
The door was closed, and as I put my hand on the handle, I felt afraid of what I might find. I slowly turned the handle until the latch gave way with a deafening click. I didn't even have to push the door inwards, instead it beckoned itself open. I could feel the sweat drip from my neck, down into my shirt. I told myself to keep my eyes open and not close them out of fear. As the door opened, there it was, all over the floor; an endless sea of red, and blue, and green, and yellow, and so many other colors. Every single Lego in my kid's room had been dumped onto the floor in what I can only describe as a parent's version of the floor is lava.
It was the middle of the night, nearly pitch black, and I was only here to check on my child's temperature. He had been battling a fever for hours, but it finally started its descent just in time for them to go to bed. My wife laid the child down in their bed with no major issues, as if she were some kind of dodging ninja. I envied her little feet, able to dash around without any major problems. I looked down at my own feet, covered in thin grey socks, one with a hole from some other chaotic matter that I would never remember. I took a deep breath and stepped into the room.
The pain was unreal, the heel of my foot barely touched the edge of a red 4-slot rectangle Lego. I bit the bottom of my lip and screamed words in my head that I would never dare say out loud. I grasped my thigh and squeezed it in an attempt to redirect my thoughts away from the new bullet wound I was granted in this war. There were no medics here, and I cursed the night-time cold medicine I had taken for my own fever. Everything looked like it was in a dark tunnel, all swirling around the dull blue emanating from Thor’s hammer that was playfully implanted into the wall as a nightlight.
I took another step and felt the tear in my sock open even further as a yellow 8-slot square shot between my big toe and its joint. I threw my arm up to my face and bit down on the fleece fabric to muffle my scream. I fell to my knees, each landing on a slew of other bricks, poking into me at all kinds of angles. I threw my hands into the air and decreed to the Lord, “What have I done?!” in silent terror. God didn’t respond, but I thought for a moment I could hear His chuckling.
I was shell-shocked and ready to collapse into a ball right there on the floor. Time seemed to slow down, and I felt like I would get sick. Treat me like another Lego piece, something to build off of, for I am done. I had to push those thoughts aside because my son needed me. I crawled through the rubble of tiny pieces, face-to-face with the detached heads and torsos of these fallen yellow people. I felt like I was swimming, or making Lego angels. I made it to the shore -the flat side of a race car bed that I thought made more sense to be against the back wall- what a fool I had been.
I grabbed the side of the bed and pulled myself up, looking down at my comrade. He was just lying there, peacefully sleeping through this time of war. I ran my hand over his bangs, pushing them out of his face as he snored softly. I pulled the forehead temperature monitor out of its holster, the pocket of my pajamas. I held it to his forehead and pulled the trigger. My eyes widened as it beeped far too loudly. Luckily, the patient remained still.
98.8, acceptable. I nearly shouted the word “finally.” It had been too long since we had seen that kind of temperature, and here it was. I nodded my head in contentment, looked at my son for a moment, and turned to leave the room. As I turned, my shin hit the edge of the tire on the bed, and I grasped the edge of the car's spoiler as I silently screamed out in pain. I raised my leg and furiously rubbed it as I tried to get myself together. I started my hobble through the path I had cleared and made it to the door. I forced myself down the hall, holding myself up with my hand on the wall. I made it to the bedroom, so close to the bed that would bring me healing comfort.
As I stepped into the room, my wife looked up at me from her side of the bed. “Wh---what happened to you?” she asked.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror hanging on the doorway of our closet. I was drenched in sweat, one pant leg pulled up from where I had been rubbing my leg, my left sock was nearly dismantled, and doing nothing to hold my foot in, and I had Legos stuck to various parts of my chest and torso.
“War is---” I started, but stopped as my wife lifted her finger, pointing behind me.
I turned slowly, my breath quickening. There he stood, my son. He was rubbing his eyes in exhaustion and yawning with his mouth fully agape. He looked up at me…
“Dad, were you playing with my Legos?” he asked.
THE END.
