Table of Contents Table of Contents
Previous Page  87 / 145 Next Page
Show Menu
Previous Page 87 / 145 Next Page
Page Background


Worse Games

To Play

Madison Melton

The twisted silver metal can clanks along the cobblestones. The

alleyway is dark and coated in grime.

“Run!” A little boy dives on top of the can, curling into a ball. You

run towards the end of the alley, shrieking with laughter, chased by

red headed boys in overalls, caps caught in the wind, to lie lonesome

and abandoned on filthy cobblestones. A boy pretends to grab his

rifle, hauling it onto his shoulder, clicking his tongue in imitation.

Another tugs your arm, pulling you away, your knight in shining


“You’re my hero!” you say. “You saved me!”

A mock battle, a minuscule comparison. Overalls instead of

uniforms, dirt patches rather than scarlet blood. A warped

comprehension of honor, not horror. A game.

Then, your painted, pretend world shatters: a make-believe

bubble of valiant heroes and courageous soldiers, come and gone.

The sun is setting, grapefruit orange fading into soothing hues of

purple and blue. It is time for supper, time for family, time for

reality. A piece of thin yellow paper drifts in the wind, and you

pause for a moment, watching it float delicately to the ground, and,

for the millionth time, you thank the Lord that your Daddy didn’t

have to go to war. That he doesn’t have to suffer the same hellish

fate that grown ups try to hide you from. Pretense and wool are

thick, but your green eyes see clearly.

“Be proud of Daddy,” they tell you. “Your Daddy is special, he’s

very important. Be


!” And you are, because you are an obedient

little girl who always brushes her hair and ties her shoes, boasting at

school about your Daddy, your important Daddy with the

mysterious, secret job.

You wave goodbye to the red-headed rascals as you reach your

small, white two story house, with its midnight shutters and

periwinkle door. You spy your Daddy’s smart black boots, bigger

than twice yours, and you break into a skip, ready to leap into his

loving arms. You fling open the door, run through the main room,

down the hall, into the kitchen. Straight to your father. Up, up, up,

into his arms, not caring about the dirt patches you are inevitably

leaving on his pristine grey suit.

“Hello, little one!” He smiles, swinging you around.

You ignore the worried expression he wears as you enter the

room. You ignore the nervous wringing of hands, the low tone of