Child's Play

If I knew what would occur in such a short space of time, I would never have been so compliant with the idea. My name is Sam and I am the leader of the Purple Hand Gang. From what started out as a utopian society of clockwork efficiency soon aroused deep seeded divisions. Egos collided, emotions rose, people got called dickheads.

Antonio was a chubby kid who had seen his younger brother torn down by a ray of gunfire right before his eyes. Poor bastard. The innocence of youths’ flames now lay extinguished behind the iris of his eyes. Benjy, a petite lad who could pass for an extra member of the Weasley’s, now has a phobia of leaves after Swashbuckle recruited an elder sibling to hide in a mound of fallen tree foliage. The covered man-child sprung to life when the little redhead was walking innocently by, chasing him around the parameters of the world before giving up on the pursuit. He was a cook, not even a goddamn fighter. Those cold Sunday mornings running around a field with a number attached to his vest did not seem so pointless after all. Little Benjy now remained behind at base camp on medical discharge, even the sight of a spinach leaf triggers traumatic memories.

After ‘The Fallout’, the society split into two groups. The Purple Hand Gang, ran by me of course, and Swashbuckle, ran by John from Brum. John was a Slender Man-looking guy who wore a singular eye patch. There were countless rumours for the reason behind the patch with some speculating he lost the eye in a previous battle, whilst others fell back on the more traditional and mundane idea that he just had a lazy eye. Whatever it was, the lad was a brute. Swashbuckle are a group of savages made up of the dumbest of the dumb. However, what they lacked in intelligence they more than made up for in physicality, partly due to the enlisting of big siblings which clearly violated Article 31 of lunchtime negotiations.

Our defences began to be particularly weakened in the lead up to quarter past three. Our whole right flank was swiftly wiped out by the elders, carried away in their metal motor beasts as their screams of protest faded into the distance. But here I advance on the entrance to their headquarters. There is five of us against however many of them, with their larger members counting for at least two of ours. They have speedboats circling the moat in the hope of spotting our small squadron. This all started to pass the time but now friendships lay in tatters, as well as body parts. The milk of the war turned sour when John from Brum eradicated timeouts and launched an attack on the unsuspecting Nathan as he sat alone and defenceless. Any hope of a treaty was put firmly out of the realm of possibility after the ‘Attack in Cubicle Four’ fiasco. The humid heat of the spring afternoon did not help with the curdling of tension.

It has all boiled down to this moment, I thought, clutching my weapon on the brink of their headquarters. This is what we have been working towards for as long as I can remember. Many of our comrades have fallen in the process. If we do not come out the other end victorious, they would have perished for nothing. Peter, the youngest of the group, overeagerly charged ahead, climbing the rafters like he was born on the ladder. The sound of shrieks and the slashing of swords could be heard as we ducked for cover, frozen by the situation to the base of the ladder. That is it, this ends now. I look at the frightened faces of my companions and put on the façade of leadership. We spring up the ladder. One foot over another. As we reach the peak of the over-arching frame, we see John and his squadron retract from surrounding Peter, who lay motionless on the floor with blood oozing out of his side. We raised our swords and charged towards Swashbuckle and their throne of bloodshed. We edged closer and closer. We are almost in touching distance. I caught Johns’ eye when-

“It’s home time”, a bellowing voice of my elder trying to pick off our flank can be heard. “Not now”, I bark back, retaining authority over the situation. “Don’t you dare raise your voice to me young man. You are not bringing that stick into my car!” the elder responded. I realise that the freedom of the free world is lost and discard my armour graciously before bidding farewell to my companions. No words are spoken but a mutual understanding is held. I walk away from the battlefield in the talons of the elder, who heads swiftly towards our own metal beast after bidding farewell to fellow elders congregating at a nearby table. I have abandoned my men. I have gone AWOL in the face of danger. I stare out at the passing world as we fly further and further from the battlefield and my leadership responsibilities.

I sat looking at the outer world filling with water. As I drowned in my pool of emotions in the backseat, the ancient ballads of a time before my own bellowed into the arena of the metal belly. I would have climbed to the source of the headache, but I was trapped in my seat by a strap applied for “safety”, with a lock unbreachable for someone of my life length. My life giver, a medium aged elder named Sandy, claims to love and want the best for me but continues to distribute torture. Whether that be abducting me from my comrades, suffocating me with her renditions of composers from a compilation disk which can only be named “Anthems of Abuse”, or banning me from entertainment of a technological nature. I mean, who the hell refuses amusement to someone they claim to love? That is not love. Love is buying Cocoa Pops, the delicious cereal which turns the milk accompanying it into chocolate milk shake. Yet I continue to sink my teeth into Weetabix every morning, with a glass of orange juice so diluted and transparent I may as well have just asked for a water.

Watered down juice was the least of my worries. When we finally reached our headquarters, I sat down for my prescribed meal. A restaurant with no menu. A meal thrown upon me like Barry Gibb’s voice through the speakers. I waited with cutlery in hand. When I am presented with my dish, I quickly realised I was going to need a spoon if I were to be able to consume a percentage of the swamp which lay before me. I was quickly reminded of the pools of rain and mud I had seen as we cowardly fled the war. “What is it?” I inquire politely. “Dinner” the looming elder booms, clearing up any confusion. “Is it soup?” I ask. “It’s stew” the booming voice says, clearly mixing up my meal with someone else’s sat around the empty table.

With a stomach full of liquid, I ascend the steps to my designated cell, and am soon overcome with the feeling I am being followed. Perhaps it was a diligent Swashbuckle, or even John from Brum, coming to slay me in my own abode. After reaching the landing, I turned and peered downwards. Every carpeted step I had taken was followed perfectly by footprints. The intruder was nowhere to be seen, seemingly vanishing upon reaching the landing. All that remained were muddy tracks deeply set into the fibres of the floor. They were of reasonable size, around the same size as someone of my stature. Around the same size as mine. I looked down upon my own shoe covered feet and the mud which surrounded them. I stood at the top of the stairs in silence with my mouth hanging open like the wounds of young Peter. I paused, waiting to hear the scream of my elder. Nothing came. I tore off my feet and sprung into my cell. Then the scream came. The soul crunching scream. I pulled the duvet over my head as the footsteps made their way towards the door to my room. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.