Bathroom Monologue: Little Boy Warrior

He fell a million miles and two feet. The mattress is the basin of a canyon. He has a broken stone for a pillow. Rubble billows with his impact, burying him in dust and boulders that only feel like a down comforter. He forgot to close the window, so the breeze outside wafts across his feet. It becomes the edge of a river – of the river, the river that carved this canyon. It runs across his feet under the comforter. He wiggles his toes in the coolness. They are all that is free of his body. He cannot move another bit. His muscles scream in protest even when laid to rest – from half an hour’s physical therapy, or from losing the war on the plains above. How many times did the warlords run him through? Yet he survived the fall, while all their spears broke. The wounds would slay a lesser man, but not he. He is too great to die from little things like leg lifts or ten-story drops. The dragons, the necromancers, the demanding woman in spandex – they’ll all see him again. He’ll live. He only has to dig himself out. But first, to rest.