Carefully, one after the other I stacked my Lego blocks up. I made cities as tall as I and placed people along its sunlit streets.
My brother flew his Lego car down its alleyways where it was going so fast, it never quite seemed to touch the ground.
“Vroom Vroom,” he’d say, and I would roar like his engine. I wasn’t his engine of course.
I was Godzilla, and I stomped behind him as he fled in his car. I smashed down the building blocks, pulled at Lego men (and women) until their heads popped and their torsos came away. I’d gnash them with my teeth, and I’d spit them out (otherwise mum would be upset). “Disgusting,” I said with all the haughtiness of a female Godzilla, and we’d have a good laugh.
Later that night, after dad had come home drunk, mum closed the bedroom door and tucked us in good night. Brother and I shared a room you see, and we always kept each other up late.
He leant over, from one bed to the other, and whispered in the ear. He roared like a little mouse, and I let out a little eep-!
We shared our goodnight giggles and imagined what we’d destroy tomorrow. A subway perhaps, with Godzilla tunnelling in the safe haven below?
Outside, we heard mum and dad shouting and the muted noise of something shattering – clattering on the floor.
Glass? Crockery? Mum?
We ran from our beds and peaked at the door. We could see some shadows flitting, the signs of hurried movement – Then I saw dad. If mum towered over us, then dad towered over mum – and he was hitting her. Mum crumpled like all the Lego blocks and crawled away.
Godzilla gave chase.
There was no escape.
It wasn’t funny anymore.