One Step

One Step by Brynne Mittleider

A step. That was all it took. One single step and I would fill the empty

hole in my heart carved away ten years ago. I would feel the sensation of

an evenness, a balance not achieved for a decade. For ten years I have

known the absence of flesh beneath my left knee, known yet never really

accepted the fact. How could I?

Imagine you are just a weak, short little boy whose life ambition is to

serve your country. That goal is all you’ve set in your bullied Brooklyn

background. You’ve applied for the military five times, each time

rejected for your meek and sickly appearance. After years of trying, you

finally get in. Imagine your joy, your feeling of finally achieving what

you knew was your destiny since the age of seven! Imagine you, a tiny

boy from New York, fighting alongside America’s greatest heroes! But

what I bet you can’t imagine is how my achievement was crushed,

smashed to a pulp, and seemingly spat into the dumpster of an abandoned

alley.

The day was August 10th, 1940. I was asleep in London, stationed

there to protect the citizens from the frequent German bombs occurring

recently. The raids were during the day, so I didn’t expect a night attack.

But it came. A deafening explosion followed by horrific screams of the

near-dead. Fire engulfing half of my bedroom and ash sticking to my

bloodied face. Ringing echoing throughout my ears. Soldiers rushing past

my door that lay only partially on its hinges. I grabbed my bedstead,

shards of wood splintering my hands, and dragged myself onto the

wooden floor. I used the bed to pull myself onto my feet, my room now

burning ferociously, and limped out of the doorway. I was not the only

one to try to escape. Soldiers lay along the hallway, eyes staring at the

ceiling but with a misty glaze over their pupils. No breath left their lungs.

I hobbled down the hallway, fire behind me and the dead in front. One

soldier lay sprawled across the floor, but his chest rose and fell with

raggedy gulps of air. His eyes rolled toward me frantically and I saw the

fear behind them. Although I had not much strength left, I put an arm

around his chest and lifted his body off the ground. I was small, true, but

I worked hard in my training. I could carry this man for a short distance.

He sighed half in relief and half in pain; I felt blood drip down my front

as I struggled to the end of the hallway. There lay a door, one I knew led

to the outside world. Still carrying the injured soldier, I kicked open the

door. I took one step onto the stained, incarnadine, British soil before

another explosion shook me unconscious.

Weeks later, I awoke, but to considerable pain. I learned then that the

second bomb caused the loss of my left leg, and that it was a miracle I

survived. To my relief, I also learned that the soldier I took from the

burning building survived as well, thanks to my courage. I do not think

of it as courage, more as empathy. I too had felt the fear that radiated

from his weak body, but I was the more able to leave, so I helped him.

The loss of my leg was a tragedy, and it meant that I could never serve in

the army again. I was crushed, but thankful to be alive.

Years passed, and that brings me to where I am now. A doctor

contacted me recently explaining that he had developed a new piece of

technology, a way for me to walk again, a fake leg. He said all he needed

to do was attach it below my knee. I traveled to his laboratory, prepared to

finally feel what I took for granted ten years ago, prepared to finally

relieve myself of my pain and, finally, feel as whole as I could have ever

wished. I took a step.