Casualties of the Afternoon

War, children, is a terrible thing. It destroys lives, tears families apart, and costs more money than I earn in a year—or so I’ve been told. The very fact that you’re reading these words means I’m still alive. Because yes, it’s true: we were at war yesterday.

Forget everything your grandfather told you, or whatever you’ve read in the tabloids about Vietnam, Russia, France—all trivial. I have bruises on every part of my body, serious muscle soreness, and a torn-up elbow from slipping. That last part is beside the point. What matters is that I witnessed the horror firsthand. Pink paint everywhere, burst gelatin balls coating every surface. My companion Pedder took a direct hit to the head. He had so many dreams.

Before I queue the heroic orchestral swell: we were playing paintball, in the woods and some abandoned buildings, with sausages and a crowd of shaved-headed men in combat gear that was slightly too authentic for my comfort. I’m going home to play Call of Duty: World at War now, before I agree to anything like that again. Next time though, I’m taking out more than two helpless opponents. That’s a promise.