Awakening

by Hayden Pearton

  *

  Lying a few feet from his troubled head, Kingston was having a troublesome dream of his own.

  “Good day Mr Kingston. Please step right this way.” The man standing by the open door is wearing the black and gold of the military, as well as several pounds worth of badges and commendations. He is a short man, yet he wears pride like others would wear clothes, which makes him seem several feet taller than he actually is. His commanding presence is born from a mixture of fear and respect. That is to say, if you hold one you most likely hold the other.

  By comparison, my attire and attitude is shoddy to say the least. I am still wearing my brown overalls from my third job, and I can feel the disapproving looks from the other people in the line. The walls of the recruitment office have been covered in posters, all of which read, “Protect the peace. Come and join the army, and make a difference.”

  I have heard all of the slogans, and read all of the pamphlets. The people behind me have different reasons for being here. Some have come for glory, others for honour. Some were told by loved one's that there is no greater service than to fight for one's country. And still others were drawn here by the scent of violence, for them war is but a playground, in which to fulfil their dangerous desires. As for me? I stand here not for glory or the promise of violence, but out of obligation. All it took for me to sign up was the teary plea of my friend's mother, who only wanted me to look after her “Angelic little darling, who was tricked into enlisting by those conniving government officials.”

  Little did she know that that same, 'angelic' son had signed up of his own accord, without provocation or persuasion. He had always been a violent man, whom unfortunately I had the misfortune of knowing. He had joined up to kill and loot, but I was still to go with him, to ensure he would return home without a “single hair out of place.” Snapping back to reality, I move towards the open door, while the military man nods in eager anticipation of a new meat shield to occupy the front-lines.

  I have no illusions about the carnage that is war, as my father had raised me to think for myself, and see beyond what was shown. Thanks to these traits, I had become known as a level-headed young lad, which eventually led to my current situation. The man is talking now, about the valour which is needed for war, and how courageous I am for enlisting. I know for a fact that you don't need valour or courage to hold a gun and end a life, though stupidity seems to help quite a bit. Despite my internal disagreement, I nod and shake his cold hand, my earnest façade slipping not an inch. He hands me a letter of acceptance, and tells me to report to the transport plane with all haste. I ask, “But what about my training?” and he just laughs and says, “You don't need any training to fight!” Before I leave, he looks at me and says, “You should go and say goodbye to your parents, before it's too late.” With the barest beginnings of tears filling my eyes, I say, “It's already too late.”