I am dressed in the oldest jeans that I can find in my cupboard. My spaghetti strap black top is faded and falls from my shoulder, revealing skin. My hair is tied up high into a ponytail. The sun is threatening to come out. It plays hide and seek with the clouds. Before me stand Anca, Calvin, Juan, Jacques, Quinton, Imiel, Alex, Wynand, Chris, Johan and a few Mr Xs who still remain unknown. We take sides. We pull the camo gear over our heads. Anca and I don extra protective black padded vests. The masks hide our faces for protection. I am armed. The gun within my hand is the first that I have ever held. 450 bullets are loaded. Five tracks, five games, five strategies, five shoot outs. A paint splatter is the mission. The tower, the grass, the trench, the barrel, the wall... I bounce and run and sprint between each. My aim is in. I am also aimed at. I protect. I defend. I attack. The bullets pelt my skin and sting in tingly lasting ways. I do not feel the pain as I see five guys approaching me from behind, from the sides, from the front. I feel the pain as I imagine that which is upon me. I spin the gun, firing in all directions as I spin. I scream. My bullets are finished. The pelting ceases. The pain does not. I grin. I am happy. I am dirty. I am content. I am smudged and smeared and covered in mud and red brown earth. The child in me is alive. I am still grinning... My bruises are big welts of red and blue skin, swolen, placed strategically across my body. Marks of fun, memories of friendship and birthdays and that which makes life so sweet.