“Your son is too sensitive to go to war, ” the recruiter said solemnly. His hair-thin mustache twitched and seemed to crawl like a sickly caterpillar, it moved in its strange way half a centimeter across his face so that it was now off center. I blinked and rubbed my eyes, perhaps it had been off center from the start. My mind has funny ways of rationalizing the peculiarities I see.
“Oh okay,” I manage to squeeze out of my blushing cheeks (although you couldn’t tell my cheeks were permanently an angry red from a rare cystic acne). The greasy crust cracked as I let out a sigh, yellow ooze already pouring out the fissures.
I wasn’t filled with any sort of surprise, I expected disaster around every corner and in every roll of the perpetually jouncing dice of cruel Fortuna.
“He can fight and die like everyone else!” my mother burst out. Her words crashed with a violence against both me and the solemn recruiter. Silent tears ran down my face and began reacting with recently exposed pus, a misty gas take began taking form and started filling the room. Little did I know at the time but the chemical reaction was releasing hydrogen cyanide identical to the process used to create Zyklon B being used on jews, cripples and homosexuals as all this was happening.
However a deadlier smoke was erupting from my mother’s fiery mouth as she raged on.
“He’s as able as every other boy out in Yurope!” she spat through sulfurous flames. A bulging vein exploded on her forehead splattering hot red lava across the recruiter’s face and ruining his mustache.
“Alright, fine, yeah, okay, he can go to war.” he finally surrendered.
“Goodbye,” someone whispered without emotion.
And so I was lead into a room where they shaved my head into a square shape and proceeded to shove a square helmet on my head after which I was contorted into a rectangular cannon with which I was going to be fired off to Yurope. As I looked back a final time I saw my mother walking away meekly after her outburst and the recruiter was reapplying his mustache with a black felt pen. He sketched a small butterfly on his cheek which landed on his upper lip and laid an egg which hatched to become another equally pathetic mustache.
I sat back in the chamber– its oily walls saturated my body– and closed the hatch. The sounds echoed around; the sound of fizzling ignition and impossibly loud boom.
All of a sudden everything had turned into sky.