A sharp, searing pain and, just like that, I’m dead. I can’t help wondering how I got here. Dead at the ripe ole’ age of twenty-two. I shouldn’t be too surprised considering the people I surround myself with. I have always been the “sane” one, the comforter, the down-to-earth one, and even the designated driver. Of course I’d go down in the line of fire. The one time in my life I choose to be the gutsy one. My impending doom began with a question: “Google, are there any local deals on paintball?” I was absolutely terrified when I heard those words come from my husband, Chase. So terrified, in fact, my brain conjured a horrifying image of a team of large, armed men cornering me in my fear. “What in the—paintball?? Do you know who you married?” I asked my husband, my voice thick with desperation. “Yes, and you’d do great!” Chase went on to remind me that I was a fantastic skeet shooter, really good at just about any first-person shooter videogame you threw at me, and I had worked at a laser tag arena which had given me tons of experience. “And you’d look good playing!” Now, I’m guilty of all charges, but this little pep-talk just didn’t make me feel completely qualified to shoot any kind of weapon at a human, or evade the malicious intentions of other humans. I mean, paintballing hurts, doesn’t it? What eventually sold me on the whole thing was that the day would be thematic: we would spend the afternoon paintballing, grab a bite, and make our way to a bar for a painting party I had heard about. The idea was that I would paint his way and he would paint my way. Of course, my husband never told me paintballing would take the entire evening. Long story short, we didn’t paint my way and he’s cute. The day of my death finally came. All morning I had been pestering Chase about what to wear. Will the paint stain my clothes? Would it be a good idea to wear my new running shoes? Should I leave my hair up or down? And he just laughed. “Babe, you stress too much! But seriously, do not wear your nice running shoes.” And from then on he was just so cryptic! I needed to “enjoy the experience.” So I followed my own common sense and layered yoga pants under my skinny jeans, wore two t-shirts, a hoodie, and donned my most abused shoes, praying the lack of tread would not matter. Somewhere along the line we had thought to invite Chase’s older brother, Brian, along. Brian is pretty cool, but he, with every piece of his appearance—from his stone-cold expression and folded arms, right down to his black combat boots—exudes “Fuck off.” His presence was actually very comforting. Of all of us, he had to be the best at paintball. When we finally arrived, we paid our entry fees and purchased a few hundred paintballs. Examining the little white spheres, I felt a reassurance that this wouldn’t be so bad and I wouldn’t get hurt. But then I noticed the line of men exiting the arena, wearing matching green and black outfits, each holding their own, customized paintball gun. And all of them were freaking huge. I was brought back to that moment of fear when Chase had first suggested this, but a whistle let us know it was our turn to gear up and enter the arena. I had imagined something like the laser tag arena I was so used to: a dark room with tight turns and black lights. Maybe some insanely loud techno or heavy metal music. But what lay before me was a large, white room littered with inflated blue and yellow obstacles. Astro-turf soaked in paint covered the floor, confirming to me that I really should have worn shoes with tread. I finally pulled my mask over my face and inhaled the toxic aroma of adolescent body odor, tinged with the faint smell of Lysol. Examining the scratches on my mask, I knew this would turn out to be a long evening. Our first game had our little group of three up against a party of eight. Everyone from the other party looked to be about my age except a couple who looked to be ten or twenty years older. The older man of the couple offered to join us on our team and told the referee the odds were fair. As this built, tower of a man walked over to us I couldn’t help wondering if he’d joined us just so his wife could win. Seven to four was still unfair in my mind. At each end of the arena stood a white structure similar to a soccer goal post, with fine netting stretched over the front. The ref explained this net was our base and we were to return for cover once we’d been shot. I followed Chase and Brian behind the net, slipping on the slick floor and hearing the sound of my breathing reverberating in the plastic mask. The man who had joined our team had his hood pulled over his head so I couldn’t see into his mask, but he nodded to each of us. The referee blew his whistle and my body went cold. To be honest, there was no way in hell I was going to get shot today. I had every intention of hiding and using people as meat shields, but my team was gone and I was left alone behind the nearest obstacle. I think I had been there maybe two minutes, pretending to peek around corners, when the ref had announced our team had won and it was time to switch sides. Confused, I stood and walked to the other end of the arena, noticing Chase and Brian, walking slowly and looking for the other guy, who was already at the other end of the arena. The opposing team was covered in white splotches, confirming the ref’s call about the game. The next round ended in a similar fashion: quick and uninteresting, despite the adrenaline pumping through me. After winning two rounds we all walked back out to the lobby, stripping extra layers of clothing and our masks. “That was a hell of a lot of fun!” the other guy said, as I turned to look at him. He was tall and balding with a face one could easily picture as a best friend and a worst enemy. His smile wasn’t foreign on his face, but there would be moments during conversation where his face would easily slip into a cold stare. His wife, a short, blonde woman decked in cowgirl boots and a large belt buckle walked over to me, smiling. “You’re so lucky to have had Mike on your team! He kicked our asses!” Mike chuckled and walked over, offering his hand to each of us. Chase laughed. “None of us saw you after the match started!” “A couple tours in Iraq help, that’s for sure.” He stated, cooly. I blinked and smiled blankly, taken aback by this comment. The ref called us back into the arena and we, along with Mike’s group and a new group of youth, filed back in. This time the ref counted us off, putting me with Mike’s wife, Brittany. Her determination and assuredness was comforting, but I did not enjoy the thought of being my husband’s target. Or worse—her husband’s. The match began like the last, but this time I was thinking of Mike. How does one go to war and come home, fit to shoot people with a paintball gun? PTSD is a real thing and though I’m sure not everyone suffers from it, there must be some memory from combat each person has shoved away. Wouldn’t an activity like this bring those memories back to light? Brittany’s ahead of me, crouched behind a low lying obstacle, waving for me to come up on her left side, and suddenly I’m in Iraq. The warm color of the sand is lost to my eyes as I survey the battleground before me. Waved on by Brittany, I hunch over and rush to the nearest stone wall which quivers as my body runs into it. I cannot hear much beyond the sound of my beating heart, but faint gunshots make their way through my ear canals, reminding me of where I am and what I’m doing here. Ahead of me are three black orbs; heads shrouded in hoods and shadows. The enemy. I bring my Colt RO635 SMG to my shoulder and line the little black orbs up between the sights before pulling the trigger. My first few shots are high and miss the target, but it isn’t long before I hit my mark and one of the black orbs falls behind the sand colored wall. Adrenaline pumping, I no longer smell my own sweat or the dry earth. Victory is sweet and egging me on. I follow Brittany to the next wall, cursing as bullets fly past me. It is when I’m ducking behind the stone wall that a bullet grazes my shoulder and I’m brought back to reality. The paintball hadn’t broken, but I am nothing if not fair, so I stand with my hands high, surrendering as I walk back to the safety of the white net. A paintball makes contact with one of my fingers, giving me a taste of the pain that was to come. After the match ends, we cross to the opposite end of the arena, I pass the guy I’d shot. White paint had splattered across the top of his mask, and that’s when I realize if this were true military combat I would have scalped the guy. I do not have the opportunity to dwell on this thought as the ref blows the whistle and I quickly duck behind the nearest cover, slipping back into my daydream. They have already made their way onto our side of the field and I am unable to lift my head over the wall without being shot at. Too many “near misses” for anybody to feel comfortable! I hear the lull in gun fire and make a mad dash up to the next obstacle, panting and praying. I slide to a stop on my knees, Colt raised, but I am left staring down the sights of my gun into an eerie quiet. However, the silence is short lived. A sharp, searing pain and, just like that, I’m dead. My hand flies to the wound on my inner thigh and I feel a wetness dripping over my fingers. I look to my left, where I stare down the barrel of Mike’s gun, and see the white paintball soaring through the air before making contact with the left side of my mask. I’m dead. The rest of the night blurs on as I wait in the foyer, waiting for Chase and Brian to finish playing. Several times Brittany has come up to me, upset that Mike had “shot her in the ass,” or begging me to play, but I just can’t. Sure, my pride was hurt, but I couldn’t shake the idea that Mike had seen me—looked me in the eyes—and not hesitated as he shot me in the face. I can’t help wondering what thoughts were going through his head in that moment. Waiting for the final game of the night to end I pull up an interview with several war veterans on YouTube. The interview questions are fairly basic: “Do you remember the first time you killed someone? Did you ever break down in the heat of battle? Do you have any regrets?” One man was asked “when is it okay to shoot someone outside of combat?” and he turned the question back on the interviewer, saying “Do you want to see your family tonight? Then I guess it isn’t a bad time to shoot.” Another man recalls a time he was being shot at from underneath a vehicle. “I knelt down and saw his hard hat, like mine. Then I saw the color of his uniform, with the red on his sleeve. But that was all I saw on his silhouette. The red. And I shot at his silhouette, because silhouettes are just targets. Just targets.” And his eyes begin to brim with tears. I look back on paintball and, sure, I had a blast. Call of Duty, laser tag, all of that is enjoyable, but I cannot involve myself in these activities without coming back to this experience. It’s intriguing. For a brief time in that arena I forgot I was playing a game and I was shooting at real people. No, I was shooting at black orbs. Silhouettes. Just targets. And I cannot help, but wonder what I was thinking. The worst part is that, at the time, I wasn’t.