The Solace of Escapism: Modern Warfare 3

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
This story is partly based on a friend's (and partly mine, for that matter) relationship with his computer games console. Gaming tends to be popular amongst those who seek escapism. For many, such as my unnamed friend, escapism only becomes an excuse to ignore responsibilities and real life.

Submitted: March 26, 2012

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Submitted: March 26, 2012

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The sun struck with merciless force against the sandy surface. The sand enjoyed the African temperature. Warm but not too hot. Many children were crept out of their homes, they gathered in the town centres and parks. There was always one child whom brought a ball ready to play football. The girls took part in clapping games or skipped with their rope. Well, at least that is what children done in places other than Mogadishu. The torn nation of Somalia, bloodstained from the massacre of thousands of people, was cloaked by an eerie silence. From a distance, amongst the light breeze, footsteps could be heard. He entered a house and peeked through a crack in the door. The militiaman armed his AK47. He scanned the area searching for the enemy: the white mercenaries trespassing on his beloved nation. Search and Destroy.  

YoUrMuM6969 was not actually a native of Somalia. He had never witnessed the traumas of a civil war, nor had he ever experienced the beautiful engulfment of the African warmth. In fact, there weren’t even any children playing elsewhere in this world. It was all a charade. For the next ten, perhaps fifteen, minutes he was a member of the Somali militia defending his homeland. His enemy was the western mercenaries of an American private contracted company. Twenty minutes ago he was a member of the Russian Spetsnaz, invading London, England.

It was raining outside. Water thudded against the window with great immensity. The constant pressing against the window emulated machine gun fire. Grant’s bedroom was dark, his curtains were drawn. It was only four in the afternoon, but the outside light invading his room casted haze onto the television screen. A damp, stale smell conquered Grant’s nostrils, clinging onto his inner hairs. The dishevelled bed sheets were tossed across the room.  A rotting towel was dumped in the bedroom corner two days ago and remained untouched. The clothes on the floor had not been moved since last week’s party at Hannah’s house.

YoUrMuM6969 sprinted across the marketplace. His heart was pounding, thudding intensely. He had seen one of the contracted soldiers enter a building, YoUrMuM6969 wryly grinned when the faint red writing above his head appeared. Snakerama it said, labelling the assailant ready for killing. Snakerama, the invader, the tyrant, the bringer of American oppression, was to meet his doom. YoUrMum6969 heard bullets, they struck close. Dust sprung in the air as bullets flicked across his view. He sprinted as quickly as he possibly could.

Grant scratched his nose and leaned forward in anticipation. His sweet mother had bought Grant his first ever Call of Duty when he was thirteen, Louise had been regretting ever since. Although Louise often saw her son, the closing portion of November through to Christmas made her son a ghost. Grant was present to talk to in the morning, at dinner, and whenever Grant was thirsty. Besides from this he was a shade, pale face, dark shades underneath his eyes. Grant’s lacking social behaviour only worsened, like a lame dog dragging on his front two able legs, during these dark winter months.

YoUrMuM6969 did not hesitate at the building’s doorway; he immediately entered and swung his body round to check the corners. Everything was clear. The enemy must be upstairs. He looked down the iron sight guarding the stairs, as he slowly approached the steps. He twisted his gun around the stairway entrance expectant of a waiting soldier. When he saw that Snakerama was still not present, he continued up the stairs with his gun ready to fire.

Momentarily, Grant’s thoughts shot to the real world. A history assignment was due in nine days time, a three thousand word essay about the Cold War. A real war. The impending date clouded his mind, uncaring for repetition of studying a dozen or so books. The first two books were needed to learn the subject, the rest were to merely buff up his bibliography. The date was inevitable and was not going to slow down for any other priorities of Grant. He tried to stuff that to the back of his mind. Grant quickly rubbed his eyes and returned his hands to their rightful home, grasped around the smooth handles of the Xbox controller.

YoUrMuM6969 perched propped up his head to view above the final step. There he saw his nemesis. The mercenary was standing by the window leaning his gun out surveying the Bakaara, firing rapidly. His back was turned to YoUrMuM6969; red writing appeared above his head. Snakerama had no doubt murdered countless good men. Advocates of Somali independence were slain by this butcher. The West had no right trespassing onto his land. The political traumas that had conflicted the land was not an excuse for the America to storm in on a steamroller and conquer. YoUrMuM6969 carefully aimed and squeezed the trigger. A burst of fire struck Snakerama’s back and he immediately fell to ground. There was no struggle.

A buzzing roared against Grant’s desk. His phone was set to vibrate, held the message of his girlfriend Alice. They had been arguing constantly in the past three weeks due to a variety of issues. Few were justified arguments, rather most were explosions of anger constructed from selfishness and poor communication. Both were equally villains. Many people, in their shoes, would have acknowledged the end of this relationship as inevitable, but true affection is often blinded to logic. Grant knew that however this argument ended he knew, thinking of past experiences, another uproar would only occur in two or three days time. His throat became knotted. Grant looked down slightly and sniffed. He tightly contorted his face to hold back his liquid emotion. Grant sighed deeply staring at the phone, unsure whether or read the text now or later.

Suddenly bullet struck with precise guidance in between the eyes of YoUrMuM6969. It was his seventh death that game. It was also his forty-second death that day. Grant grunted under his breath. He had no idea where had been shot from. His wandering thoughts had ruined his concentration. Grant stared at the television screen and focused on seeking revenge on whoever had murdered his beloved avatar. Perpetual war seemed so much simpler.


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