Day Three at the Conscription Camp
I couldn't sleep again.
Every time I closed my eyes, the sound of cheering fans echoed in my ears.
I barely slept for half an hour before being awakened at three in the morning by the sound of gunfire, signaling the start of morning training.
Honestly, as a former football player, I had no trouble waking up or handling the physical exercises.
Running, endurance drills, strength training… my body was used to it all.
But the problem wasn't there.
The problem was the weapon.
During the morning run, Mark took the lead and maintained it until the very end.
He had no difficulty with weight training, crawling, or any of the other brutal exercises.
But when it came to shooting practice, he failed miserably.
He didn't hit a single target.
His hands trembled every time he held the weapon, as if the steel itself rejected him.
He fired… and missed again.
Laughter erupted among the soldiers.
One of them said mockingly:
"Look at Mr. Football Star…
He can't even shoot, yet they gave him that penalty kick.
Because of you, our dream was ruined, and we ended up in a war.
You're a failure… and you deserve to die."
Mark had endured mockery and insults his entire life.
He had learned silence.
He had learned to ignore.
But this time… he couldn't.
He threw the weapon to the ground and stepped toward the soldier, his eyes burning.
Mark:
"Say it again."
He took another step closer.
Mark, his voice broken and furious:
"Say it again… or I'll kill you."
Before he could reach him, the soldier struck him with a powerful punch to the face, knocking him to the ground.
The soldier:
"You must pay the price."
Mark lay on the ground, struggling for breath.
Mark, in a faint voice:
"The price…?"
Then he lost consciousness.
Where am I?
The house…?
This place feels familiar.
An old house, its walls cracked, its furniture worn, the smell of dampness filling the air.
The same house where he had spent his childhood…
Before fame,
Before dreams.
A woman lay on a simple mattress placed directly on the floor.
Who is she?
…My mother?
Yes.
It's my mother.
But… my mother had died fifteen years ago.
I was five years old at the time.
He remembered her well.
She always sat in front of the television, watching football matches until her final days.
She loved the game passionately, watching every match despite her pain.
She had cancer.
At that time, treatment was already available, and it was possible to save her.
But the medicine was not accessible to everyone.
It was reserved for the wealthy
and those the system considered "valuable."
It wasn't only countries that were classified.
Humans were classified as well.
Priority in treatment was given to those who contributed to the "progress of the nation,"
then to the rich.
As for the poor and the illiterate,
they had no value in the eyes of the system.
They were treated… like garbage.
Mark then took a few more steps and walked out through the front door.
Outside, the night was suffocating.
The street was narrow, covered with filth and stagnant water.
Broken streetlights cast a pale, lifeless glow over the scene.
There…
he saw his father.
He was being beaten by a stranger.
The man was raining punches on him, shouting angrily:
"Give me back my money!
I lent you one hundred coins!
You said you'd return it in a week…
Look, two months have already passed!"
Mark's father collapsed to the ground, shielding his head with his arms, his voice trembling.
Mark's father:
"Please… forgive me.
I'll return it as soon as I can.
I have nothing right now.
Everything I have goes toward buying painkillers for my wife,
until she receives treatment at the hospital."
The man paused for a moment, then laughed cruelly.
The man:
"What did you say, you idiot?
Do you really think the hospital will give her treatment?"
He stepped closer.
The man:
"She has no value…
Even before her illness.
She never did anything useful, never contributed to the progress of the state.
That's why she won't receive treatment. That's obvious."
Mark's father slowly lifted his head, eyes filled with tears, but his voice remained firm.
Mark's father:
"I know…
They already told me that."
He swallowed, then continued:
"But that's not a reason to lose hope.
I'll do anything… anything…
so she can get the treatment.
I won't let her die. I will not give up."
Mark ran toward his father to protect him from the blows,
but suddenly, everything around him blurred together:
the sound of gunfire, the shouts of the soldiers, the whistles of training… his ears were filled with noise.
Then he felt someone kick him.
He slowly opened his eyes,
and saw the furious face of the sergeant in front of him.
Reality returned suddenly, screaming without mercy: the camp, the training, the war… everything was here, and there was no escape.
The sergeant stared at him with piercing eyes, his voice sharp:
"What are you doing, No. 5050! I see you lying on the ground. Get up immediately! What happened will not be forgiven. As punishment, you will run for five continuous hours."
Mark stammered:
"But sir… he started the fight, and he was the one who hit me first…"
The sergeant cut him off coldly:
"Yes, I know. I am not punishing you for getting into the fight. I am punishing you because you lost."
Mark, or rather 5050, began to run.
He was used to running ninety minutes in football matches, but five continuous hours… even for an athlete like him, it was pure hell.
Despite the pain and exhaustion, Mark had to endure… and prove himself,
even if his body was on the verge of collapse.