Post by Newton Jones on Sept 1, 2015 3:46:58 GMT -5
► newton Jones  Soldier Sinner Death |
A pub, A Bar, Saloon, Tavern. They have many names, so many that some refuse to classify them as a second home. Men weak of heart or mind often came to places like this to drown their sorrows, or to swallow their pride before returning to the bleak world that was the life which was so short it could end the moment the doors open. It was a dirty place that brought sheer guilt and pain to those who entered without so much as a second thought for their very souls. It was a world all its own, A party for the young, and a safe haven for the old. Unfortunately tonight was the night of the old. Surrounded by his own misery the forgotten soldier drank away another glass of the hard bitterness that was a double Jack and Coke. It knocked another year off his life, but what the hell, he wasn't gonna live that long anyway, he was another face among faces, a picture on a wall. He was a faded memory of a bullet that had long since been wrenched from the gut of his country, and he was tired. The clocks all stopped, he had jazz playing in his ears from the years of his life spent sending postcards home with the names of those he had once called "comrades" to the families who would never see the faces of their children again. A pitiful life for a sorrowful soldier. Some did it for money, others for homeland, he did it for the demons, he had so many demons, those silent passengers that whispered delicious painful things in his mind, bringing him to focus his finger on the trigger some nights, and cry in the mirror in others. The glass was empty again, only to be refilled with a diluted mixture of pity and hatred. He welcomed it with a nod and grin like a good warrior, the dirt freshly cleaned from his brow for the next day. He had seen so much in such a short life, 40 years? no...couldn't be..50? no...not so much and not so little, he had seen lives though. So many lives begin and too many lives end, many at his own hands. He intentionally stayed away from religion for the very reason of his drinking. The demons reminded him that each soul would kill him in the afterlife, some would cry for him, but most would not. As the nights grew longer, he could begin to count the stars in the sky in hopes that he would atone for his crimes by assigning each a name. But he knew, deep down that the darkness would always separate them. He was in pain, his feet planted firmly on the ground while they flew in space for eternity. His whole existence based on the fact that his aim was always true (Or lucky) and his hands never fell when they held brushed steel. His glass was empty again, despite the years of friendship, the bartender just couldn't bare to give him one final one. As though saying that it wasn't his time just yet, knowing that fourth glass was all he needed to silence his demons and give him enough time for that final squeeze. His hands traced absently on the table as his head became weary. His eyes pained him from the time spent remembering each number, each face, and each name against the pain he felt after every unofficial funeral. He was a ghost, in a world of phantoms. His glass would always be empty.. |
