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ineedaweapon (ineedaweapon) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2013-03-20 15:42:00

Who: John and [OPEN]
Where: A pub.
When: 3/20/2013
What: John's been out of the loop for awhile.
Rating: Mid-ish for discussion of death
Status: OPEN and In Progress



John, nickname 'Chief', Conley had once been a respected and revered military commander. He'd lead teams into the most daring and daunting of tasks; he'd perhaps been a bit reckless when it came to himself at times, going above and beyond in some mission parameters. That all being said, he got the job done. His files had glowing recommendations, he had medals and honors from missions that weren't secretive. There had been no chink in his armor, he was the consummate professional; he was a perfect soldier. He followed orders, didn't argue, and respected authority to the greatest degree. So what happened?

It was the question John, perhaps, asked himself daily. Not that he really thought about it, but he was aware that he wasn't the same man. He'd lost his way. He didn't act as if he was above the law, he simply acted as if he didn't care. That was far more accurate. He'd begun to drown himself in alcohol, became far more anti-social than he'd even been in the past. Yet, now, he was drawing attention to himself, breaking rules of the trade when it comes to his profession. People questioned what was wrong with him, he was anything but professional at this moment time.

Shaking his head, he knew the reasons why though. Yet, he didn't question it really. He wasn't fully conscious of the fact he was falling into this pit; he was aware of it, he had a subconscious acknowledgement of it, but he was numb to it really.

The reason, though, was blatantly obvious if he was forced to look in on himself. That reason was looking up at him right now, as John stared back into the picture of his late wife that was in his hand. He set it down on the table while he took a drink from his glass. He looked up, towards the mirror. It gave him a view of the rest of the bar, which was nearly empty. Not that many people frequented a bar at 1 in the afternoon. Still, it was as good a place as any for him. He hated to think of himself as the angsty sort; so he wasn't, he didn't spill his guts and feelings all over valarnet, or Facebook, or the world. He didn't go blubbering. He'd lost his wife, it hurt, and it was his fault. He pulled her into this life, and now she was dead because of it.

So he drank, mostly because it helped him to just forget, partly because it was an excuse to leave the house that he'd otherwise never leave. He swirled his glass a moment, then raised a brow at a rather obnoxious young surfer that came stumbling into the bar with his friends. Making a lot of noise, but John chose to simply ignore it--for now.