I.
Battle scars
There are voices in every battlefield that will never cease to echo. When the last man behind the barricade lays down the gun, seeing an enemy shedding his, or when the ground turns cold and desolated, they will talk, yet buried in the heads of those who walked out alive. They evince of loneliness and pain, searing their affliction into the souls of those, with a faint memory of who they were, before they pulled the trigger for the first time. Proving how weak a man gets when lying alone at night.
The morning marched in leaded by loud and heavy rainfall, which sounded as a captivating and appealing piece of orchestral music to John, who was lying on his back all covered in warmth of the beddings. As soon as he made himself climb out of bed, which was a somewhat tragic and a very sober experience in his eyes, the man was greeted by the gloom lurking outside the windows and a sharp thunder, blasting with all it's might frequently enough, to make John regret moving his feet down on a cool ground. After taking a shower the man, covered in a bathrobe, flung himself down on a loose kitchen's chair. He swung on it quite a few times, getting more and more agitated by the chair's ill condition. John had been single for several years now, ages if you asked him. But he always sat in the same spot every morning, forgetting to place the teapot on the stove, attentively gazing at the television screen with a rather blunt look, aiming to watch the morning news show, as if making him a cup of tea or coffee in some sort of affectionate manner, was some else's responsibility.
The rest of the morning was pure rushing, John dressed in a hurry, scolding with one self for being late again and forgetting breakfast. The man arrived to work by bus, he was almost on time, when he entered the clinic. John placed a wet unfurled umbrella in a corner near the mirror. He gazed at himself in a complaining manner, admitting, that he does indeed look like someone, who is late and forlorn. It wasn't an impression he wanted to make in the clinic, but in one's defense, he rationalized that all of the staff is aware of his living situation anyway, and there was very little people he considered possibility posing for.
John walked through the corridor surrounded by white walls and bright lights, falling with a vast force from the ceiling, the windows seemed enshrouded by a savagely raging storm. The man's consulting room was in a first floor, that's a privilege he had been given, so he wouldn't need to climb the stairs. Leg pain was one of the psychosomatic symptoms, that followed after John got shot in Afghanistan, it was nothing compared to a hand tremor that precluded the man's career as a surgeon.
"John? Look back, John" he heard the man yell. John placed his hand on a door handle and turned to his right, towards the sound.
An oddly familiar looking male figure, stout in built, with a long coat and a thick black mustache was heading his way.
"Roger?" John lifted his eyebrows in surprise "What are you doing here?"
"Came for a blood work you know, turns out cholesterol is eating me away, bit ironic isn't it?" Roger laughed in a low hoarse voice "Then chatted a little with that lovely young woman in the reception, though she told she couldn't talk anymore since there's a lot of work she has to do for doctor Watson. You shouldn't give that poor frail creature so much work, you know." The man spoke in a complaining manner.
"I didn't" John uttered before realization hit him, that the poor nurse just wanted to get rid of the guy "I… I mean, I forgot I did" he corrected himself quickly.
"So I hear you came back, I though you would call you know, we could talk about how hard it is to adjust to civil life again" Roger smiled showing his yellowish teeth.
John had to contain himself from reminding Roger that he only lasted in the military service half a year, before being dismissed due to his increasing interest in alcoholic beverages.
"Yeah well, I was ah… Looking for a steady place to live intensively, also working, I don't feel ready for meeting new people yet" he lied.
"Oh yeah, I understand perfectly," Roger assured him while pouting and nodding in a comforting manner "But I think that old army wolves, such as ourselves should stick together, you know, like we used to in the army days".
John stood there, still holding the door handle, as if it could save him from this unbearable small talk. Though, Roger managed to grip his company by the hand, as if he felt John plotting to escape.
"Well, it was really nice to meet you, but I have patients" John spoke hoping that Roger is going to believe the excuse.
"What's so hard in finding a flat, I mean, there are lots of flats in London" Roger proceeded ignoring his opponent's efforts to end the conversation.
"Limited income" John replied, drenched by a feeling of slowly fading hope to be left alone, he faced Roger reclining his back at the wall.
"Well, I know this guy who needs a flat mate and offers very convenient price, interesting fellow he is though, I met him at the editorial office, but if you're desperate enough…" Roger shrouded in his oversized blue coat.
"Interesting?" John asked trying to think of the actual issues hiding behind the unoffending word.
"Well, he is a self-proclaimed writer, I think he published some books, but they're not very bestseller like… People doesn't like him much, but he kind of likes me, you know, we – army people seen terrible things and we can deal with all sorts of people" Roger kept talking "I could give you his address, he interviews people at around 7pm, I wouldn't advice going there earlier…" ended the man rolling his eyes up as if looking for a word or rethinking what he just said.
"Interviews" John repeated to himself "could you explain that part?" he asked.
"Well he said that he wants to know who he's going to live with, therefore he interviews people that are interested in sharing a flat. I think it is logical becau…" Roger explained heavily gesturing.
"Well if you could write me his address I would be thankful" John spoke interrupting Roger's reflections on why he finds the man's behavior rational.
"Sure, you know me, I'm always happy to help" the man was searching his briefcase for quite a while, until he managed to find a sheet of paper and a pen. He wrote the address leaning against the wall in a very disheveled manner, as if he was having hard time orienting.
John was permeated in suspicion that Roger was drunk at that moment, but he kept his observations to himself, feeling a bitter taste in his mouth. When John finally managed to grasp the sheet of paper from the opponent's hands, he murmured that he really has to go at that point, and hid in his cabinet as swiftly as he possibly could with an aching leg, before Roger managed to come up with another topic to chat about.
Despite the lucky escape, John felt rather unhandsome leaving Roger like that, he had a share part of pity towards an underachieved, alcoholic man, yet that pity was only notable when Roger wasn't in the same room as John was. Doctor had to promise to himself that he will ask the man for a get-together, just to silence his clamorous conscience.
John sat in his leather armchair near the computer, holding onto his leg, trying to keep it in a still position, yet it was hurting constantly despite the efforts. He glimpsed at the cane in the corner of the room, it was still an unusual and foreign object he had to get used to, John knew that it could ease the pain a little, yet avoided walking with it. The man felt a hindrance stuck in his throat, it was exactly how being alone felt like lately, progressively worsening and barely endurable at that point. The therapy was a socially eligible way to cope with his concerns, and despite how he tried to collaborate with a woman claiming to help him, trying to guide him back to what was being ascribed as a normal life, he had a feeling that she can't do a thing for him, and it wasn't a sense he could have accounted for.
Work day passed in an excruciating sluggishness, John was too apathetic to even imitate the working process, he slept half of the day in his chair, waking up with an aching left side of the abdomen, due to an elbow-rest he leaned on while sleeping. The man managed then to take some patients in, while hoping that he will be able to listen of what they have to say. It was way too soon to start working, but military pension was a poor excuse of a payment, barely enough to keep the flat he had been renting, not to mention other things needed for a decent living. John had to strictly limit the expenses, since his savings were running out. At the end of the day he stood leaning on the metal medical work table and glaring at the address Roger gave him. Thinking he should give it a try, since there's nothing to lose.