Now on the street tonight the lights grow dim
The walls of my room are closing in
There's a war outside still raging
you say it ain't ours anymore to win
I want to sleep beneath peaceful skies in my lover's bed
with a wide open country in my eyes
and these romantic dreams in my head

"No Surrender" - Bruce Springsteen

It had been weeks since Snake has last gotten off the street. The motel wasn't much better then the alleys he had been sleeping in but at least it was dry.

He tossed his soaked leather trench on the floor as he slammed the door shut. It wasn't clean and he watched the water drip from the ceiling. It wasn't dry either at least not in the center of the room.

"Shit" He mumbled disgusted with the place already. Running his fingers through his hair he brushed the wet strands from his face as he moved to check the bathroom.

He threw the switch and nothing happened. His eye drifted up to contemplate the bare bulb. "Fuck you Bastard." He hissed at the bulb before stepping into the bath. Another heavy sigh slipped from his lips as he turned to the sink. Enough light filtered in for Snake to see his blood splattered face in the dirty mirror. A frown spread on his face as his eye took in the blood, the cut on his brow and the dark circle under his eye.

"Christ, I look like Shit" he told his reflection. Gingerly he peeled the patch from his eye. The caked blood causing it to pull at his skin as he unveiled his bum eye. He winced as the light filtered under the leather patch; even this dim light was too much for his injured eye. Reflexively he squinted as the reflection revealed something he didn't often see; both eyes. The patch revealed the clean white area of skin that seemed to draw even more attention to the glaring flaw. With another heavy sigh he dropped the patch in the sink. Snake turned the faucet handle and nothing happened.

"Fuck You." Snake growled hitting the faucet with his hand angrily. No light, no water this place was fucking useless. His eyes drifted back to the reflection. Life was not good at the best of times and these were hardly the best of anything.

He looked in the mirror trying to see past the grim reflection it presented. Maybe there was nothing more then what he could see. Did it even matter? Perhaps there was nothing more, no soul, no "this will get better someday" and it really couldn't get much worse.

He scratched at the dry blood watching the red flakes drift from the reflection. He hated the man who looked back at him but that man was all he had now. There was no one else. Just the man in the reflection and the pistols at his side.