Alright...this chapter gets a bit dark. Somewhat of a shorter chapter. I figured because it's so...weird...that I couldn't really tie in any other ideas and plotline into it without seeming forced.
Chapter 11 - Start of the Darkness
"Tu pequeño pedazo de mierda. (You little piece of shit.)"
A man hung suspended from the ceiling by his wrists. His bare, thin chest heaved up and down as his panicked, wide eyes bulged from his head and observed the dark faces before him. Blood streamed down from his head and ran across the curve of his dark complected cheek. The rest of his visible skin was littered in gashes and drying, crimson blood. The only light in the room was a skylight that allowed an eerie white light to shine down onto him as he dangled in the center of the room. Many hidden eyes watched him closely.
Arsenio opened his palms out before him. "Usted va a hablar? ¿O va a seguir siendo una pequeña perra? (Are you going to talk? Or are you going to continue being a little bitch?)" The man hanging before him was trembling nervously as he stuttered for words. "Ah, sí? No tienes nada? Fine. (Oh? You got nothing? Fine.)" Hauling back, he sent a haymaker towards the man, the brass knuckles cracked against his face.
He coughed and whimpered as blood rushed to the new found injury. The man opened his mouth to beg. "Por favor, Arsenio. Yo no sé nada. (Please, Arsenio. I don't know anything.)"
"Oh sí? ¿Puedes explicarme por qué nuestros vendedores italianos han utilizado específicamente su nombre? ¿Y por qué usted les dijo que sería una sabia decisión de dividir el vasos último minuto? (Oh yeah? Can you explain to me why our Italian sellers have specifically used your name? And why you told them it'd be a wise decision to split up the vessels last minute?)" Arsenio began to laugh as an amused smile spread across his face. "Dime cómo sabía que algo estaba a punto de salir mal. ¿Cómo saber que nos gustaría tener algunos invitados inoportunos en que el envío de Italia? (Tell me how you knew something was about to go wrong. How did you know that we'd have some unwelcomed guests on that shipment from Italy?)"
The man blinked wearily with a swollen brow and cheeks. He could only breathe heavily as blood still flooded from his open wounds. His eyes began to close with fatigue as his world danced and spun.
Arsenio sent another solid punch into the man's temple before grabbing the groove between his neck and shoulder. He pulled himself inches away from the injured man's face. "Jodido respóndeme, que rata. (Fucking answer me, you rat.)" His words came out like a hiss.
The man slowly shook his head as air continued to blow thickly out of his throat. "Yo simplemente era el mensajero. Yo no hice nada. (I simply was the messenger. I didn't do anything.)"
Arsenio pushed his tongue against his cheek as he nodded slowly. "No te hagas el tonto. Conozco a alguien que vendió por esa información. (Don't play stupid. I know someone sold you out for that information.)"
The man continued to shake his head but only to receive another blow. He began to plead. "Por favor, Arsenio! Tienes que creerme! Yo no sé nada! (Please, Arsenio! You have to believe me! I don't know anything!)" He choked on some blood and spit it out onto the floor. "Por favor...por favor…"
Arsenio pulled back and watched the man's face before letting out a bellowing laugh of amusement. "Usted me está entreteniendo. ¿Estoy realmente supone que crea eso? Así que sólo convenientemente pasó a tener 10.000 dólares americanos en usted? ¿Eh? (You are entertaining me. Am I really supposed to believe that? So you just conveniently happened to have 10,000 American dollars on you? Eh?)" He had to shake his head and flash his wide, white smile towards his brother off near the corner. "Usted escuchar esta mierda? (You hearing this bullshit?)"
His older brother, Fernando nodded slowly with a grim expression. The lines on his face were deep. "Olvídese Pedro. Nosotros no lo necesitamos. Ha hecho suficiente daño como es. (Forget Pedro. We don't need him. He's done enough damage as it is.)"
Arsenio's eyes shot towards Pedro and stared him down with a minancing glow. "Si cambia de idea, sin embargo, Pedro? ¿Quieres terminar como alimento para los cerdos? (Changing your mind yet, Pedro? Want to end up as food for the pigs?)"
Pedro dropped his head and began to mutter meekly. "Yo no lo hice. Uno de los hombres de Albini es quien me dio el dinero. (I didn't do it. One of Albini's men is who gave me the money.)"
Arsenio's mouth went flat as his brow lowered into a scowl. "Tú nos has dicho que ya. ¿Cuál era su nombre? Necesitamos saber quién lo hizo. He estado tratando con tu mierda durante tres días. Estoy perdiendo la paciencia. (You've told us that already. What was his name? We need to know who did it. I've been dealing with your shit for three days now. I'm losing my patience.)" Pedro let his head hang as he stared at the ground motionless. Arsenio grabbed his jaw harshly and raised his face up. "¿Quién carajo era?! (WHO THE FUCK WAS IT?)"
The man only could move his lips with inaudible words as his eyes remained shut. It had been three days since a decent meal, and he had been suspended during the entire stretch of time. His vision and mind were hazey.
Arsenio spat into his face. "Vete a la mierda. (Fuck you.)" He pulled a red handkerchief out of his white suit pocket and began to clean off his brass knuckles, removing all visible traces of blood. "Ya he terminado con esta mierda. Tengo cosas mejores que hacer frente a estos momentos. (I'm done with this shit. I've got better things to deal with right now.)" He nodded towards his men before glancing back at the hanging man. "Parece que podría ir para un nuevo conjunto de ropa de vestir. Permitir a mis hombres que le proporcionan una corbata colombiana. (You look like you could go for a new set of dress clothes. Allow my men to provide you with a Columbian necktie.)"
Pedro quickly looked up as his eyes popped open. He shook his head violently. "¡No! Arsenio! ¡Por favor! Yo te he hecho nada malo! (No! Arsenio! Please! I've done you no wrong!)"
Arsenio waved him off. "Usted arruinó mi traje nuevo. Tengo que llevarlo a la tintorería ahora. (You ruined my new suit. I have to bring it to the dry cleaners now.)" He immediately gestured for his brother. "Fernando, vamos."
The two brothers left the room as three men approached the suspended man. He began to thrash and scream with what energy he had left as one of the men revealed a rusty machete. He continued shouting and begging for a final plea, but he was cut short and interrupted as the rusted edge of the machete found his throat and slashed it open. Blood gargled and poured from his throat, which were followed by a series of choked groans and screams. The man wielding the machete jabbed a portion of it through Pedro's jugular, forcing the flesh to separate. Reaching through the opened wound, one of Arsenio's men snagged the muscle and tissue of his tongue and pulled it free from his mouth and out of the fresh hole in his neck. The men stepped back to look at their work as Pedro emitted his last dying breaths. Blood covered the floor below him, and dripped steadily into a pool of crimson liquid. The scene was gruesome, as the long muscle of his tongue dangled from the gash in his neck and hung sloppily against his chest.
A faint fluorescent light hummed quietly above a dark, concrete floor. Bugs tapped against its surface as dust danced in the little, white luminance. Soap watched the bugs closely, far too awed by their unnatural movements as they buzzed with incoordination and chaotic movements. The only noise was the droning of the small, caged light which hung by a single wire. Then his ears caught the sound of...sobbing? Someone was sobbing quietly. Looking up some ways, his eyes found a small figure hunched over, trembling profusely. The faint light only cast a small hint of highlights on the figure's form, but it appeared frail. Narrowing his eyes and growing curious, his legs began to move him along.
The sobbing increased in volume as he approached. He felt mild fear crawling over him, but as he neared, the fear was starting to be replaced by concern; the figure looked familiar. His strides widened, speeding up his pace and placing him several feet away from the crying figure, which head hung low and face remained hidden in its arms which were drawn up before its knees.
The figure had long, straight, dark hair. It was a dark-ash brown hair, a few strands of silver ran along the top surface. Forcing himself to get closer, he realized the figure was a women. As he watched, the familiarity of all of this was oddly disturbing. Her shoulders shook with sadness as the sobbing became more dragged out and prolonged. Suddenly, she spoke.
"Oh, John. Why did you have to leave?"
His eyebrows lowered as the voice rung a bell. Who was she?
"How can you expect me to live life in fear like this all of the time?"
He finally brought himself by her side with abruptness as his mind allowed for him to come to terms with realization. This sobbing woman was his mother.
"Why did you have to die?" She said quietly.
Feeling frightened, he lowered a comforting hand and placed it on her shoulder. "Mum. I'm not dead, I'm right here." When his voice came out, it scared him. It was unrecognizable. It was robotic, almost as if he had used a computer to speak for him. Pulling back and placing a hand on his throat, he blinked with confusion.
His mother stopped crying to slowly raise her head up, but her rounded, softened features remained hidden behind her dark hair. "You are not my son."
He was speechless, and was also weary of speaking again; fearing that sound. He could only stare at her as he tried to reassure her with his touch that it was in fact him.
"You can't fool me. My son died years ago. After he left." Her voice was starting to sound low and threatening. "John was sweet and loving. Wouldn't hurt a fly. But you-" she finally turned her face towards him, revealing an empty space where her eyes should have been. He brought himself up out of startlement. "But you are dark. You are a mindless killer. You took my son. You took him and won't let him free."
She continued to spew out more incantations and hostile words as her voice elevated in sound. Feeling a cold and clammy fear tingling all over his body, he stumbled backwards and knocked into something. Trying to regain his balance, he quickly spun around to be met by a new face. It was Ricochet. She stood still, only in solid black undergarments, and stared into his face with sunken eyes. Her skin was unnaturally pale, and the only light in the room gave her a white and ghastly glow. He swallowed hard and looked her over with distraught.
Without saying a word, and without moving her soul-reading stare, she slowly rose an arm and pointed a thin finger towards a distant object. Unable to resist, he allowed his eyes to follow the gesture until they found a single, closed-off door at the far end of the room. It revealed a second light in the room, but it only remained above the door. The light on the door remained oddly contained in one area, and refused to light up any of the surrounding environment.
He breathed heavily from his mouth as he straightened his posture and began to walk for the door. Something compelled him to venture forth, and journey into the unknown. Once he reached the door, after what seemed like centuries, he sluggishly peered over his shoulder, only to see Ricochet still standing with an outstretched arm. But now, his mother was standing next to her, also pointing.
He paused before finally forcing his hand to fall onto the knob of the beaten, metal door; the surface paint was peeling off, revealing a sheet of rust underneath. His hand slowly turned the knob as his other hand found the door's face and steadily pushed open the door. It creaked heavily, way more than any normal sized door. It sounded like an iron jail cell door sliding open.
Once the door was jarred open enough, he brought himself inside. The room was pitch black, and without warning the only exit behind him slammed shut. For a short moment, the only sound was his own heart and his heavy exhales. Suddenly, a dreary light flicked on in the center of a room, but it wasn't a man-made light, it was the light from a window. But the light from outside was red, and splashed the room with maroon and outlandish hues.
The sound of a vicious bark could be heard from the opposite end. His eyes followed the source, only to find Gretel, Ricochet's German Shepherd, growling and snarling at the end of a chain. It wasn't like the Gretel he had seen, she looked feral and full of rabid rage. He held his breath as she stood on her hind legs and tugged on the chain, showing her long, white fangs.
Then, he heard a series of cries and whimpers to his left, opposite of the viciously barking dog. His eyes moved away from Gretel and found small children being held by their mothers. Each face was stained in tears of blood as they clung to each other in fear. He was frozen. He couldn't move. Confusion and despair surrounded and danced around him like a crowd of street entertainers.
Abruptly, more figured appeared at the center of the room. Once they became present, Soap was met with the image of half-nude men, hanging from meat hooks and gutted from the centers. Their insides and entrails hung from their cores and swayed slowly with their lifeless bodies. Then the smell. The smell was a mixture of metal, ozone, and rotten death. His hand found his nose as his eyes began to water at the sight of a man in all white beating the life out of a tied up man. Soap watched motionless as the white-suited man, with no face, landed several powerful punches onto a defenseless man, who wept and begged for mercy.
Growing disgusted, the white clothed man took a step back, muttered something inaudible to the surrounding darkness, and then, three more men appeared from within the dark abyss. It was as if he had summoned death. Continuing with his gibberish, the man in all white finished his sentence, emitted an inhuman chuckle, and vanished back into the dark. Gretel barked and snarled furiously as he walked past.
The three shadow men now stood before the heavily panting, bleeding man who trembled against his ties. Without warning, all three men began stabbing the man as he yelped and hollered for forgiveness. An unnatural amount of blood shot out in a hose-like stream from each new puncture wound.
Growing suddenly determined, Soap removed his hand from his face and tried to run for the man in attempts of rescuing him from his attackers. But a force held him back, something strong landed on his shoulder. It was a strong grip, and it clamped down like a vice-grip, it was enough to make him wince and turn to face the source.
His eyes found Price, but the old man appeared grave and grey. He was back in his attire from the gulag: dark, ragged clothes, a filthy beanie, and an almost savage stare.
Price pulled himself closer to Soap, their noses nearly inches from their each other, as he emitted a grim whisper. "You can't save him. Don't waste your time."
Soap's brow lowered. He wanted to speak, but nothing came out.
Price brought his mouth next to Soap's ear as he continued to speak. "Don't ever follow the light. It'll be the death of you. Stay in the dark. Here. With me. It's where we belong."
Growing terrified and devastated by the old man's words, Soap pulled away and took several steps back. Then the sound of breaking metal emitted from the back corner. Gretel's chain had snapped loose at the links.
Spinning around with sudden realization and fear, Soap was met head on by a leaping, feral German Shepherd, whose mouth and jaw opened up and displayed a set of dangerous teeth. In midair, she shapeshifted. Her structure became malformed and displaced as it changed into the image of a boar. Her once long, threatening teeth turned into dangerous and sharp tusks.
Trying to stop the lunge, Soap felt a tremendously sharp pain shoot through his abdomen. Peering down, he noticed the boar's tusk had gored its way through his core. His eyes saw the blood leaving the wound as it began to shake its head back and forth with an intent to kill. His strong hands found the boar's head and pushed with all of his might, but the wild pig didn't budge.
Soap's eyes shot open as he launched from his bed, nearly tumbling to the floor in the process. He panted heavily as his trembling hands fumbled with his sheets before finding his stomach. Through the moderate amount of stomach hair, he felt something raised. Panicking, he reached for his table lamp as his sweaty fingers struggled to find the switch. Finally getting a decent grip around the switch's knob, the lamp light flicked on. He looked down at his stomach only to see the grooves in his muscles, and of course, the large scar that sat against his cream-tinted skin. His mind quickly flashed images in his head from his devastating fall back in Prague.
He blinked at the raised surface of the scar before heaving a heavy sigh and peering up from his hands and towards the door. His heart thumped recklessly behind his ribs. That dream was like nothing he had ever experienced before. On occasion, he had some dark dreams and night terrors, but nothing ever that vivid. His skin glistened with a thin layer of sweat as he struggled to regain control of his breathing.
He rubbed his brow with fatigue before moving his eyes away from the door and towards Price's bed off in the opposite corner. It was empty. He lowered his eyebrows and straightened his posture as he stared confused in the direction of the vacant bed. His eyes immediately spotted the difference with the room and layout.
Staring blankly, his eyes ran over the wall of faces, images, text, and maps that sat above Price's bed. Then, mugshots and profiles of familiar faces hung by strings from the ceiling. They weren't there when Soap had found his place in bed. Had the old man just put all of that up? Slowly rising out of bed, he moved across the floor and placed himself in the center of it all. His heart only continued to thump within his chest as he looked over the many faces before him.
He stared into the eyes of Vladimir Makarov, Imran Zakhaev, Jonathan Shepherd, and now, the Vazquez family: Roberto, Fernando, Arsenio, and Esteban. Several of the faces had red X's drawn across them, it was apparent that the ones' whose faces were now covered in red were the ones who were now deceased. Soap swallowed hard as he glanced towards the wall littered in paper which revealed images of Cuban and Italian maps, copies of written documents...the works. This behavior was immediately recognized by Soap. Price had a tendency to grow obsessed with the need to be fueled by something. Whether it was justice or revenge, the old man had a way of clinging to that particular drive.
Soap had grown used to it, but it also made him nervous. The man would become very distant, intolerant, and rather dark when he'd become absorbed in the negativity. But, Soap understood. He had felt the same betrayal, hatred, anger, and need for redemption. However, the Scotsman had believed that was all behind them, and now, it didn't seem to be the case.
His grey eyes scanned the faces he stood within; the threatening eyes stared back at him, causing him to grow uneasy and restless. Tugging lightly on the ends of his boxer-briefs, he snaked out of the presence of the many faces and placed himself next to his bed once again, where he stared down at the sheets. They looked damp. Realizing how much he had sweat, he began to feel clammy and apprehensive as he recalled the dream he had moments before.
No longer feeling compelled to stay in the room he threw on a white shirt, which covered the muscles and scars on his body, and a pair of loose sweat pants. He slowly removed himself from the room, but not without glancing back at the plethora of papers Price had strewn all over his side of the space. He let the door close softly behind him.
He began to move his way down the hallway, heading for the door that led to the outside. His eyes scanned the few doors that covered the walls on the venture down towards the exit. Some doors remained shut, while others were cracked open. Seeing the doors had his mind immediately ponder over his dream once again. At this point, it was more of a nightmare than a dream. He swore his stomach still ached from receiving that tusk to his abdomen. The fluorescent fixtures that lit the hall appeared dimmer than usual, he figured it was his mind messing with his vision. The space felt oddly grey and eerie.
Finally finding himself standing on the outside, with fresh, cool air surrounding him, his legs continued to guide him towards the many barracks. Once he reached the door to the showers, he hesitated before bringing himself inside. Soap found himself standing before a mirror after having made a quick pit-stop at the restroom. His jaw clenched as he stared over his features. He looked ill and startled. His skin appeared pale and contrasted heavily with his dark eyebrows and hair. The bags under his eyes were prominent and the depths of his frosty irises were full of torment. Turning on the faucet, he splashed some cold water against his face before drying off and heading back on outside.
Soap wasn't ready to head back to bed. He wanted to find Price. He still hadn't seen one form of life yet, and it was suddenly beginning to scare him. The nighttime sky was barely lit by the crescent moon, which remained mostly hidden behind foggy, blue clouds. He followed the dirt path, which led him to the mess hall. He wanted a distraction and the quickest, healthiest fix was to grab a bite to eat. He reached for his key to gain access inside after having reached the door.
He grew confused when he noticed the door was already unlocked; he followed through by carefully pushing open the door with his wide-palmed hand. It swung open with ease, revealing the inside of the mess hall. The kitchen was on the far end. Despite the door having been unlocked, no one was visible. His eyes scanned the area briefly before hearing what he thought was soft voices. Feeling curious, he followed the noises towards the kitchen and moved himself through the threshold where he was immediately met by wide-eyed stares.
Ricochet and Shorty had quickly peered over at him in the doorway. They both fell quiet momentarily, before Ricochet opened her mouth to speak but was cut short by Shorty's words.
"Oh, it's you. What are you doing up, Chin?"
"I couldn't sleep. Mind if I ask the same question?" His eyes stared into hers from across the room.
Ricochet let a faint smile pull at her cheeks. "Same for us."
Soap nodded at them before looking over his shoulder. "Have you lasses seen Price around?"
"No. Why?" Ricochet asked as Shorty took a bite from a Fig Newton bar.
Soap's light eyes found Ricochet's aqua orbs. "He wasn't in the room."
"So the old man is up and roaming about as well?" Shorty commented after swallowing.
"Apparently." Soap replied as he ran his tongue over his teeth. He straightened his posture and ambled across the kitchen and towards the cabinets.
Shorty looked him over. "What are you doing?"
"Getting something to eat." His eyes glanced at her from the corner of his vision. "That a problem?"
"We don't need you getting into the habit of feeding yourself late at night."
He opened a cabinet and ignored her remark. His eyes ran over the contents in the cabinet before deciding on some fruit. Both women watched him quietly as he pulled a banana out and turned on his heels. His back found the face of the cabinet door while his eyes watched his hands peel the banana skin back. Feeling the stares, he quickly looked up towards the women.
"What?"
Shorty chewed on the inside of her cheek as Rico leaned forward from her seat on the counter. "You look bothered. You alright?" Rico asked with sincerity.
He was bothered, but he wasn't about to confirm it to them. Instead, he nodded slowly and lowered his brow. "I'm fine." He took a bite from the banana and raised it towards them. "Hope you two find some rest tonight." Straightening his posture, he headed for the door.
"Sure thing, Chin." Shorty murmured.
"You too." Ricochet replied.
He nodded his head at her as he passed. As he walked for the exit, he could hear the girls return to their conversations. Soap was about to give up the search for Price after checking the barrack which housed the courses and gym equipment. Heaving a steady sigh, he tossed the banana peel into a nearby trashcan and began to head back for his room; he figured Price would surface eventually.
Soap found himself standing outside of his shared bedroom door once again. He remained in place as he noticed the door had been jarred. Furrowing his brow and placing a hand onto the door, he eased it open. His eyes quickly found Price standing off by the side of his bed, tinkering with some object held within his hands. Not wanting to startle the old man from his focus, Soap tapped a knuckle against the doorframe as he brought himself inside. The door closed quietly behind him.
Without removing his attention from the task before him, Price spoke hoarsely. "Why are you up?"
Soap's legs moved him smoothly across the room as he approached the center of the room. He paused several feet away from Price. "Couldn't sleep."
"Hmm." Price murmured as he began to thread a string through a hole he had punched through the paper in his hands. "That's been happening a lot as of late."
Soap watched the old man's movements. He knew what Price was getting at, but was wanting to play ignorant. "What are you implying?"
"You've been tossing around at night."
"Do I keep you up?"
"No." Price's eyes finally moved towards Soap's stare. "If it wasn't already apparent, I don't sleep much to start with." His mannerisms were oddly calm for a man most likely suffering from sleep deprivation.
On cue, Soap looked over towards the collage of maps and images Price had plastered to the wall. He gestured his head towards it. "I see you've started a new project."
Price's stern expression relaxed into an entertained smile. "Getting to know the enemy."
Soap nodded slowly. "And what's with the already deceased? Shepherd? Makarov?"
Suddenly, Price's mouth and brow went flat. "A reminder."
Soap's light eyes studied Price's face closely. The old man was...a bit off his rocker. Soap knew it. In fact, he had known it for a long while. After fatefully reuniting with Price in the gulag, Soap immediately noticed that the man had changed, that he had finally fallen victim to the mental exhaustion of war and was no longer fazed by it. Despite Price's seemingly new and unstable ways, Soap was dedicated to him; he felt this certain bond and commitment towards Price, and he was willing to go through every turmoil with him. In a sense, there was also a protective aspect within the relationship, Soap wanted to be Price's backbone whenever called upon. He was a loyal dog. However, he was also sensing that it was perhaps time to vocalize concern.
"Price. This should be in our past now."
Price paused and narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"
Soap gestured towards the images of faces hanging from the ceiling. "The distraught from our past. These men. The one's who are dead now. You said it yourself, 'our truth dies with us should we fail, but not if we kill them first'." He had to take a moment to clench his jaw and ponder over his words. "So why do you need this reminder? Is our truth not valid anymore?"
"Soap." Price began stringing up a new face, whom Soap did not recognize. "We can't forget why we're here, and how we got here. We need that reminder not to give strangers the honors of obtaining our trust. We're soldiers of darkness and misgiving, we represent the hardships and debacles that many faced during the war. And I don't plan on entertaining one with petty pleasantries and adherence."
Soap's heart skipped a beat as he swallowed hard. "...Soldiers of darkness?"
"Yes." Price responded confidently, but quickly noticed Soap's suddenly pale complexion. He crossed his arms and observed him with entanglement. "You've been having dreams."
Soap didn't respond but merely nodded steadily.
"What do they pertain to?"
The large Scotsman peered off at the table lamp and then towards his jumbled bed. "They're odd and unpleasant." His eyes found Price's stoic stare. "Just worry about yourself, old man."
"Never said I was worried." He then returned to his work. "It's 0332 hours. Get back to sleep. We're running to town tomorrow morning."
Without replying, Soap simply went to his cot and took a seat. His eyes ran over the floor and walls. He was stuck on the idea of being a 'soldier of darkness'. Whatever that meant. Whether it was a good or bad thing, it sounded menacing and unwelcoming; he wasn't quite sure that being this 'soldier of darkness' was something he wanted. It made him ponder over the idea of no longer feeling like he had much of an identity anymore, yet, he clung desperately to what he knew and understood about himself. He knew he wasn't the type capable of detaching himself, despite how beneficial it may be in certain gruesome scenarios. Lately, he felt like a common theme around here was 'not forgetting to still be a human'. And even something that basic sounding still managed to be a complicated concept to comprehend.
He finally pulled himself completely into the bed and rested his head and back up against the wall. His head was slightly cocked at Price who had quietly returned to his work. Soap didn't like it. His mouth was beginning to feel dry as he watched the old man calmly work, and eventually call it a night after hanging up a final face from the ceiling; the face bore deep, brown eyes and a grim frown.
Before sliding into his sheets, Price spoke once more. "Don't over analyze any of this, Soap. I know how you get. Sometimes there's only one dimension to a seemingly complex conceptualization. And where we are finding ourselves now, doesn't need any explaining or elaborating. Just follow your heart. It hasn't misguided you yet."
Soap wanted to disagree but Price ended the conversation by snapping the light off. Darkness filled the room and it caused Soap to sink into his bed until he was ready to flip over onto his side and face the wall with a blank stare. He could only hope and wish the next day wouldn't bring a world of gloom before him.