Sitting in the dark he couldn't forget the pain, the memories. They wrapped around him like vines, twisting and blocking him from seeing or feeling anything else but the sickly sense of suffocation. The empty bottles of whiskey surrounded him as if they were legions of soldiers ready for war. On a table to his left lay a loaded Glock 19 with the safety broken off. If he was going to do it, a fucking weapon system made by some krauts wasn't going to stop him.
He thought back to the past, the thing that perpetually haunted him. Every step he took was chased by vivid images of her waking him up, feeling her skin touching his, her smile. God damn it Maria… he muttered. He didn't only think of her though, often times he pondered what Frank .JRs future would have been like. He'd probably be a military man like he was, and get fucked over by an asshole in a suit who'd never seen combat in his life.
His wrists were covered in his attempts to join his long lost family, but he was still alive because he knew he wouldn't meet them. Not after what they did in Afghanistan. There was no regret from him for what he did to the Afghans, after all he was just following orders. His regret stemmed from his last choice as a free man, the decision to join the Corps. He wanted to take it all back, every time he said fuck school, every time he thought that the armed forces was a good idea...
His arms were covered in sticky blood, but not his own. He got up and stared at himself in his bathroom mirror. He couldn't believe it was finally over, that the last son of a bitch responsible was dead. He had taken that italian piece of shit into a back alley and stomped on his head until brain matter leaked from him like water from a leaking bottle. Then he took his kabar and sliced off his neck, carried it by the cheap ass tie that every criminal scumbag in New York wore to the carousel and hung it from on top of the pony she died on.
The job was done. He could go away now. He looked down and stared at his crimson and black boots and felt the full weight of it all again. The hunger to make people hurt, the thirst for more violence. He was still a slave, still under the control of something, but not the Army or the United States government.
This time he was a slave to the demons in his head, and he was going to make damn sure he obeyed them. Nothing was sure but one thing.
A lot of motherfuckers were going to feel what he felt, and they weren't going to enjoy it.