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and after the bombs subside
Feb. 10th, 2013 01:31 pmFor a long time, Jerry has considered himself lucky. It isn't like his life has been as easy as all that — if anything, it's the exact opposite — but that, he thinks, is all the more reason to. He's made it through shit a lot of people haven't, before and during and after the war, a childhood spent barely knowing if there'd even be enough to eat and time overseas marked by too many close calls to count, things he tries to bury as much as possible. Even then, he's a lot better off than others. He knows too many guys who got killed over there, even more still who came home and ate their guns, or who went looking for trouble just so somebody else would end it, or who spent even more time looking for answers at the bottom of bottles than he did, drinking to try to forget it all instead of just to cope. Besides, it isn't just the war that set him off; it was what he came back to. Too many others never came back at all, either physically or mentally.
Showing up here has given him a good deal of distance from all of that, anyway. At least, that's what he thought, that he'd never be rid of it but that it was farther away, not just the past but history. Besides, he's learned to deal with it. Maybe his way of doing so involves a hell of a lot of not dealing, but it beats most of the other alternatives. The same goes for the other war, the one he'd walked away from fighting the night he showed up here. Though aspects of it are always present, it's easier to keep all of that pushed aside, to focus on the fact that, from here, he won. He's safe and so is Grace, and there's no one here who would do him any harm. If that means not letting himself think about Keeler or Jack or Connie O'Mara or all the innocent lives lost when they got something wrong, everything that went to hell that last night, then he's alright with that. There's enough else here that needs his attention anyway. Dwelling on the past would accomplish nothing.
That is, maybe, all the more reason why, when he walks right into it, it catches him by surprise. Heading through the park on his way back to his apartment, wrapped in a heavy coat to combat the snow, he hears it first, the faint sound of explosions making him more uneasy than he cares to admit to. There could be any number of reasons for it, but it could be trouble, too, which is, maybe, why he heads in that direction, aware of his gun in his holster, though he doesn't reach for it. He isn't on duty, but shit like this is why he stays armed anyway, so he'll be ready if he needs to be.
It isn't any sort of trouble he finds, though, but a festival of some sort, booths crowded with people who look plenty happy to be there. He doesn't really see them, though. His gaze fixes instead on the red paper lanterns strung overhead, a too-familiar sight even with the snow coating the ground, and with the sound of firecrackers ringing in his ears, he finds that it makes his head spin, his chest tighten. It's all he can do not to pull his gun out after all, though he knows there's nothing happening here. He can still see it, the bodies littering the ground because they walked into a setup, because he wasn't there in time to stop it, because they failed.
He doesn't know how long it takes to get back to his apartment; he doesn't really remember walking there at all until he's by his door, fumbling for a key so he can get the door unlocked, letting it slam shut again behind him. There's nothing happening and none of that's followed him here, but he feels like he's still back in Chinatown anyway, hands shaking as he lights himself a cigarette. It doesn't calm his nerves like he wishes it would, making him no less unsteady when he goes to the kitchen to pour himself a much-needed drink. They're the only ways he's got to battle this, an old habit founded mostly in the days when he first got back from the Pacific, more fucked in the head than he wanted to tell anyone, something that's just as true now. He just needs to remember how to breathe again and he'll be just fine, even if just a couple sips of scotch leave him doubled over his kitchen sink, thinking he's about to be sick. At least he isn't, though, the one thing this has over the last war he was left with memories of being in. It isn't much of a reassurance.
Showing up here has given him a good deal of distance from all of that, anyway. At least, that's what he thought, that he'd never be rid of it but that it was farther away, not just the past but history. Besides, he's learned to deal with it. Maybe his way of doing so involves a hell of a lot of not dealing, but it beats most of the other alternatives. The same goes for the other war, the one he'd walked away from fighting the night he showed up here. Though aspects of it are always present, it's easier to keep all of that pushed aside, to focus on the fact that, from here, he won. He's safe and so is Grace, and there's no one here who would do him any harm. If that means not letting himself think about Keeler or Jack or Connie O'Mara or all the innocent lives lost when they got something wrong, everything that went to hell that last night, then he's alright with that. There's enough else here that needs his attention anyway. Dwelling on the past would accomplish nothing.
That is, maybe, all the more reason why, when he walks right into it, it catches him by surprise. Heading through the park on his way back to his apartment, wrapped in a heavy coat to combat the snow, he hears it first, the faint sound of explosions making him more uneasy than he cares to admit to. There could be any number of reasons for it, but it could be trouble, too, which is, maybe, why he heads in that direction, aware of his gun in his holster, though he doesn't reach for it. He isn't on duty, but shit like this is why he stays armed anyway, so he'll be ready if he needs to be.
It isn't any sort of trouble he finds, though, but a festival of some sort, booths crowded with people who look plenty happy to be there. He doesn't really see them, though. His gaze fixes instead on the red paper lanterns strung overhead, a too-familiar sight even with the snow coating the ground, and with the sound of firecrackers ringing in his ears, he finds that it makes his head spin, his chest tighten. It's all he can do not to pull his gun out after all, though he knows there's nothing happening here. He can still see it, the bodies littering the ground because they walked into a setup, because he wasn't there in time to stop it, because they failed.
He doesn't know how long it takes to get back to his apartment; he doesn't really remember walking there at all until he's by his door, fumbling for a key so he can get the door unlocked, letting it slam shut again behind him. There's nothing happening and none of that's followed him here, but he feels like he's still back in Chinatown anyway, hands shaking as he lights himself a cigarette. It doesn't calm his nerves like he wishes it would, making him no less unsteady when he goes to the kitchen to pour himself a much-needed drink. They're the only ways he's got to battle this, an old habit founded mostly in the days when he first got back from the Pacific, more fucked in the head than he wanted to tell anyone, something that's just as true now. He just needs to remember how to breathe again and he'll be just fine, even if just a couple sips of scotch leave him doubled over his kitchen sink, thinking he's about to be sick. At least he isn't, though, the one thing this has over the last war he was left with memories of being in. It isn't much of a reassurance.
