1.3 (Directional Nudge)

Fear gripped him. He wanted to do nothing more than hide away in his hole. A gloomy sanctuary was better than everything that lurked outside, at least that is what he had scrawled over his bathroom walls in bright red ink. In a manic fashion he grabbed the closest bottle of vodka and began to chug it down as fast as he could. He sat down on the faded toilet in the bathroom and stared at the writing on the wall hoping it would go away. Minutes passed. The little voice in his head calling him out of the hole kept getting louder and louder. It echoed all throughout his body, a cry for escape. It had come before but he could always suppress it. More vodka. It got louder. The cycle continued for half an hour until he slumped off of the toilet into the door jam.
Collecting his wits he stood up. The daze seemed to be clearing but the vessels in his eyes continued to throb. With several loud grunts he pulled himself up on the sink and began to peer into the mirror. It was the same thing. Day after day he looked hoping to see something different, each day grew a larger disappointment.
Empty eyes locked on the remains of a haggard shell. Eyes that were once a radiant green now had succumbed to a murky red. There was no life in them. The eyes held a perfect compliment to the rest of the man he saw. Pale and ragged. Years of pain and anguish were written over his heavily scarred face. Deep gashes ran down both of his cheeks, the one on the left still contained a shining piece of shrapnel. Grenades were never a pretty thing. His hair drooped over his face like a wispy dirge. Unkempt and thinning, the black and gray loomed as a thunderhead over his sunken eyes.
He stood there gripping the sink with all that was in him. Driven by anger and the need for stability he unleashed a fury of profanity to the man whose eyes he was lost in. His arms were weak but still held the out line of the days of triumph. Held together with a flaming skull on each bicep, he longed to sever himself from his instruments of death, the closest he came was sawing off both of his ring fingers. It hurt. A lot. A man haunted by a symphony of casualties was not worthy of love from woman or God. He had become a man who manufactured death to the masses, taken advantage of countless women, and lived only to answer the call of his Russian elixir.
Years ago he had hope. Life seemed to shine. He was twenty two years old and her name was Charlotte. She was beautiful. All he had left was that one word, “beautiful.” Nine letters, nine letters of bliss and failure. She was like a candle flickering in the dark recesses of his memory, a spark, tiny and warm. Volumes of poems had he written about her as life once poured from his trembling lips in her presence. He knew love and he knew joy but all that was left was that nine letter word and a dirty diamond ring that dangled amidst his blood covered dog tags.
It caught his eye in the mirror and a single tear began to streak down his face. It ran down the side of his nose and rested for a second above his trembling lip. With a commanding crash it fell into the sink leaving the dry well from which it came. The moment had passed and rage had been conceived. Tolstoy picked up the closest bottle to him and hurled it against the mirror with all of his might. It broke open showering a hailstorm of broken glass mixed with alcohol. The mirror stood still as the liquid drizzled down its surface.
Anger began to well up. Mild convulsions ran up and down his arms as the walls seemed to close in. Breathing became difficult as the stench of the room now began to cling to the back of his throat. He needed to get out, he knew the atmosphere in the room, it was death. Scrambling through his mess he jumped out the door with his weapon in hand and terror running across his face. He needed to get out. Everything in him screamed for escape. The night seemed clear enough. He felt safe with Ol’ Betsy. Her name was beautifully written by sharpie on both of her dainty barrels; stainless steel that rang like a teething banshee. Many had fallen to her kiss, always tactful and never promiscuous. She kept him safe from the monsters outside but was powerless against the demons in his room.