Serious blurb.
Sep. 6th, 2008 02:42 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ladybug_archiveA random discussion with ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rose_of_pollux made me think about Dalton's drinking habits. From there it spiraled to wondering if there was anything that would be so upsetting it would drive him to drink too much. And then I remembered this RP scenario. And the blurb happened. The enemies are unnamed because who they are and why they were there isn't important.
The bottle slammed on the desk as Dalton grabbed the now-full shot glass. A few drops of brandy splashed on his hand, but he barely noticed as he downed half the contents in one gulp. His glasses slid away from his eyes, blurring the intoxicated scene before him all the more.
He was usually such a responsible drinker. Over ten years ago, at Dismal, he had only drunk one normally filled shotglass of brandy before bed. One discovery he had made while in prison was that he could sleep better without it. So upon his release, he had halted the practice. But he had continued to keep a bottle of brandy and a shotglass in his desk for certain occasions---sometimes when something went right . . . and sometimes when something went wrong. But he always managed to keep himself from having too much.
Now he had broken his own rule. He could not even count the number of times he had filled the shotglass, usually to the point where it was almost overflowing. And he was not done yet.
He swallowed the other half of the shotglass's contents, slamming the small object on the desk. He had always heard about people who drank to forget. That was how many became alcoholics. For the first time, he could understand where they were coming from. He grabbed the bottle, beginning to pour another glass. His hand was trembling, but he ignored it.
He wanted to forget. But ironically enough, the more he drank, the louder the sound was in his memory. It echoed through his mind like a cannon exploding. And the shocked eyes, staring at him for that brief moment. . . .
He gulped down the brandy before pitching the shotglass across the room. The glass shattered, sending fragments in all directions. He grabbed the bottle, drinking directly from the spout. Then he slammed it onto his desk. He slumped forward, taking off his glasses altogether as he ran his hands over his face and through his hair.
"You've really had enough."
He started out of his mind at the voice. Shaking, he fell backward in the chair, staring at the transparent figure in front of him. Absently he reached for the bottle.
The ghost grabbed it away, holding it out of his reach. "I mean it, Dalton," he said, his usual mischievous air gone. "Don't do this."
Dalton took up his glasses, sliding them back onto his face. The spectre's image was clearer now, though still slightly distorted from his alcohol intake.
"Gunju . . ." He glowered. "You know I am very capable of holding my liquor."
"After all these years, I also know when you should stop." Gunju turned the bottle from side to side. "I know this was barely used before tonight. Now I can't even say how much is left, if there's any at all."
Dalton looked away, shutting his eyes tightly against the insistent memories of earlier that evening---the gangwar . . . the flying bullets in every direction . . . his own misfire. . . .
"You didn't shoot Azazel on purpose, you know."
Dalton visibly flinched. ". . . I killed your brother," he said then, the bitterness leaking into his voice.
"He was in the line of fire." A bit of bitterness had seeped into Gunju's tone as well. "The one he was fighting with deliberately got out of the way so Azazel would be hit. I couldn't stop the bullet in time, nor was he able to move himself. It all happened so fast."
Azazel had stiffened when the bullet had entered his chest. Then he had stumbled back against a heavy bookcase, clapping a hand over the wound as he had stared at Dalton in shock. And the bookcase, not having been secured to the wall, had fallen on top of him. A limp hand had hung out from underneath it, blood pooling on the floor and seeping from under the wood.
That incident had been enough to shock their enemies into departing, finding it a grand joke that Dalton had shot his own ally. When Dalton and Gunju had managed to lift the bookcase off of Azazel, he had been dead. They still did not know whether it was the initial bullet, the weight of the bookcase, or a combination of both that had killed him. But Dalton had barricaded himself in his office and started to drink.
Gunju had remained with his brother's body, stunned into silence. It had all felt so surreal then, and it still did. Azazel was not supposed to be dead. He was not supposed to be laying on the floor, bleeding from a chest wound. It was strange, that Gunju could not remember ever seeing Azazel so silent before---even though Azazel was the quieter of the two.
But Dalton was not to blame for what had happened.
Now Gunju set the bottle on the mantle of the unlit fireplace before walking back to the desk. Dalton was staring into the dark space, massaging his forehead.
"Shouldn't Azazel have . . . joined us again?" Dalton wondered. "In your present condition, I mean."
"I don't know," Gunju said. "I myself was away for a while before coming to him. After I was kicked out of the afterlife, I had to find my way out of the Lifestream. That took a while. And now we're on another planet altogether."
"Then he might not return at all, I suppose," Dalton mused. He gave a dry laugh. "Or maybe he wouldn't even care to."
Yes, Dalton had definitely had too much to drink. Gunju crossed his arms. "You think he blames you?" he asked.
"No doubt. It was my bullet that killed him, after all." Dalton slumped back against the chair. This was all such a nightmare. He wanted to wake up, but that would be impossible. There was no awakening from what was already reality.
"He would know it was an accident."
"From the look he gave me? I wouldn't be surprised if he believed it to be a deliberate act of betrayal."
"You're forgetting something," Gunju said. "You yourself looked shocked. Horrified, even."
"Horrified? Yes . . . quite so. It was horrifying." Dalton passed a hand over his forehead.
Gunju frowned as he regarded the other. Dalton had long ago abandoned his suit jacket. His dress shirt was unbuttoned at the top, the tie loosened almost to the point of becoming untied. His eyes were bloodshot and sporting dark circles. His glasses were falling down again. And his hair was coming out of its ever-present ponytail. Stray pieces fell against his face and neck while others flew out at odd angles. He did not seem to notice any of it.
The spirit sighed, walking around the desk to stand in front of the frazzled man. "Old friend . . ." he said under his breath. But there was nothing more he could think to add. Gunju followed Dalton's blank stare to the other side of the room.
rose_of_pollux made me think about Dalton's drinking habits. From there it spiraled to wondering if there was anything that would be so upsetting it would drive him to drink too much. And then I remembered this RP scenario. And the blurb happened. The enemies are unnamed because who they are and why they were there isn't important.The bottle slammed on the desk as Dalton grabbed the now-full shot glass. A few drops of brandy splashed on his hand, but he barely noticed as he downed half the contents in one gulp. His glasses slid away from his eyes, blurring the intoxicated scene before him all the more.
He was usually such a responsible drinker. Over ten years ago, at Dismal, he had only drunk one normally filled shotglass of brandy before bed. One discovery he had made while in prison was that he could sleep better without it. So upon his release, he had halted the practice. But he had continued to keep a bottle of brandy and a shotglass in his desk for certain occasions---sometimes when something went right . . . and sometimes when something went wrong. But he always managed to keep himself from having too much.
Now he had broken his own rule. He could not even count the number of times he had filled the shotglass, usually to the point where it was almost overflowing. And he was not done yet.
He swallowed the other half of the shotglass's contents, slamming the small object on the desk. He had always heard about people who drank to forget. That was how many became alcoholics. For the first time, he could understand where they were coming from. He grabbed the bottle, beginning to pour another glass. His hand was trembling, but he ignored it.
He wanted to forget. But ironically enough, the more he drank, the louder the sound was in his memory. It echoed through his mind like a cannon exploding. And the shocked eyes, staring at him for that brief moment. . . .
He gulped down the brandy before pitching the shotglass across the room. The glass shattered, sending fragments in all directions. He grabbed the bottle, drinking directly from the spout. Then he slammed it onto his desk. He slumped forward, taking off his glasses altogether as he ran his hands over his face and through his hair.
"You've really had enough."
He started out of his mind at the voice. Shaking, he fell backward in the chair, staring at the transparent figure in front of him. Absently he reached for the bottle.
The ghost grabbed it away, holding it out of his reach. "I mean it, Dalton," he said, his usual mischievous air gone. "Don't do this."
Dalton took up his glasses, sliding them back onto his face. The spectre's image was clearer now, though still slightly distorted from his alcohol intake.
"Gunju . . ." He glowered. "You know I am very capable of holding my liquor."
"After all these years, I also know when you should stop." Gunju turned the bottle from side to side. "I know this was barely used before tonight. Now I can't even say how much is left, if there's any at all."
Dalton looked away, shutting his eyes tightly against the insistent memories of earlier that evening---the gangwar . . . the flying bullets in every direction . . . his own misfire. . . .
"You didn't shoot Azazel on purpose, you know."
Dalton visibly flinched. ". . . I killed your brother," he said then, the bitterness leaking into his voice.
"He was in the line of fire." A bit of bitterness had seeped into Gunju's tone as well. "The one he was fighting with deliberately got out of the way so Azazel would be hit. I couldn't stop the bullet in time, nor was he able to move himself. It all happened so fast."
Azazel had stiffened when the bullet had entered his chest. Then he had stumbled back against a heavy bookcase, clapping a hand over the wound as he had stared at Dalton in shock. And the bookcase, not having been secured to the wall, had fallen on top of him. A limp hand had hung out from underneath it, blood pooling on the floor and seeping from under the wood.
That incident had been enough to shock their enemies into departing, finding it a grand joke that Dalton had shot his own ally. When Dalton and Gunju had managed to lift the bookcase off of Azazel, he had been dead. They still did not know whether it was the initial bullet, the weight of the bookcase, or a combination of both that had killed him. But Dalton had barricaded himself in his office and started to drink.
Gunju had remained with his brother's body, stunned into silence. It had all felt so surreal then, and it still did. Azazel was not supposed to be dead. He was not supposed to be laying on the floor, bleeding from a chest wound. It was strange, that Gunju could not remember ever seeing Azazel so silent before---even though Azazel was the quieter of the two.
But Dalton was not to blame for what had happened.
Now Gunju set the bottle on the mantle of the unlit fireplace before walking back to the desk. Dalton was staring into the dark space, massaging his forehead.
"Shouldn't Azazel have . . . joined us again?" Dalton wondered. "In your present condition, I mean."
"I don't know," Gunju said. "I myself was away for a while before coming to him. After I was kicked out of the afterlife, I had to find my way out of the Lifestream. That took a while. And now we're on another planet altogether."
"Then he might not return at all, I suppose," Dalton mused. He gave a dry laugh. "Or maybe he wouldn't even care to."
Yes, Dalton had definitely had too much to drink. Gunju crossed his arms. "You think he blames you?" he asked.
"No doubt. It was my bullet that killed him, after all." Dalton slumped back against the chair. This was all such a nightmare. He wanted to wake up, but that would be impossible. There was no awakening from what was already reality.
"He would know it was an accident."
"From the look he gave me? I wouldn't be surprised if he believed it to be a deliberate act of betrayal."
"You're forgetting something," Gunju said. "You yourself looked shocked. Horrified, even."
"Horrified? Yes . . . quite so. It was horrifying." Dalton passed a hand over his forehead.
Gunju frowned as he regarded the other. Dalton had long ago abandoned his suit jacket. His dress shirt was unbuttoned at the top, the tie loosened almost to the point of becoming untied. His eyes were bloodshot and sporting dark circles. His glasses were falling down again. And his hair was coming out of its ever-present ponytail. Stray pieces fell against his face and neck while others flew out at odd angles. He did not seem to notice any of it.
The spirit sighed, walking around the desk to stand in front of the frazzled man. "Old friend . . ." he said under his breath. But there was nothing more he could think to add. Gunju followed Dalton's blank stare to the other side of the room.
