DeathsKnight
Harmless Teddybear
- Joined
- May 22, 2008
- Posts
- 8,620
Johnathan "John" Moore sat at the kitchen table, in front of him a bottle of Jack Daniels and two pill dispensers. Two weeks' worth of beard covered his face, his hair messed up, he wore only a black vest and grey boxers. One hand rested on the table and the other hand was holding a glass, still half with the same whiskey that sat in front of him on the table.
John was a writer, recently he lost his wife and that loss had hit him harder than any other tragedy ever would. She was his life, she was always honest with him, he could discuss everything with her and she would tell him exactly what she thought of his ideas and if needed she would add her own ideas and made him see what the people liked about his books. Of course writing various genres and having twenty films made out of the fifty books he had written had given them both a quite comfortable life. But then the accident tore her from him and he was saddled with the backlash and of course the loss.
He had retreated to his cabin on the lake, on the lake meaning that there was poles sunk into the lake bed and the cabin built mostly over the lake, but at least four rooms still stood on solid ground. He liked the lapping of the water against the shore, it lulled him to sleep after a bottle or two of good old Jack.
At that very moment John was staring out onto the lake, the sun was rising and with it brought cries of water birds, signs of life all around as fishes jumped out to catch the insects hovering above the water. He took a swallow of the whiskey and sighed, they told him to eat something, he knew that there was a tin of beans somewhere. Most likely he would have to go in to town and that means getting dressed, he ran a hand over his face. The thing he hated the most, how the people stared at him, talked behind his back, always saying one thing: "How the mighty have fallen." Just because he was famous it didn't make him mighty, the only thing it did was remind him of just how human he really was, nobody bothered to offer their condolences, not that he needed it, but neither did he need their judgement. He finished the glass and poured himself another one, he needed some sort of courage to get into the shower and getting dressed.
John was a writer, recently he lost his wife and that loss had hit him harder than any other tragedy ever would. She was his life, she was always honest with him, he could discuss everything with her and she would tell him exactly what she thought of his ideas and if needed she would add her own ideas and made him see what the people liked about his books. Of course writing various genres and having twenty films made out of the fifty books he had written had given them both a quite comfortable life. But then the accident tore her from him and he was saddled with the backlash and of course the loss.
He had retreated to his cabin on the lake, on the lake meaning that there was poles sunk into the lake bed and the cabin built mostly over the lake, but at least four rooms still stood on solid ground. He liked the lapping of the water against the shore, it lulled him to sleep after a bottle or two of good old Jack.
At that very moment John was staring out onto the lake, the sun was rising and with it brought cries of water birds, signs of life all around as fishes jumped out to catch the insects hovering above the water. He took a swallow of the whiskey and sighed, they told him to eat something, he knew that there was a tin of beans somewhere. Most likely he would have to go in to town and that means getting dressed, he ran a hand over his face. The thing he hated the most, how the people stared at him, talked behind his back, always saying one thing: "How the mighty have fallen." Just because he was famous it didn't make him mighty, the only thing it did was remind him of just how human he really was, nobody bothered to offer their condolences, not that he needed it, but neither did he need their judgement. He finished the glass and poured himself another one, he needed some sort of courage to get into the shower and getting dressed.