"Fuck, I'm spiraling out," he mutters under his breath. Too many thoughts before sleep bring only the relentless assault of nightmares, once again.
Happy faces, shared Friday drinks, clouds of smoke engulfing everything - only to reveal pools of blood, mangled flesh, and gunfire that won't do shit unless the count is half a dozen at best.
Absentmindedly, he thinks that it's a classic case of PTSD and that the shrink at the precinct would have benched him indefinitely.
He doesn't know if the shrink made it out of RC. He knows that there is no RC anymore.
Cursing, he takes his jacket in one hand and eyes his vest, hanging on the coat-rack. White letters on the right breast pocket - proudly stark on the black material - make him nauseous.
Finally, he leaves to buy more cigarettes and clear his head a bit. Not that it will work, anyway.