Peace Of Mind

Into The Fray

San Francisco, 1:00 a.m.

Issac opened his eyes, jolted from a nightmare, beads of cold sweat clinging to his skin, gasping for air trying to breathe, he felt like he'd been choked by the fear his mind drowned him in. The crimson glow of the alarm clock reads 1:00 a.m.

The windows wear a shroud of condensation as he sits up, a pained groan escaping his lips. Sweat showers his skin, his body feels stiff and heavy.

Rising from his bed, a searing pain halts him, drawing attention to a blood-stained gauze patch on his abdomen.

"Fuck sake," he whispers, heading to the bathroom for painkillers.

Seated on the closed toilet, Issac, his appearance worn and pale, washes himself. Fatigue lingers in the hollows of his blue eyes as he closes them, groaning in discomfort. Issac tilted his head back downing the painkillers and water.
In the mirror, his dulled eyes meet the gaze of a stranger.

"I look horrible," he mutters. Shifting his focus to his abdomen, he methodically changes the gauze, sighing as he inspects the stitches.

The pain subsides, but the shadow of nightmares looms.

Returning to his room, Issac settles against his unmade bed, half-expecting to hear her voice, yet the silence eats at him.
Issac remained still, drowning in his own grief, No one tells you that when someone is suddenly and brutally taken from your life, you lose their face almost immediately, like you can't perfectly bring them to mind without a photo for reference, all you see is the brutalized flesh, mangled expression, and a slack jaw.

God does it hurt

Issac had lost more than he could ever win back, the game of life was rigged for him to lose. Now he was here. Alone again, the desire to release his pain nags at him, but before he could give in, his phone buzzed awake, he glanced up and over the bed at it on the opposite nightstand. It buzzed again and he sighed.

He got up laying across the bed on his stomach, and reached for the phone. He stared at the screen.

Are you awake?

He read the message and sighed. Reagan, of course, was awake at 1 a.m. pulling some bullshit...again

What do you want?
Issac typed with another long sigh.

K.H wants us on something

On what?

A few seconds passed and Reagan finally answered.

A VIP, Joseph Bremer
Issac looked up from his phone at the clock again, 1:20 a.m.

Right now?
He replied to Reagan hoping for a "No".

Yep, there's shit to be done

Issac groaned, running a heavy hand over his face.

Be there in 30 minutes Reg

Issac turned his phone off and got up, he walked to his wardrobe and picked out a black shirt, gray hoodie, black cuffed cargo trousers, combat boots, and a black military field cargo jacket. Getting dressed he took a few minutes to stare at his reflection in the mirror.

Fuckin’ hell

He left his apartment. San Francisco on a quiet night is a calm and peaceful setting. The fog curls across the hills and the lights of the city sparkle in the distance.
The silence is interrupted by the occasional sound of the ocean, drifting in from the south. The air is fresh and cool, and the light of the moon and stars shines brightly in the sky overhead.

It's a perfect night for a walk along the waterfront or a quiet night in one of the empty parks. All in all, an eerily beautiful setting for a quiet night of reflection and contemplation.  

Issac walked the dark streets to Reagan's house, he had gotten there slightly later than intended. Reagan's house was a medium-sized suburban house.
It had a small black two-foot fence that squared off the perimeters of the front garden, and 10 feet of grass hugged the gate to the front porch, and a plain gray stone path led to the wooden steps of the house.