Haunted Conscience

The Dive

His footsteps echoed loudly in the corridor as he walked towards General Adams's office. He arrived outside the door, his fists clenched, and sniffled. He pushed it without knocking and entered the office. The man sitting inside didn't seem to be bothered.

"Sit," he instructed him pointing indifferently to a chair.

"No thanks. I'd rather stand," he scowled.

"As you wish..."

Silence spread in the room as the decorated man paused, and the only thing you could hear was his pencil scratching the paper in front of him.

"Roy, I called you here today because there have been several complaints about your way of... teaching," he said, his eyes fixed on the document he was filling in.

"Those rookies have no clue what it's like out there in the battlefield," he proclaimed crossing his arms. "If they think my training is hard, then they'd better pack their bags and get the hell out of here," he continued emphatically.

Adams straightened his round glasses and lay on the back of the chair intertwining his fingers in front of his chest.

"Look, I know it's hard for you but-"

"Hard?" screamed Roy banging his fist against the desk, veins popping from his forehead, but the man sitting on the opposite side remained calm. A pen rolled and fell on the floor breaking the thick silence but neither of the two seemed to notice. They stood there, antagonizing gazes, until Roy resumed his speech.

"I'll tell you what's hard! I dedicated twenty years of my life to this Service and when things went south you threw me away like garbage." He was leaning on the desk. "You gave me a lousy position so that you wouldn't-"

"Roy, my friend, you're seeing this all wrong," he assured him and Roy combed his grey hair in frustration. "Your knowledge and your experience are valuable to us. That's why we gave you this position. Who better than you could teach those young people about the challenges they're going to face out there?"

"This is a bunch of bullshit and you know it," he roared, his finger pointing at the General. His eyes spit fire. "The Service just wanted to spare the lawsuits."

"Regardless," said General Adams with a mild tone of annoyance, "this is your job now and you'd better get used to it."

"Then get off my back and let me do my job," he lashed out and turned away without waiting for an answer. He slammed the door behind him and found himself in the empty corridor again clenching and unclenching his fists.

"Don't bother coming for work today," he heard him yelling behind the door.

"Fucking Adams," he muttered between his teeth.

He got inside the car in a hurry and rubbed his thigh, his face contorting in pain.

"Fucking humidity."

He took out a glass bottle from the glove compartment and swallowed three Percocet pills. He brought it in front of his face examining the two remaining pills that rattled against the glass.

"Shit..."

He rubbed his forehead and bridge for a couple of seconds and drove off.

***

"I'm sorry but you need a doctor's prescription," said with a nasal voice the middle aged woman behind the desk flipping the pages of her magazine.

"Please, I'm a war vet," he begged. "I need those pills because of an inj-"

"I'm sorry, but without a doctor's prescription I can't help you," she cut him off with dispassion, not taking her eyes off of the magazine.