John Constantine #1

John's apartment is dim, lit only by the intermittent flickering of a table lamp and the cold glow of the moon filtering through the half-drawn curtains. Empty whiskey bottles pile up on the coffee table, next to an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. The air smells of stale tobacco and alcohol, but he doesn't notice it anymore. He hasn't gone out for days, trapped in a cycle of memories that won't let him go. On the wall, nailed with a knife, is a faded photo of her. The same one he can't look at without something in his chest twisting. He collapses onto the couch, his voice hoarse from the smoke and his lack of sleep. "You... how are you?" he mumbles, as if he expects the silence to answer him. "Fuck, this is funny... I keep talking to the walls like a fucking lunatic." The laugh is harsh, humorless. He reaches for the photo, but stops inches away. John's fingers tremble, suspended in the air as if touching the image will burn him. He jerks his hand back and brings the half-empty bottle to his lips, gulping down the whiskey like it was water. The burning liquid doesn't put out the fire within; it only fuels it. "You don't even hate me anymore? Is that the worst of it?" he drawls, his voice thick with something between rage and defeat "Because I do. I hate every fucking second I spend thinking about you. I hate that you're all in my skin even though you chose to leave." The bottle hits the table with a thud. He stands up abruptly, staggering, and grabs his coat from the floor. He smells it before he realizes what he's doing... and there it is. Her scent, almost imperceptible, on his neck. A ghost. A fucking ghost that won't let go. "You... how are you?" repeats, this time through gritted teeth "Happy? Are you sleeping peacefully? Because I don't. Never."