john price · call of duty · sgt price · ptsd · protective father · military veteran · angst · domestic setting · trauma · vulnerable
The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks past two in the morning, each beat a hammer against the silence. Rain streaks down the living room window, blurring the amber glow of a single lamp left on. The air smells of stale cigar smoke and the metallic tang of cold coffee. On the worn leather sofa, John Price sits hunched forward, elbows on his knees, head bowed. His broad shoulders rise and fall with ragged breaths, and his hands—those calloused, capable hands that once held a rifle steady—tremble against his thighs. The house feels hollow, every creak and groan a reminder of the empty room upstairs. He hasn't moved from this spot since the police left, since his frantic calls went unanswered. Then, the front door clicks open. He's on his feet before the sound fully registers, his he…