Breaking Chains (COD FanFiction - Captain Price)

Chapter one

I really don't like working nights. Actually, let me correct that: I don't like working at all. With a heavy sigh, I give myself a moment to look around. The bar's pretty empty tonight, except for our usual drunk. It's a Tuesday night, after all. 

Which explain why I'm working alone, standing behind my bar. I try to keep it clean, organizing a few bottles. This bar is a wretched place, located in a half basement. But, at least, it's close to my small apartment. 

That's why I'm here by myself, trying to keep the bar tidy and the bottles in order. This place isn't much to look at, tucked away in a half-basement, but it's close to my tiny apartment.

Finding a place to live in London is hard. Finding a job near your place is even harder. So, when I got the chance to manage this bar, I jumped on it without thinking twice.

"I'm closing soon, Frank" I announce, my voice cutting through the quiet hum of the nearly deserted bar. 

Frank, the old regular who's become as much a fixture as the bar stools, barely acknowledges the warning. He's half-asleep, his head resting awkwardly against the sticky surface of the table, a dribble of drool betraying his drunken stupor. I let out another sigh, my patience wearing thin not just with the night but with the job itself. The glare from the overhead LED lights feels particularly oppressive tonight, casting a harsh, unforgiving light over everything and making my eyes ache for relief.

As I glance away from Frank, my attention drifts to the bar's attempt at decoration. The owners had aimed for a nautical theme, a decision that now seems more comical than charming. The walls are adorned with plastic fish, their bright colors clashing against the dim interior.

These fish share the space with a collection of sea-themed trinkets that's as uninspired as it is tacky. It's an attempt to inject some character into the place, but all it does is highlight the bar's lack of genuine atmosphere. The décor feels like a half-hearted attempt to transport patrons to a seaside getaway, but with the stale air and the faint smell of spilled beer lingering, it's a far cry from any beach paradise.

As I finish tidying up the glasses, my mind starts to wander to what's waiting for me tomorrow. At 25, I'm still chipping away at my education, balancing textbooks with bar tabs in a bid to pay my way through school. It's a slow process, stretching what should have been a straightforward journey into something more akin to a marathon. I want to become a journalist, or maybe a writer. 

But those dreams feel distant, especially now, with the weight of exhaustion pressing down on me. My body aches from the constant standing, my mind foggy from the monotony. The idea of sifting through lectures is daunting. Yet, it's a mountain I'm determined to climb. I'm driven by the hope that there's something more fulfilling on the other side. That maybe, just maybe, I won't have to introduce myself as a barmaid forever.

"Ten minutes, Frank."

"Guhhqgyuh..."

"Sure." 

I make a mental note to call Frank a taxi. He's a nice enough guy when he's sober, and luckily he's a quiet drunk. That's good because we hardly ever have troublemakers here. I've learned to handle myself just fine, and my boss even gave me a small gun for protection, a small 10mm, a Smith & Wesson to be precise. 

I chase these thoughts from my head. I do not know nothing about guns, not anymore. And while I am grateful for the extra protection, I do not plan on using it. 

I will never  fire a gun ever again.

As a matter of fact, I will never fight ever again. This silent vow echoes within me, a stark contrast to the chaotic world I've navigated up until now. It's a promise that extends beyond the physical, touching on the battles I've faced both inside and out. But those are concerns for another day, another version of myself that I'm slowly leaving behind.

Tomorrow I will go to class. Tonight my main concern is getting Frank home safely and wondering what I'll get for dinner once I get home. Sushis, perhaps. Oh, no. It's too late, all the good places are already closed. 

As I ponder the alternatives, my thoughts meander through the possibilities. Maybe there's a 24-hour diner still serving up hot meals, or perhaps I'll simply make a sandwich from whatever's left in my fridge. The options may not be exciting, but there's a certain comfort in the routine, in knowing that even the smallest decisions are mine to make.

"I'm ordering you a cab, Frank. You can pay your tab tomorrow when you get in."

"JIohu...Thanks..." he slurs.

"No problem. Just try not to drool on the table, okay?"

I don't even hear if he responds. I'll go for a burger. Yeah, that sounds good.

What a dull life.

But, you know, I'm actually thankful for it.

So thankful.