John J. Rambo (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
theydrewfirstblood) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ph_logs2024-02-22 09:52 am
theydrewfirstblood) wrote in ph_logs2024-02-22 09:52 am
it's a long road, and it's hard as hell (OPEN)
Who: John Rambo (theydrewfirstblood) & YOU!
What: John's beencanon updated away--two days in Pumpkin Hollow, three years by his reckoning...and a lot has changed.
When: forward dated to tomorrow (2/23) through 2/26--John's first few days back in town.
Where: All Around Da Hollow
Warning(s): canon typical warnings: PTSD, extreme violence, police brutality, general mental illness, torture, etc., with fresh bonus warnings from his canon update through the middle of FIRST BLOOD PART II for disassociation, depersonalization, grief, dirty prison camp grossness, minor disfigurement, and others I'll work to warn for as they come.
tell me what do you do to survive (ARRIVAL, FIRST DAY BACK)
When John steps off the ferry, he knows it has to be all in his head--but he's so fucking tired.
Remembering takes time because Vietnam is still so fresh in his head. Everything still aches, distant and healing, from the constant companion of isolation to the fading bruises of the garotte to the sores from the leeches in the waste pit of the prison camp. The new burn scar on his face, thankfully, doesn't hurt at all. Sometimes, he even forgets its there.
So he walks the streets with no real destination. He tries to remember the feel of the stones underfoot, the sound of voices and people--God, the people. It's so different from the crush of bodies heading for chow or the rush for the showers, so much less and somehow more intense, almost painful...
It's all he can do not to flinch away from the occasional sidestep or brush of a limb. He does flinch at loud noises, at least at first, but he's long since learned to satisfy the defensive urge with a clenched fist instead of a weapon.
It's rough, at first, but it comes back slow. The sights, the sounds, the smells, and yes: the people. It takes a few hours, but by the time he lets his feet test the way back to his townhouse, he's feeling more sure of himself, less...shaky.
Not better, though--not when he walks into his house, not when he's alone...not when he can still hear Co's final breath lodged in his ears.
He reaches up without thinking. At first, his fingers are searching for the smooth curves of the Buddha--then, thoughtlessly, pressing into his chest on instinct. Reaching for...something, trying to hook into...
Taut wire and metal frame, he kept looking for it for weeks...during the court martial, after every nightmare, and the one he tried to fashion from memory to hang over his bunk was just never quite right...
He can't breathe right until he finds it--there on his nightstand, left with shaking hands as the compulsion to leave gripped him that last night.
He can't relax until its comforting weight is around his neck again...and when he finally falls into his bed, Sam's dreamcatcher safely tucked against his chest, he sleeps like the dead for the first time in three years.
when they draw first blood, that's just the start of it (AROUND TOWN, SECOND OR THIRD DAY)
Getting back into the swing of work is rough. He hasn't touched a piece of wood in so long, but the one fleeting notion he has of seeing if the mines need anyone...
He feels the ghost of claws on his back, and he embraces the fresh smell of sawdust and the tang of the metal saw and steady friction.
Anyone around town that sees him might not recognize him right away--he's put on weight, heavier muscle packed on by hard labor and strict routine. His hair is longer, his tan deeper, and his demeanor...diminished.
The fear and desperation haven't left him, but they've grown...still. Despite his size, he takes up less space. He's softer spoken, if possible, nearly invisible instead of unobtrusive, and his hypervigilance hasn't faded, but smoothed out into a constantly wandering eye. Everywhere he goes, he's looking around, quietly drinking things in--and his constant readiness to move, to fight, to run, can very easily be mistaken for relaxation.
After work, he runs his usual errands. Tries to remember his routine. Tries to find his people, as the scattered memories return.
The loose rail on the steps of Chris's porch he was going to fix--and leave a batch of jerky by the repair, a private joke between friends.
The tealights he wanted to get for the forge--tiny shrines to the nails at River's shop.
The wood he was looking for, the toy he wanted to make for Lou...
...he needs to talk to Sam. He can't stop seeing seeing Co fall into the water.
He can't let anyone else get hurt because of him...but he can't make the same mistake again.
He won't make the same mistake again.
day and night you gotta fight to keep alive (FOREST, THIRD DAY)
John isn't avoiding this conversation, but he's...still not okay, either. He goes into the woods to talk to Sam...but he brings his gear.
The flashes of green still bring the ghost of gunfire with them. His body is still waking him up for count, he's still checking over his shoulder when he bathes, he's still dreaming of her tearful smile.
I think you make good choice.
Yeah.
The act of going through the forest to check his snares is soothing, familiar even after three years. He has to track his own movements, which still frightens him a little knowing he's only been away from this place for a couple days as far as everyone else is concerned, but he resets a couple that were tripped but empty, collects the catch from a few others. Some even seem to have been tended to--he feels good, thinking that it might be Sam.
By the time he's making his way to the cabin, he's got a few rabbits in hand. Half he'll take to Cecil, and the other half...
Well, he did mess this up good. Might as well try to reset and regroup by asking Sam to dinner.
theydrewfirstblood) & YOU!What: John's been
When: forward dated to tomorrow (2/23) through 2/26--John's first few days back in town.
Where: All Around Da Hollow
Warning(s): canon typical warnings: PTSD, extreme violence, police brutality, general mental illness, torture, etc., with fresh bonus warnings from his canon update through the middle of FIRST BLOOD PART II for disassociation, depersonalization, grief, dirty prison camp grossness, minor disfigurement, and others I'll work to warn for as they come.
tell me what do you do to survive (ARRIVAL, FIRST DAY BACK)
When John steps off the ferry, he knows it has to be all in his head--but he's so fucking tired.
Remembering takes time because Vietnam is still so fresh in his head. Everything still aches, distant and healing, from the constant companion of isolation to the fading bruises of the garotte to the sores from the leeches in the waste pit of the prison camp. The new burn scar on his face, thankfully, doesn't hurt at all. Sometimes, he even forgets its there.
So he walks the streets with no real destination. He tries to remember the feel of the stones underfoot, the sound of voices and people--God, the people. It's so different from the crush of bodies heading for chow or the rush for the showers, so much less and somehow more intense, almost painful...
It's all he can do not to flinch away from the occasional sidestep or brush of a limb. He does flinch at loud noises, at least at first, but he's long since learned to satisfy the defensive urge with a clenched fist instead of a weapon.
It's rough, at first, but it comes back slow. The sights, the sounds, the smells, and yes: the people. It takes a few hours, but by the time he lets his feet test the way back to his townhouse, he's feeling more sure of himself, less...shaky.
Not better, though--not when he walks into his house, not when he's alone...not when he can still hear Co's final breath lodged in his ears.
He reaches up without thinking. At first, his fingers are searching for the smooth curves of the Buddha--then, thoughtlessly, pressing into his chest on instinct. Reaching for...something, trying to hook into...
Taut wire and metal frame, he kept looking for it for weeks...during the court martial, after every nightmare, and the one he tried to fashion from memory to hang over his bunk was just never quite right...
He can't breathe right until he finds it--there on his nightstand, left with shaking hands as the compulsion to leave gripped him that last night.
He can't relax until its comforting weight is around his neck again...and when he finally falls into his bed, Sam's dreamcatcher safely tucked against his chest, he sleeps like the dead for the first time in three years.
when they draw first blood, that's just the start of it (AROUND TOWN, SECOND OR THIRD DAY)
Getting back into the swing of work is rough. He hasn't touched a piece of wood in so long, but the one fleeting notion he has of seeing if the mines need anyone...
He feels the ghost of claws on his back, and he embraces the fresh smell of sawdust and the tang of the metal saw and steady friction.
Anyone around town that sees him might not recognize him right away--he's put on weight, heavier muscle packed on by hard labor and strict routine. His hair is longer, his tan deeper, and his demeanor...diminished.
The fear and desperation haven't left him, but they've grown...still. Despite his size, he takes up less space. He's softer spoken, if possible, nearly invisible instead of unobtrusive, and his hypervigilance hasn't faded, but smoothed out into a constantly wandering eye. Everywhere he goes, he's looking around, quietly drinking things in--and his constant readiness to move, to fight, to run, can very easily be mistaken for relaxation.
After work, he runs his usual errands. Tries to remember his routine. Tries to find his people, as the scattered memories return.
The loose rail on the steps of Chris's porch he was going to fix--and leave a batch of jerky by the repair, a private joke between friends.
The tealights he wanted to get for the forge--tiny shrines to the nails at River's shop.
The wood he was looking for, the toy he wanted to make for Lou...
...he needs to talk to Sam. He can't stop seeing seeing Co fall into the water.
He can't let anyone else get hurt because of him...but he can't make the same mistake again.
He won't make the same mistake again.
day and night you gotta fight to keep alive (FOREST, THIRD DAY)
John isn't avoiding this conversation, but he's...still not okay, either. He goes into the woods to talk to Sam...but he brings his gear.
The flashes of green still bring the ghost of gunfire with them. His body is still waking him up for count, he's still checking over his shoulder when he bathes, he's still dreaming of her tearful smile.
I think you make good choice.
Yeah.
The act of going through the forest to check his snares is soothing, familiar even after three years. He has to track his own movements, which still frightens him a little knowing he's only been away from this place for a couple days as far as everyone else is concerned, but he resets a couple that were tripped but empty, collects the catch from a few others. Some even seem to have been tended to--he feels good, thinking that it might be Sam.
By the time he's making his way to the cabin, he's got a few rabbits in hand. Half he'll take to Cecil, and the other half...
Well, he did mess this up good. Might as well try to reset and regroup by asking Sam to dinner.