The Sad Story of John Shields...

[PrimusPalus 28]

This is the backstory that I use for my character John Shields on just about every server/game with realistic RP like this. It obviously needs to be tweaked to be in line with Identity (in terms of location names, but we just don't know them yet)... it's currently GTA RP based. It's long, I know:

 

"Goodbye, John... goodbye John... goodbye John" the words rang in his head as he opened his eyes from a deep sleep, staring up at the crack in the ceiling over the couch. He groaned rolling onto his side and then pushed himself up into a seated position. He looked around the living room of his apartment which lay in shambles. Empty pizza boxes were stacked in every corner of the room and empty beer bottles lay toppled over on the table and around the floor.

After rubbing his face in his hands, he stood up, staggered for a moment, then sauntered off towards the kitchen. He smacked his lips and was suffering from dry mouth while having some major hangover side effects. Reaching out he pulled the refrigerator door opened and of course, the light refused to come on. It had burned out some two weeks ago and he just didn't have the energy to fix it. Inside the refrigerator was a half empty bottle of orange juice (missing the top), an empty beer bottle, and a slab of cheese that was probably old enough to sprout wings and fly away. He groaned and shut the door.

He turned his head and headed back to his couch to get back into his stupor when he noticed an envelope by the front door. It had apparently been slid underneath and lay halfway under the crack. He dragged his way over to it and grabbed it, wrinkling it in his hand in the process. He then walked back to the couch, flopped onto it leaning back and ripped the envelope open with little care for the contents. In the process, he tore the corner of the letter and held it close to his face to begin reading.

Six days. He had six days to vacate the apartment and remove all his stuff. He laughed at the thought of the eviction notice and threw it onto the floor in a ball. Sure, he missed a few payments and sure he had it out with the super in the hallway the other day. It escalated more than it ever had and resulted in John grabbing the man by the collar and threatening to "make his body disappear" if he bothered him again. Perhaps he took it a bit far that time. Where did he go wrong?

He used to spend his Memorial Day's BBQing with the family. He'd invite his neighbors over and spent it with his wife, daughter, and son. Steak, chicken, and some of the best sausages in town (which he discovered at one of the most obscure Italian deli’s down the street). But of course, it all spiraled after the shooting. That idiot kid, not even 12 years old, who thought it would be smart to run from the cops and when confronted in that backyard, pull out a BB gun. John shot him and while he never regretted it directly and was praised by his department, he suffered most from the public outcry. He found the tires of his vehicle slashed in the parking lot near the Police Department (even though they hired a security guard to keep a close eye on it) a half dozen times, and he found notes stuck to the front door of his home threatening the life of his kids, and his own. It got to the point where John's wife Mary couldn't take it anymore and demanded that they move and he quit his job. But he loved his job. Obviously not more than his family but it was his calling and he needed it.

Then came the riots in downtown Detroit when the Grand Jury refused to pursue charges against John. He came home to find his windows smashed out of his home, his dog Kilo was found laying on the front lawn shot to death, and much of his property was strewn around his house. Almost all of the good stuff had been stolen. A few days later the Detroit Police Chief pulled him into his office and in a political move of "Justice for Devon", he informed John that he would be releasing him from the department. The city needed some closure to the incident and the Chief said the mayor needed to show the public something was being done.

After that, John couldn't find his wife and kids. He called his wife's phone and she wouldn't answer. So, he drank. Then, he drank more. He would hide out in shady motels around the city burning the last of his severance money from the city and drink himself to sleep and then drink himself awake. A few weeks later he found his cell phone under the bed and there was a voicemail from Mary. She was divorcing him and wouldn't be seeing him again. She and the kids were gone and she wouldn't say where. The last words on the message... "Goodbye John".

He groaned again and rubbed at his face. Maybe he could rub hard enough that his past would disappear. When he opened his eyes he was still in the same shithole apartment he was in when he started. Nothing had changed, and he swore he saw Fred (his roommate cockroach) run across the wall behind the broken television in the corner of the room. They never saw eye to eye, and Fred refused to pay rent when it came to it. Many of arguments were had and shoes were thrown because of Fred's squatting.

John looked down at the floor at the crumpled mess of an eviction notice. He then looked around again at the trashed apartment. He lifted his foot and kicked at a bottle on the table sending it screaming across the room shattering against the wall. Then, he reached under the couch and fished his old Nike running shoes out from underneath sliding them on. Without a word, and lacking his normal grunt, he lifted himself up and walked to the front door. The door was never locked anymore so he pushed his way into the hallway, left the door wide open, and just started walking.

As he ventured into the sun he shielded his eyes. He hadn't seen legitimate day light in a long time. He looked over his shoulder at the FOR RENT sign that flapped in the breeze with one of the corner tie downs missing. The neighborhood was a mess, a ghetto. None of the buildings left standing had any life to them. The burned out foundations which lay every other lot seemed to have more character. He coughed some life into his lungs and started walking again. He didn't know where he was going or what he was doing, he just pressed forward.

After what seemed like hours, he came to a bus depot and boarded one of the Dashound buses. He didn't remember paying for the bus ride, and he remembered nothing about the route. He just remembered looking up when the bus driver yelled down the aisle for the fifteenth time that he was at his last stop. He tripped his way to the front as the bus driver gave him an extremely aggravated look then exited the door. A sign near the depot read, "Los Santos", wherever the hell that was.

He stumbled along the street for another hour before coming to a pier where kids and families were enjoying their day off at the beach. John stumbled, then fell onto the sand looking out across the water and annoyed at how happy everyone around him was. The playful screams of the children were piercing to Johns head which was desperately in need of another bottle of Jack Daniels or at the very least a Sam Adams. As he lay on the sand, with the water rushing closer and closer with each wave, he rubbed at the stains of his blue jeans. They seemed to grow and not get any better. Rock bottom really is at the bottom.

Soon after, John was shaken back to the world of the living. A large man in a uniform of some kind was doing his best to wake him and was trying to get him to move off of the beach as everyone had gone home for the evening and the beach was closing. John stood, nodded his head in thanks and without speaking, walked off towards the city along the pier. He glanced around and saw the same "Welcome to Los Santos" sign. He'd never heard of this place but he needed a new environment and a start over with his miserable life. Stepping forward he began exploring, not entirely sure what the future held for him and how long he would be there. But, he did know there was nothing left for him back in Detroit. So, he just kept walking.

Edited November 9, 2018 by PrimusPalus