New writing style I'm trying out, with ratings disabled, because that tells me close to nothing.

Greg lied down on his sofa, depressed. His uniform layed beside him, medals nearly unseeable in the dark room. The phone rang unanswered until a lieutenant left a message "Sergeant, the funerals is at nine in the evening now. Don't worry about where, just stay at your house and we'll pick you up. If for some reason you can't make it, phone in... bye."

   The old clocks hand loudly snapped to three O'clock. Greg threw a pillow over his head and soon passed out.

    "Brriing" the rusty old doorbell rang, a sound that used to annoy Greg. After the sixth ring, he rolled of the sofa and walked down a set of creaky stairs, opening the front door at the bottom. Two officers stared at him with blank expressions, one wearing sunglasses. Greg sighed "Give me a minute to get my uniform."

   The officer with the sunglasses stated "We're not here to take you to the funeral sergeant. I was asked to give you this." He passed Greg a document.

   Greg mumbled "What's this?"

   "Don't worry about it till tomorrow... we'll stop by next thursday. Tell us if you accept by then. Please understand that by receiving this document that only you may have it."

   The other officer said "Copies may not be made and reference to anyone other than cleared military personnal is punishable by a court he-"

   Greg growled "hearing, I know the rest. You can leave now." With that, Greg slammed the door, walked upstairs and threw the batteries out of the old clock. He put his cell phone on an alarm. It rang fifteen minutes before nine but he only awoke when the doorbell rang.

  He barely remembered getting into the limo or the drive but every word at the funeral was imprinted in his brain. When he walked up beside private Jenkins casket, his voice caught in his throat.

  Greg eventually began "J-Jenkins was a good guy... proud to have..." Seconds passed as he mulled the word served over and over. "S-s... served with Jenkins... it's hard, being in charge... not to blame yourself." The attendents began to murmur. "Since last night, I no longer... serve... in the miltary. I have seen too many deaths under- my- command. Jenkins... will be the last."

   With that, he walked of the stage, made the mistake of looking at Jenkins parents and stumbled out the exit door. He walked the rest of the way home, drinking vodka out of a flask.

The End

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