Posted in Headcanon

A Drunk Mind Speaks A Sober Heart

Elsa Bloodstone was never one for booze, preferring the calming sensation of tea. Or coffee when she needs a kick. Even in the rare time when she feels like treating herself with liquor, she prefers wine or champagne that were stored in the Manor’s cellar.

So why is she guzzling bottles of beer down her throat now, in this sorry excuse of a pub at some god forsaken corner in London?

Because you miss him, her drunk mind supplies. And this, this is the closest replacement you could have. A paltry duplicate of his usual hang out place, a faint trace of his presence, and his usual drink to replicate the bittersweet taste of his lips.

And she’s drunk enough to let her candor come forth, admitting what she would normally deny.

“I do miss you, Johnny boy,” she whisper to the empty space across the table. “And I’ll be brutally honest, the way you’ve always asked me to be because the one thing you don’t want from me is lies. Because you think you’d be useless then, you’d be of no help for me if you don’t know what’s eating me from the inside.” She takes a breath, and a gulp. “Well here’s my unfiltered confession: out of everything, darling, what I miss the most is seeing you break down right before my two eyes.”

“Sinister, isn’t it?” she chuckles, taking another chug before continuing. “How, though I miss having you on the other side of the battlefield so I can scream about how bloody reckless you are or our lengthy telepathic conversations when we were worlds apart, though I miss being safely tucked in bed with you – and by extension your kisses and unyielding embraces, though I miss how you’ve brought me a little piece of heaven, what I really long for is to able to see you on your lowest point.”

“Because it was a bloody privilege.”

“Who else, who else in this world could say they’ve seen the real John Constantine? The scared, troubled, and sometimes cowardice, human being under your sour bravado facade?”

“Well I have. I, Elsa Bloodstone, have not only seen the man behind those grim tales but also fell in love with him.”

And there’s something warm in her cheeks, which she belatedly recognizes as tears. So she weep, reminiscing the time when he candidly shared all details of his everyday life and whatever crossed his mind. When he trusted her enough to fell apart in her arms as he departed his dirty secrets and insecurities. When he granted her access to see the madness in his mind.

Remembering those precious moments when she had the honor of being his sole emotional support, when her words soothed and assured him. And when his faith in her means she can reign his insanity to some extent, bringing back the smile and radiance that she thinks suit him best.

She realizes now, how lucky she was to be able to worry about his well being and whether or not he’s taken care of.


Because it’s a privilege she no longer own.


“It’s not just the ability to know what’s going on in your mind that I’ve lost isn’t it, Johnny boy? I no longer have the right to ask, now.”

She closes her eyes, desperately wishing she’s holding his hand instead of an empty bottle as she resigns. “Forget asking whether or not you’re feeling suicidal or depressed. I can’t even ask whether or not you want to rest and shut the world, or to simply ask whether or not… you’re okay.”

“And if there’s anything I can do to make you feel better.”

Resting her forehead against the cool wooden surface, she let the bottle in her hand drop to the floor with a loud shattering noise she can’t even hear. “Because now, all I can do is wonder and hope the ticking clock would move faster, to the time where a miracle happens and you reach out to me.”

“More than anything else in the world, love, I just want to know you’re okay. That you’re doing well and you’re being taken care of.”

“Even if it’s no longer by me.”


As unconsciousness claims her, she let out the last bit of drunken confession from her sober heart.

“I know you’ve requested me to move on, love, and I’ve tried. I’ve bloody tried. But I can’t. I’m still here waiting for you. And by God, John, I yearn for you.”





À la mort,

Prompt: Florence + The Machine’s Hurricane Drunk.
“I’m going out, 
I’m gonna drink myself to death.”



An emotionally invested enthusiast of pop culture. Apathetic by design. Aesthetically offensive and eloquently candid. A sentimental heathen.

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