Things don't really get interesting until around chapter thirteen, when I actually remember how to keep someone interested, so bear with me...
--John cradled his head in his hands. He shouldn't have had that drink. He couldn't suppress the memories anymore. They beat around his skull in an incessant drumbeat. Chelsea... No! Goddamnit. He wasn't going back that far.
Midnite! A child's voice echoed through the past, ripping his thoughts in two.
Someone was beside him now. Holding him.
That was safe, he breathed a sigh of relief. That was safe. But again that desperate cry rang out again in his head. That pleading tormented cry.
"NO!" He screamed again. "I-I-I didn't mean to!"
It was dark, it was always dark. John Constantine ran through the streets, chased by the devils only he could see. Fifteen years old, with a new black trench coat, now slick with rain.
Midnite was in, he was always in.
John stopped in front of him, gasping long breaths in with terrible hacking coughs. But Midnite stood there, his hand was holding something.
John let out a sigh when he saw the small backpack that the tall black man had in his hand.
"I can't John. I am eternally in balance, you rocked that boy."
Without another word he threw the pack onto the street and disappeared back into the noisy club.