Our fallen souls [EN] (High Enough) : VOLUME 1

3 - Blake

I arrive in front of my old man's filthy bar, my car purring with satisfaction at having got the fuck out of this stupid conversation. Damn it, I had to get away from this chick with her shy, naive angel face, who looks like she's come straight from a damn cotton panties commercial.

I park my car nonchalantly, tires squealing on the pavement. I glance up at the building, the peeling facade hinting at the years of debauchery that have gone on here. The tired, half-burned-out neon lights flicker with the energy of an old man still trying to punch the air. This place isn't the kind of trendy bar with guys in suits. No, this is the den of lost souls, desperate drunks drowning their miseries in cheap booze.

I push open the worm-eaten wooden door, and the smell of rancid beer and sweat hits me hard. The eyes turn to me, tired, damaged by life, but there's no hostility. We all know each other here, or at least we know each other's demons. This is a place where you can be yourself, without frills or masks.

I glance around and spot my buddies, Jared and Shawn, slumped on the beat-up sofas at the back of the bar. Jared, a big guy with tattooed arms, is sipping his beer with a detached expression. His tired eyes betray the restless nights he's had, and his gaze is lost in the void, as if he's trying to escape his own demons. Shawn, meanwhile, is rolling a joint with almost mechanical dexterity. A true expert in psychedelic escape.

I make my way towards them, stepping over guys slumped on rickety stools. Low-voiced conversations and muffled laughter fill the air, creating an atmosphere of slightly grimy camaraderie. The bar's stalwarts, regulars who've spent years getting drunk in this place, give me knowing glances, as if they know I'm the prodigal son who always comes home.

For fuck's sake, I never wanted this life. Instead, it's my old man who's in charge of pressuring me to "manage" his fucking business. And he's got his own special way of pressuring you.

This crappy bar was his dream, not mine. He always told me it was our heritage, our fucking destiny to hang out in those filthy walls.

I remember all those evenings I'd spend here, watching my old man chasing drinks as if he wanted to drown his regrets. He'd look at me with those drunken eyes and whisper to me that all this, one day, would be mine. Yeah, what a fucking prospect, inheriting a godforsaken bar where dreams die faster than cockroaches breed.

Now it's a whole different ballgame. I find myself having to run this fucking bar while my old man runs his shady business, frequented by guys no one would ever know. It's clear that Seattle is a fucking corrupt city. The dark alleys and shady neighborhoods are filled with all kinds of wheeling and dealing. Cops get their palms greased, politicians are dirtier than sewer rats, and gangs rule the darkest corners of the city.

"Are you listening to me?" says Jared in an annoyed tone.

I look up sharply, snapping out of my mental trance. For a moment, I was stuck in my thoughts, lost in the meanderings of this shitty life.

I shook my head to compose myself, trying to gather my thoughts. "Sorry, man," I mutter hoarsely.

Jared gives me a scrutinizing look, his furrowed eyebrows testifying to his impatience. I can tell he wants to say something important, something that deserves my attention.

I sit back on the couch, trying to concentrate on Jared's words. I try to put my own shit aside, at least for a few moments. My turbulent thoughts gradually dissipate, giving way to more attentive listening.

"I was saying we really have to do it tonight," he adds in a determined tone.

"Do what?" asks Shawn, taking a deep drag on his joint.

Jared gives me a hard look, seeking my support. I understand where he's coming from, even though I've always been more on the sidelines when it comes to this kind of stuff.

"You know, he's our biggest customer," Jared articulates, his voice imbued with a confidence I've never had.

The words resonate within me, reminding me of the stark reality of our situation.

That client. The one who's got our future in his filthy paws. Jared will do anything to satisfy him, to keep him on our side, even if it means plunging deeper into this fucking spider's web.

I pursed my lips, biting my fingernail nervously. Shawn, still quiet in his cloud of smoke, waits for a clear answer.

"Okay," I finally say, my voice laden with bitter resignation. "Let's do it. I guess it's the only fucking way to pay for my fucking studies and my apartment."

Jared flashes a satisfied smile, as if my answer is the one he's been waiting for.

Fuck, he's always had that leader's soul, that ability to take the reins and throw himself headlong into the action. Meanwhile, I'm content to go with the flow, to let myself be carried away by circumstances.

"How's school going, sweetheart?" asks Shawn. I kick him in the shin in reprimand, then snatch the joint out of his hand to take a well-deserved drag.

"Great, Dad," I reply sarcastically.

"I saw Cassie added a new one to the group on the app," he adds.

I sigh deeply, exasperated that the conversation always comes back to her.

Damn, our confrontation this morning has already set my nerves on edge. This girl, she doesn't pay attention too much. Despite her angelic looks, she's got a lot to say for herself. She slapped me in the face with her repartee, I was really surprised.

"Yeah, I don't know if it's such a good idea to include her in the group," I whisper thoughtfully.

Shawn nods silently, understanding my doubts. Cassie, she's always had a tender heart, and I think she identifies with Joséphine. But we have to be careful, keep Cassie and the others at a distance. They don't know about all this shit, not even my brother. It's a closed fucking circle, and we're wary of anyone who wants to interfere.

"You're right," Shawn mutters. "We can't afford to be naive. She won't find out anyway, we just have to keep our distance from her."

I nod, agreeing with his wise words. We've already got too much shit to deal with, too much weight on our shoulders, to risk getting attached to someone too fragile.

"Too bad, she's beautiful," adds Shawn with a smirk. He looks away from his phone, genuinely intrigued by something.

"We're not going near her," I insist firmly.

Shawn stares at me seriously, his eyes filled with the same determination. We know what to do, we've survived this far by keeping our distance, by protecting each other. We're not going to give up on that now.

I grab a glass from behind the counter and drink it down, feeling the alcohol burn my throat as I feel its soothing effect spread through my body. Then I make my way to the back of the bar, where the corkboard hangs, covered with Polaroids depicting the faces of regular customers.

My gaze settles on tonight's customer, a rather old man whose wrinkled face bears witness to years spent navigating the murky waters of this corrupt city.

My thoughts wander to the mysterious cargo on the counter beside him. Packages carefully wrapped in Kraft paper, ready to be exchanged for obscene sums of money. I stare at the man, trying to guess what's behind his tired eyes and wary expression.

I glance at my phone and sigh deeply. Cassie has indeed added Joséphine to our fucking group.

I click on her profile, trying to figure out what Cassie finds cool about her. My eyes scan the photos, looking for clues about this girl who has entered our lives. I see radiant smiles, moments of happiness frozen in time.

Damn, she seems to have a well-ordered fucking life, far from our usual mess.

I dig a little deeper, trying to find out what's behind that fucking smiling facade. I read her publications, trying to find something that gives me an idea of who she really is. I find myself probably investigating, afraid she'll get in too deep.

I shake my head, reminding myself to keep my distance. Cassie must have her reasons, even if I don't fully understand them. I have a feeling this year is going to be eventful with the arrival of this girl.