Revved Up Soul

Chapter 7

Luke

The bottle of Jack was disappearing faster than Luke had hoped it would, his head slumped against his arms – the world around him felt like it was just a breath away from inverting. You're absolutely pathetic, Luke thought. Able was always the strong one, he never sought the company of booze or strange; he just faced his shit head on.

Shiv after excruciating shiv, his mind turned page after page of memory. Luke was bone weary.

There's no more light. No more flame in the darkness.

The bartender, Tony, moved over behind his polished wood counter, looking down at a wasted Luke. "Alright," he said, the word annoyed him, everything annoyed him – even breathing seemed a laborious chore. Dark thoughts tapped away at his mind. "Give me your keys, Reynolds, I'm cutting you off." Screw yourself, Tony.

The words came out in a slur, "You take these keys," he struggled to straighten himself, wobbling a bit, "I'll bust your head in."

Tony had the fear in him, it was something that Luke had an intimate knowledge of – he'd seen Luke at his worst and the both of them knew what he was capable of. He motioned with his hand for the keys. "Come on now," he pleaded, "I'm trying to help us both here."

"Can't help me," Luke snapped, shoving the bartender's hand away in a burst of candescent rage. It felt good to be angry, better to be furious than sad, it was much too much a burden to bear alone.

Alone, he thought, it echoed throughout his mind, teasing him, taunting him, and in that moment he could picture the emerald sea – the water so vivid and clear; it called to him, like a siren's song so seductive and pure and enrapturing. He wanted to be lost in her embrace, to feel the beauty that she radiated so effortlessly, so clueless to it, she seemed – she was the coming dawn, casting its fingers of light against the cold and bitter night. He cursed the world as he got up from his bar stool, hating the fact that his breast swelled at the very thought. She had all but killed him, how could he forgive that? How could he still want to forgive that?

Closing his eyes for a moment, trying his best to balance his person, Luke swore that he could smell the sea. Ah, it was sweet, so very sweet and it pricked at his nose with the bite of salt. It pulled him back into those days that felt like only yesterday, standing in the widening gulf betwixt hate and love – he shook his head, thinking back on that horrible sight of Able's lacerated face.

Opening his eyes he waved back without looking at Tony, "I'll walk," he shouted in a drunken stupor. "Put it on my tab."

I'm just a liar, he thought. Good for nothing, good for letting my— Luke had to fight back the stinging in his eyes, he dared not put any more weight to the grave pictures in his head. He raked a hand through his messy unwashed hair. It had been several days since he showered, the boys had tried to help him – for that he was thankful. They were his brothers always.

Luke walked toward the entrance door of the leaky tavern, the smell of uniquely pleasant and musky cigars filling his nostrils; billiards clacked against one another. He eyed one of the young men, maybe seven years his junior – the dark, disgusting feeling of wanting to hurt someone, anyone other than himself, crept up.

Don't. He stopped in his tracks, the pain surging through him effortlessly – a white-hot rage billowed up his backside.

Don't do it. Luke could feel Tony's eyes on him, but he turned from the door to face the pool table – his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he watched the two men make their shots.

Three strides and the bloody memory slammed into his mind.

His hand found the cue stick, gripping it so tight that his knuckles turned white.