Cemetery Drive

by Lucian Clark

  Copyright © 2020 Lucian Clark.

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. All names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13 (Print): 978-0-578-77817-4

  ISBN-13 (eBook): 978-0-578-77818-1

  Cover design by: K.M. Claude

  Published by: Lucian Clark

  Printed in the United States of America

  To everyone who supported me and told me to go for it.

  To my wife who supports all my dreams no matter how wild (but still within reason).

  “Real revenge is making something of yourself.”

  - Gerard Way

  Contents

  I.

  II.

  III.

  IV.

  V.

  VI.

  VII.

  VIII.

  IX.

  X.

  XI.

  XII.

  XIII.

  About The Author

  I.

  Despite being on a busy highway, Helena’s never looked packed. Friday and Saturday, usually the busiest nights for the other bars, seemed to have the same amount of vehicles in the parking lot as on a Wednesday. I had driven by the place many times on my way to work, but never once decided to give it a shot, until that night. Only a few of the lights in the sign still worked which cast a flickering red glow across the parking lot. It wasn’t the most welcoming place on the street. Even the front door was a solid matte black, not exactly inviting, but to me, it spoke of some hidden promise. That night there was something calling to me about the quiet nature Helena’s seemed to promise. Somewhere to have a drink or several and maybe quell that idea that you’re alone for a minute. I needed that. There was a hush that fell over you the moment you walked into that dim and foggy glow. Eerie, but comforting.

  A darkness blanketed the whole inside and the décor was fairly plain and uninspired. Along the far wall were a few neon signs of various colors, with the pink one bearing the name of the bar being the most obnoxious. Compared to the other signs, it seems like this one was the only one that had been replaced or put up in the last few years. As one entered, the bar took up the entire left-hand wall, with the rest of the establishment being filled with various billiard and wooden tables. The opposite wall had four booths which made the inside look more like a dingy diner than a bar. Half the hanging lights, which were mismatched chandeliers, were missing bulbs or had various brightness and hue ranging from bright white to dingy yellow. The ragtag bunch of people inside were talking quietly in groups among themselves, with the bar stools being mostly empty except for a few people evenly space throughout. None of them were talking to each other, enjoying their drinks in total silence. I took a seat at a booth, not wanting to get a drink quite yet.

  When I first saw him, he was sitting in the far dark corner of the bar, partially shadowed by that neon pink sign above his head. If it wasn’t for the way the light bounced off his black hair, I doubt I would have noticed him. The darkness inside of Helena’s seemed to completely engulf him. It didn’t take much for me to notice everyone was ignoring that gentleman in the corner. Their gazes never went in his direction. Not even the bartender stayed to chat with him, despite being extremely chatty (and even touchy) with the other bar-goers. In a rather ghostly manner, he would float over to fill the patron’s glass and then move on. There was an almost clockwork feeling to the movements; stiff and formal. The complete change of demeanor seemed more out of place than the one on the receiving end.

  Subtly was not the strong suit of this person at the end of the bar. Every article of clothing was black, which explained why he melted so thoroughly into the shadows. The black blouse he wore dipped down to expose pale skin, clearly meant to be worn by someone with breasts to show off. While I could not see them due to hiding in the deep darkness under the bar, I could bet his legs were encased in something equally as black and equally meant for his waifish frame. His dramatic apparel intrigued me even further. The exact opposite of my sandy hair and large frame, and the extremely masculine clients that were currently in the bar. There were a lot of baseball caps, t-shirts, and torn jeans.

  It was this complete avoidance that drew me closer towards him. What was so wrong with this slight man that no one wanted anything to do with him? There wasn’t anything…off about him, from what I could tell. He looked like the type that usually would just bat their eyes and never have to pay their tab again. So why was he all alone? When I sat next to him, he didn’t even turn those big Bambi eyes towards me; he continued to stare forward at the wall across the bar. Maybe to him, the entire bar was haunted.

  He had been crying. There was no doubt about that. Dark eyes were lined with red, his make-up streaking down his cheeks to leave small dark puddles on the bar. Still wet. Under his eyes were dark circles, deeper than the running mascara, eyeliner, and eye shadow. I couldn’t tell if it was from crying, or something else since his skin was so pale in the dull glow of the bar. Even his fingernails were painted black, though the paint was chipping around the tips due to a clear nail biting habit. Every drink he took from his glass was drawn out, like he was sucking his time through that straw. The longer he took, the longer time froze. His black hair was held in a sad attempt at a bun, looking more like a rats’ nest on the top of his head. Loose strands framed his face, unintentionally pulling more attention to the parallel streams down his cheeks.

  There was a pull to his sad beauty that made me sit next to him, flag the bartender over, and order a drink for each of us. From my experience you usually don’t see very many people like him in dives like this. Or really ever anymore. Goth (or would he be more emo?) was an early 2000s relic for the most part. Plus, if he stayed I would at least have some company to fill the night and an interesting story to listen to. Win-win. The bartender didn’t say anything about my request, but he raised one bushy eyebrow in confusion before filling my order. He didn’t need to say anything, that look said everything: “Why?” Why not? I answered with my grin.

  He left soon after I sat next to him. I wasn’t sure if it was my presence or acknowledgment of him that pushed him away. Maybe it was just time for him to leave. Regardless of the reason, I couldn’t help but take it personally. Rejection stings. Most of all, he left before the drink I had ordered for him was ready. It had to be another time then, another night. Sighing, my fingers ran through my hair as I cursed myself for not trying sooner. Would I see him again? There was no name to even fill the void in my head, just a mystery and a feeling.

  The thought of never seeing that gothic pretty boy again brought a twinge of sadness. Someone so unique definitely had stories to tell, or was at least an interesting conversationalist, right? I took a long sip of the beer I had bought him and crinkled my nose at the taste. Just your typical watered down, mass produced supermarket beer. Maybe I was wrong in my observation about him being interesting. Then it hit me. Everyone was avoiding him – everyone but me. That means the bar is full of regulars, including him. My original idea of him being out of place had to be incorrect, which only fueled my burning need to see him again. His story, whatever it may be, gnawed at my guts. Infatuation lit like a match, and me the moth to its flame.

  Every night I started going to Helena’s, searching. Not having a name to do my snooping in private made it i
mpossible to quell my curiosity. When I thought of him my heart leaped into my throat. I needed to know why. I couldn’t get him out of my head. When I wasn’t working or drinking, I was thinking of that person huddled in the corner, highlighted by the neon pink glow. Of those big, dark, eyes brimming with tears. Of his queer dress and demeanor.

  It wasn’t without effort that I didn’t know his name. No one at the bar seemed to know who I was talking about, and if they did, they didn’t want to talk about him. They curled their lips and wrinkled their noses when I described him, but still gave no answers. If there was one thing I could figure out, it was that every regular wanted nothing to do with him. Why, I could not for the life of me figure out. What was his story? This slight, gentle seeming person had an entire bar that would not speak of him, yet still tolerated his presence. Obviously nothing heinous enough to warrant a ban, but bad enough to be ex-communicated among the local community. A harsh punishment still. So why not leave and go somewhere else? Why let him in at all? The harder I tried to figure out why, the more questions I had. I felt like a teenager with a high school crush again, and not in all the good ways either.

  It was something like two weeks before I saw him again. At that point I was on the verge on giving up. Maybe I was wrong all along and he really was a ghost. Maybe the faces and the weird looks were because I was seeing things. But, to hallucinate a whole person like that? It wasn’t that dark in Helena’s. There was also the fact that there are only so many overpriced drinks my wallet could take. Going to a bar every night was not usually my thing. Drinking at home was more my style. Helped it was the cheaper option, too. Maybe our paths weren’t meant to cross. Fate is not something that can be forced. I wouldn’t have blamed him for not showing back up considering how he was treated. I thought I had just read the room wrong, or missed some sort of event prior to showing up that night. Wouldn’t be the first time I was completely off on a hunch.

  With the ice melting in my empty glass, I was about to call it quits when he floated through the door. Silent and unnoticed, he took his spot in the shadowed corner, ordered his drink without a word, and got ready to ride out the night. His bag was placed under his stool, looped around his leg. Fingers ran through his hair, which ruined the bun that was pulled painfully tight on top of his head. Those big, dark eyes sparkled in what light they caught, filled to the brim and threatening to burst with tears. Dark streams down his cheeks showed that they already had at some point. The make-up that was smudged across his eyes and mouth still had the hallmarks of being meticulously done. Honestly I would have missed him slipping in if it wasn’t for the sharp smell of perfume that suddenly overtook the corner of the bar; an aroma that cut through the thick smell of smoke and beer.

  The bartender raised his eyebrow at me again as I moved to sit next to my recent obsession. This time, he was asking “Again?” as if the embarrassment of my first attempt hadn’t stung enough. The slight man sitting in the darkness didn’t even acknowledge me when I gave a simple hey, his eyes staring at the shelves behind the bar; unfocused. His dark hair covered most of his face. That look was something I had seen before. Gone – knock all you want, but no one is there – kind of gone. On top of his head there was a pair of large, dark sunglasses as well. Strange for this time of night; the sun was long gone. Did he arrive already drunk?

  “Hey, remember me?” I asked, speaking louder this time. Reaching out slowly, my fingers grazed his shoulder to try and catch his attention. Even when you’re that gone you still notice when someone touches you. Usually. An innocent enough gesture I thought, but his reaction was anything but. In a flash of motion he recoiled and pressed himself to the wall. His eyes were wide, like a cornered animal. Against his shirt his chest heaved as air hissed between his lips, which I noticed were red this time, as opposed to black.

  Highlighted under the neon sign, purple bloomed across pale skin, causing his already full lips to swell on the left side of his face. It danced up the side, the swelling just barely missing his eye. The darkness of the bar and his hair had hid the worst of the damage, even showing the stitches on his cheek. A fight, more than likely. But this person in front of me, who looked like a strong wind would topple him, in a fight? I simply couldn’t believe it. Was he mugged then? Was this what caused everyone to ignore him? But this was too fresh to be from two weeks ago.

  “Oh jeeze, I’m so sorry…I didn’t…” The words trailed off as the black-haired one relaxed, slumping back into his seat. He buried his face into his hands and let out a single, heavy sob. Way to go, I thought to myself.

  “Leave me alone.” The words were heavily accented and not one I could easily place. “I beg of you, please.” Those Bambi eyes turned to me, his eyeliner running down his face again in thick, inky rivulets. “It’s really not worth it.” A slender hand rested gently on top of mine, reassuring me that he’d be alright if I were to simply obey his request. I could only focus on how soft and warm his hands were.

  “Huh?” The word fumbled out of my mouth, as I looked up from the delicate hand to its owner. His eyebrows knitted tightly together, which caused him to wince, and he sighed through clenched teeth.

  “I said leave me alone.” Much sterner this time, bordering on annoyed. Without an accent as well. Did he think I didn’t understand him the first time?

  “Let me buy you a drink or at least give me your name.” I begged. Corny, but I didn’t want this encounter to slip away like the first one almost had. My heart ached at thinking it would be another two weeks before I saw him again. If I saw him again after this. I was drawn to him. Maybe a little obsessed with him, one could say. Something about this mysterious person who seemed so out of place had my heart alight. With a name, at least I’d have something to follow up on. Learn enough to have an idea and move on, but I had to know. Something to ease the unrest in my mind every time I thought of him.

  “Jacques. Jacques Dupont…” His accent was French, or somewhere that spoke French with a name like that. French Canadian, maybe? “Most people call me Jack though…” He spoke without looking at me. His fingers twitched around his glass as his eyes returned to staring behind the bar. He wanted to go away, but I wouldn’t let him.

  “Judah. Judah Moretti.” I matched Jack’s introduction. “Though everyone just calls me…Well, they just call me Judah.” I laughed, shrugging as Jack gently shook his head. In the corner of his mouth, the smallest smile set in. Got ‘em.

  “Religious family with a name like Judah?” Jack spoke softly, still not looking at me. That familiar dullness was beginning to set in. He wasn’t really here, carrying the conversation on autopilot as a formality. However, the way he said my name…I felt it. Almost purred it, like he enjoyed the sound of it.

  “Nah. They just liked the way it sounded, I guess. I never really asked about it. Not sure where I stand on that subject either.” I turned my gaze to behind the bar. As I took a sip of my whiskey, I caught Jack taking a glance at me, forcefully pulling himself out of whatever hole he had climbed into. It only lasted a moment, as he pulled back the moment he realized I had noticed. At least I knew I wasn’t completely repulsive to him. The idea of a shared interest caused my heart to flutter.

  “Relapsed Catholic, myself.” A matter of fact statement. Jack sighed heavily as he set his jaw. Teeth clenched tight enough I could see his muscles flexing all the way to his sharp cheekbones. Preparing himself for something he didn’t want to do. Or bracing himself against that statement.

  “You should go.” Jack whispered, words that seemed hard to say.

  “Why?” My question caused his shoulders to tense. I don’t think he was expecting push back on this. Maybe this was why everyone avoided him – he wanted it that way.

  “Trust me, you should leave now.” Hissing almost, his jaw was clenched so tightly. A shadow moved to block the light behind me, belonging to the bartender, no doubt.

  “Until next time, Jack.” I smiled, running my thumb over his hand before gently patting it. Jack r
ecoiled, pulling his hand to his chest like I had bitten it. That hurt. Was I misreading the signs, yet again? I rose heavily from my seat, stepping to the side as to not bump into the bartender on the wrong side of the bar. Did he really need to breathe down my neck? I was leaving and it was almost closing time anyway.

  “If there is a next time.” Jack mumbled. The bartender followed me out, making sure I went to my car. At least they were looking out for one of theirs? Did they even consider him one of theirs or was I just some weirdo still? It took me until I was sitting in my car to register what Jack had actually said. I looked back over my shoulder, almost expecting to see the bartender and Jack both watching me. No one. Way to go, Judah. Surely, I had made a fool of myself. I left Helena’s feeling like my stomach was made of lead.

  II.

  Jack was a literal ghost online. No Facebook. No Twitter. Not even an Instagram. You would think someone who put that much care into their appearance would at least be on Instagram. The only thing I could find under the name Jacques or Jack Dupont was an article about a charity event for suicide awareness about six years ago. The kid in the photo did not look like Jack though. Closely cropped brown hair, no make-up, and a Catholic school uniform. But those big, brown eyes were unmistakable even without the tears and eyeliner. That was definitely Jack standing next to someone by the name of Gideon Bellview. Apparently Gideon was some big tech guy who donated something like a million dollars to the cause under Jack’s name. As I tried to dig a bit more, I kept running into suggestions for Gideon Bellview. Almost every article that came up mentioned the man, so he had to be important, right? Why would he have decided to donate to Jack’s cause? Despite my experience in the field of technology, I had no idea who Gideon Bellview was. The name didn’t ring any bells, but then again I was in application development. Was he someone who knew Jack, or hell, an uncle or his father? Looked old enough to be in the photos anyway.