Stop reading. If you have not read the prelude, please scroll down to the next post and read the prelude first:
http://maxscollectionoftales.blogspot.com/2013/05/the-prelude-to-my-currently-untitled.html
If you have read the prelude, then by all means, continue. Please remember, this is still in it's first draft phase:
Chapter 1
“Stupid bike,” muttered Lark under his breath, kicking up dirt in the direction of his mud-encrusted, red crotch rocket. The drive from Lamar, Colorado hadn’t been easy on either of them. Lark had had to stop nine times along the way, jury-rigging this and duct-taping that. He had spent more money on temporary fixes than he had buying it in the first place. The sporty motorcycle had looked great when Lark’s friend, Charlie, had offered it to him for $700 three months ago. But now, the suspension was going out, and the oil tank had sprung a leak. Lark had barely made it back to Charlie’s before the stupid thing keeled over.
Lark leaned against the worn and paint-chipped siding of the garage and dropped his little duffel bag to the ground. He watched it send up a cloud of dust, as if in protest of such abuse, and then turned to stare down his ride. It looked like he had taken it through hell and back.
Close enough, he thought to himself with a snort.
He listened to the rattling of tools and occasional muttering drifting from inside the ramshackle garage and smiled. After months of unfamiliar people and unfamiliar surroundings, it was nice to be back in a place where he knew he was welcome. In fact, it was the only place he had ever felt welcome.
The loud clang of metal against concrete resonated from the garage and the person inside cursed.
Lark turned expectantly, crossing his arms. “I sure hope whatever you have in there runs better than this thing did, Charlie. For your sake.”
A tall, lanky young man, about twenty-five, with dusty brown hair, emerged from the mouth of the garage, wheeling a glossy black motorcycle, similar to the model of Lark’s.
“A 2009 Kawasaki Ninja ZX 6R. I bought her off of a guy in Springfield three weeks ago. She’s a couple years old, but the guy assured me she’s in pristine condition.” Charlie patted the bike proudly, as if it were a dog.
Lark inspected the bike carefully. He rested his hand on the handlebar and gave his friend a sharp look. “How much? Because that crotch rocket over there wasn’t worth even half of what I paid you for it.”
Crotch rocket, Lark mused.
I wonder if the person who coined that title was high when he did it.
Charlie sniffed, recapturing Lark’s attention, and held up his hands in defense. “I made a mistake,” he admitted, gesturing to the red sports bike. “Which is why I’m giving this one to you.”
Lark’s eyebrows shot up, “Wait, giving? As in, for nothing?”
Charlie nodded. “Free.”
“But–”
“Consider it a peace offering for selling you a piece of crap,” Charlie interjected with a small smile.
Lark fell silent and stared at his friend. Charlie was three years older than him, but he was the one person who really knew Lark, inside and out. He was also the only person Lark had ever trusted. The two had grown up together in the small town of Pond Creek, Oklahoma, so Charlie knew exactly the why Lark had taken off from home at sixteen and practically stalked him to Burrton Kansas, a town a little ways north of Wichita. Charlie never asked him to talk about it, though. He knew it was a hell that Lark didn’t want to relive. That was why they were friends: Charlie never asked questions.
A father is supposed to raise his son with a firm hand and a loving heart, not a balled fist and a beer bottle, Lark thought before he could stop himself. He winced internally and pushed the thought away. He didn’t want to re-examine his pitiful childhood, when all he could picture was one parent buried in his booze, and the other buried in a coffin in the ground.
“Lark?” Charlie’s voice broke through Lark’s troubled mind, bringing him back to the present. “You alright?”
Lark straightened. “Yeah, fine. Thanks a lot, Charlie,” he said, nodding at the bike and clapping a hand on his friend’s shoulder.
Charlie slapped his hand against Lark’s back, his version of a hug. “Take care, Lark.”
Lark picked up his small, worn duffel bag and secured it to the back of the bike before he settled into the seat and turned the key. He revved the engine and listened to it purr stealthily beneath him. He slipped on his helmet and gave a quick salute to Charlie before he released the throttle and shot off down the dirt driveway, dust arching in his wake.
He drove for several hours, not caring which direction he was going, just going. He was used to hearing only the roar of his bike beneath him. He focused on it in order to silence the thoughts that ricocheted around in his head. It was how he found solace from the miserable days that made up most of his life. If it wasn’t for the continuous depletion of the gas in his tank and of the money in his wallet, Lark would drive and drive for the rest of his life, never stopping, never remembering, and ultimately, never suffering again. But, like most things in life, that sort of peace was forever out of his reach, and he’d have to stop sometime.
He was on the outskirts of a town called Halstead, the night falling quickly around him, when that first, unwelcome stop made its appearance in the form of an empty gas tank. The bike sputtered and slowed. Lark groaned along with his dying bike, realizing that he was going to be stranded on the side of the highway until somebody came along to give him a lift, unless he wanted to try and hike it to town, in the dark, which he really didn’t feel like doing.
The bike’s motor growled with one last burst of energy, pistons breaking their backs to try and stay in motion. In the end, however, the silence of crickets, bullfrogs, and the warm, steady breeze overwhelmed the engine’s insistence. Lark sighed and thrust out the kickstand, and leapt from the seat in a quick, fluid motion. He searched the highway in both directions for oncoming headlights, but saw none. Sighing impatiently, he leaned against his bike, chewing at the thumbnail of his left hand and listening to the sounds of the approaching evening.
Cicadas whirred at him from their barky perches, not really talking to him, but about him. He was alone, like always. The silence always reminded him of that, which is why he hated the quiet so much. For an instant, Lark wished he was one of those cicadas, conversing with his brethren from his own perch on their tree, at home with his family, whole and complete and sleeping with that blessed sense of togetherness. Instead, he was stranded on the edge of a highway, his only company being the cicadas and their incessant chirping, mocking him from their leafy lounges.
Suddenly, amongst the hushed noise of the evening, Lark caught the familiar growl of a car engine. Relieved, he pushed up from his bike and stepped up to the shoulder of the road. He thought about sticking out his thumb, but he wasn’t a hitchhiker, so he just put up his hand instead. The vehicle’s headlights blinded him as they came closer, but he could tell by the deep rumble of the engine that the vehicle was a pickup.
Good, he thought.
Maybe the driver will haul my bike to town.
After a brief exchange of words, the driver, an older man with a scruffy, peppery beard and a trucker’s cap, helped him hoist his bike into the bed of the pickup. They laid it on its side and Lark jumped in with it to keep it from sliding around. The old man got back into the driver’s seat and sped the last few miles to town, where he dropped Lark off at the nearest gas station and helped him unload the motorcycle from the back.
“I really appreciate the ride, sir,” Lark said, pulling a twenty out of his wallet and offering it to the driver.
The old man pushed the bill away and tipped his hat to Lark. “You keep that,” he said, “and take care of yourself, kid.” He hopped into his pickup and pulled away without looking back.
Lark stared after him. He wasn’t used to kindness that didn’t require payback. He stuffed the twenty back into his wallet and began filling up the bike. When it was finished, he headed inside to pay. He only had about two hundred dollars left. He took a moment to thank his lucky stars that Charlie hadn’t asked him for any money. He wasn’t sure he’d have enough to afford a hotel, even a cheap one, without depleting his supply before the week’s end. His last bet on the Husker Volleyball players to win against New Mexico State hadn’t earned him very much money. Granted, Nebraska had won, winning 3 sets out of 5, but people had been betting otherwise. He’d have to make a few bets tonight and try to win some more cash.
Lark drove around for a few minutes in search of a bar and finally spotted a small, rundown building with a bright neon sign the flickered
Budweiser, except part of the sign didn’t work, so all Lark could read was
Budwei.
Better than nothing, he thought, and headed inside.
The bar was virtually empty, which was pretty normal for a Wednesday night. A few gruff and scruffy-looking men in trucker caps sat at the bar, staring up at a TV, calloused hands wrapped protectively around their beer bottles. They didn’t look the betting type.
Lark spotted a couple of guys shooting a game of pool across the room, a
Budweiser light illuminating their game. They didn’t look like they were up for a gamble, either.
What a bust, thought Lark. An old jukebox was tucked in the corner, softly playing
Highway to Hell by AC/DC.
Lark sat at the far end of the bar, closer to the pool table, and nodded to the bartender.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.
“Just coffee, thanks.” He could suddenly feel eyes boring into his backside. He shifted in his seat and glanced over his shoulder. One of pool players had ceased his game and was staring at Lark with a very unfriendly sneer. His mouth was scarred and twisted, like he had been in an accident of some sort, or maybe a fight.
A knife fight, maybe? Lark shifted uncomfortably in his seat and nodded to the man.
The scarred mouth wrinkled into a surly scowl. “What are you looking at, boy?” the man bellowed.
Lark narrowed his eyes. “Nothing. I’m not looking at anything at all.”
The man didn’t seem to catch his insult. “Why don’t you just take your pretty little face back outside and get lost? We don’t like strangers in here.” His speech was slow, and his words slurred together.
His partner, a tall, heavily-muscled young man, possibly in his twenties, with a quiet face and white-blonde curly hair, took a tentative step towards his friend, clutching his cue tightly in his large fist.
Lark bristled. “Why don’t you go back to your pool game and mind your own damn business?” he replied sharply. Just then, the bartender came back with Lark’s coffee, capturing Lark’s attention momentarily. Lark turned his back on the scar-faced man and his buddy, and wrapped his fingers gratefully around the warm mug, savoring the smell. That was his first mistake; he never saw the hit coming.
“
Jack, don’t–!” the bartender yelled, but it was too late; a large fist planted itself into the side of Lark’s face, knocking him off the bar stool.
Anger and adrenaline surging through his veins, Lark quickly rolled to his feet and lunged. His knuckles caught the man right in his smart-ass, scarred mouth, and a second later, he flew a low blow to the man’s stomach. Scarface doubled over, clutching his belly, which was rather large and flabby.
Too much alcohol, Lark thought absently, wiping a small trickle of blood from his mouth. He turned back to the bar and his coffee. All he wanted was to relax a little before resuming his search for a place to stay. Instead, he found some jackass, completely wasted and looking for trouble, which was the last thing Lark needed.
Hands grabbed the back of Lark’s jacket and swung him around, throwing him towards the pool table. He hit it hard, its edge driving into his lower abdomen. He groaned in pain and wrapped his arms around his body. He wasn’t braced for the next punch; a fist smashed into the side of his head and sent him sprawling. Black dots danced on the edge of his vision, blotting out parts of the cracked plaster ceiling. The
Budweiser light fixture rocked back and forth above him, blinding him each time it swung over the edge of the pool table. Time suddenly seemed to be moving so slow . . . .
A pair of fists grabbed the front of Lark’s leather jacket, and his opponent’s ugly face appeared, his disfigured grin stretching from one end of infinity to the other.
“You want some more of that, boy?
Huh?” the man drawled, his words slurring together in a drunken stream.
Lark’s head snapped back with an audible crack as he was yanked to his unsteady feet and pulled close to the other man’s face. Out of the twisted mouth came whiskey-tainted breath. Lark gagged, everything suddenly all too familiar. Without warning, his memory dragged him into the past and threw him back into his eleven-year-old body, into an incident much like his current one. . . .
. . . Father’s fingers, so tight around my wrist, his breathe, it’s so horrible, whiskey, vodka, who knows what he’s had tonight. . . ‘You think you can back-sass me, boy? I’ll beat your ass ‘till you’re black and blue, you ever talk to me that way again’. . . Why does my face hurt so much? . . . I smell like him, like his alcohol . . . glass everywhere, glass in my hair, where’s the bottle? So much blood, where is all this blood coming from, my head hurts so bad. . . I’m gonna die, he’s gonna kill me, what did I do to make you hate me so much, Dad? . . . .
“Are you listening to me punk?”
The scarred man’s face swam back into focus. Lark blinked rapidly, his eyes stinging.
Scarface smirked. “What’s the matter, feelin’ a little dizzy? Here, let me help.” Abruptly, knuckles slammed into Lark’s nose. There was the sound of cartilage crunching under the blow, and Lark felt himself falling backwards, unable to move his legs fast enough to save himself. . . .
BANG!
Lark immediately curled into a ball, his mind and body shying away from the sound he made as he hit the floor. Heavy footsteps advanced in his direction. Suddenly, the sound of skin meeting skin resonated through the air, followed quickly by the loud shattering of glass.
Lark flinched, covering his head as the glass rained down around him. Over the noise, he heard cursing, and then a body thumped to the floor near Lark.
“
Eli, you sonofabitch!” the body groaned.
Promptly, hands grabbed the sleeves of Lark’s jacket, and once again, Lark was hauled to his feet. All of this getting tossed around was wearing him down. Head pounding, Lark focused on the face of his assailant, half expecting to see Scarface, with his maimed mouth and alcohol-saturated breath. Instead, he found himself staring up into the face of the man’s pool partner, who was peering down at him with intense and startling blue eyes.
He was a full head taller than Lark, with a body built like a bull’s, all muscle. His white-blonde curls sprang this way and that from his head, paralleling his rugged, untamed appearance, but his face was soft, and strangely calm. He didn’t look like he was about to pound Lark’s face in, a sign that Lark took as a blessing. He wasn’t sure how much more of a beating he could take, physically or mentally.
“Eli,” said a voice from behind Lark. Lark jumped and looked behind him to see the bartender sighing and shaking his head, a broom and dust pan in his hand. “Would you mind taking Jack outside for some air?” He gestured to the scar-faced man, who was lying in what used to be the
Budweiser light fixture. “He looks like he’s about ready to throw up all over my floor.”
The tall blonde nodded silently, and glanced down at Lark once more. His brows furrowed slightly, and he gave Lark a quick once-over before letting go of his jacket and stepping away from him. He looked slightly confused, but maybe that was just Lark; after all, he had been punched in the face multiple times, and he was pretty sure his nose was busted. Things weren’t quite in focus at the moment.
Lark blinked dizzily, turned, and shuffled his way over to the bar. With some difficulty, he pulled out his wallet, grabbed a few one dollar bills and slapped them down on the counter. “Thanks for the coffee. Sorry about the mess,” he said to the bartender.
The bartender shrugged, brushing the glass into a pile. “It’s no big deal. Happens all the time. This is the third pool light Jack has broken in the last two months. Although, technically Eli broke it this time. He’s a nice kid. Doesn’t talk much, though.”
Sounds like the type of person I’d get along great with, Lark thought. Not that he really wanted to make any friends; one friend was good enough.
Make any more of them, and they start to try and change you. Out loud, he asked, wincing, “Can you point me to the bathroom?” He wanted to check on his face, which he suspected was rapidly swelling like a balloon.
The bartender pointed him towards the men’s room, and he made his way there slowly. His entire face throbbed. When he got to the mirror, he found he could hardly recognize himself. That Jack character had really rearranged his face. His right eye was swelling, and most of his face was already beginning to turn a variety of blues and purples.
“How attractive,” Lark muttered bitterly, wetting some paper towels to clean up his face. As he wiped the blood from the split in his lip and from the ragged cut on the bridge of his nose, he groaned. His nose was definitely busted. Luckily, the jackass hadn’t knocked it crooked. Lark would have had to crack it back into place, and that would’ve hurt like hell. He finished wiping the blood off from underneath his nose and stepped back from the mirror. Some of the blood had dripped onto the collar of his white T-shirt.
“Dammit,” he cursed. “This was my favourite shirt.”
And my cleanest, he thought as he began trying to wipe it off. He only succeeded in smearing it.
“
Dammit!” he swore again, louder this time. Suddenly, there was a knock on the bathroom door. Lark leaned over and yanked it open halfway. He blinked in surprise, taking in the tall blonde, Eli, whose face was etched with a deep frown as he stared down at Lark. Involuntarily, Lark stepped back.
“Sorry. I’m almost done,” he said, not sure what else to say.
Eli shook his head, and then held out a small box. Lark took it cautiously, confused. It was a box of Band-Aids. As soon as the box left his hands, Eli quietly shut the door, leaving Lark alone again.
“Um. Thank you,” Lark called softly at the door, wondering if Eli was even still on the other side. He popped open the top of the carton and pulled out a Band-Aid. Wincing, he placed it gently over the bridge of his nose, biting back a cuss word or two. Then he stepped back and sighed; his face looked like a bruised banana. Hopefully, it wouldn’t look so bad in the morning. Otherwise he’s be stuck in his hotel room the whole day.
At that thought, Lark realized he still needed to find a hotel room. He tucked the carton of Band-Aids in his jacket pocket and left the bathroom. Eli was nowhere in sight. Lark made his way back to the front door of the bar, nodding to the bartender, who was wiping off the counter. The old truckers were still sitting with their beers, eyes glued to the television. They hadn’t budged since Lark had arrived. None of them bothered to look at him as he left.
The evening had cooled off a little bit, and Lark pulled his jacket a little tighter around him. He mounted his bike, but didn’t bother with his helmet. It wouldn’t fit over his face, now, anyhow. He started up the engine and pulled away from the bar. He cruised down Main Street, keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of a hotel. Finally, he caught sight of a large building sporting a green canopy over the main entrance, with a large white
H plastered on the front of it.
“Bingo.” Lark slowed and pulled into the Halstead Inn parking lot. He killed the engine and shoved the keys in his pocket. He tucked his helmet under his arm and slung his duffel bag over his shoulder as he made his way to the door. Upon entering, he was hit with the overwhelming scent of flowers and old people. The décor was very pink and old-fashioned, not something Lark was particularly attuned to.
Better than sleeping outside, he thought, moving towards the front desk. A petite blonde, about sixteen years old, looked up at his approach, and immediately, her face went a shade paler.
“W-welcome to the Halstead Inn. C-can I help you?” she asked, her voice quavering slightly. Her eyes were glued to his bruised face.
“I’d like a room for one night, please.”
“Okay. F-forty-five, twenty-six, please.”
He pulled the money out of his wallet, and grudgingly placed it on the counter. That was forty-six dollars less that he had to live on.
I should have slept outside, he thought.
“Room 7,” she said, passing him the room key, but being careful not to touch him. “Up the stairs, at the end of the hall.”
“Thanks,” he said gently. He turned headed towards the staircase, dodging tables and vases filled with a variety of pink foliage.
“Breakfast is at eight!” she yelled after him.
“Thank you!” he called back. He found the room at the end of a long, softly lit hallway. He fumbled with the lock, but eventually, he heard it click. The door groaned in protest when he pushed it open. He echoed it as soon as he flicked on the light and took in more pink paraphernalia.
“Yep, should’ve slept outside.” With a heavy sigh, he tossed his stuff on the bed and plopped down in a chair. His entire body ached, but his face hurt worse than anything. Stifling a yawn, he removed his boots and his jacket, which he threw onto the bed with the rest of his stuff. He sat quietly in the chair for a few minutes, recapping the evening. So much for a productive night. All he’d done was get his ass handed to him on a silver platter. It could’ve been worse, though, if it hadn’t been for Eli.
That was what really confused Lark. Why had Eli helped him? He could have helped his friend,
Jack, and together, they could’ve beat Lark to a pulp. Instead, Eli broke a pool light over Jack’s head. But why? And why did Eli seem so
damn familiar?
Lark rubbed his forehead. All this thinking was making his head hurt more than it already did. He pushed himself up out of the chair and pulled off his shirt, carefully avoiding his face. He took it with him to the bathroom to try and get some of the blood out before it stained. While the shirt soaked in a sink-full of soapy water, Lark gingerly removed this Band-Aid from his nose and splashed cold water over his face. He cursed under his breath, his face stinging. He quickly wet a washcloth with cold water and pressed it to his face. Then, he went back to the bedroom, shoved all of his stuff to the floor, and fell back onto the bed. He stared up at the white stucco ceiling, tracing all of the little patterns in it with his good eye. It wasn’t long before he succumbed to sleep.
