Page 55 of Blackout

Chapter Eighteen

BLACKIE

“Get up,” an unfamiliar voice calls, jolting me awake. I don’t respond and the bastard kicks my foot. “I said get up,” the man growls. Forcing one eye open, the sun blinds me. I groan, lifting my hand to shield my eyes.

“I know who you are, boy,” the man says. “Ain’t afraid to call the cops on you for trespassing.”

At the mention of the police, I force my eyes open once more. Fighting for focus, I stare up at the man. Dressed in his uniform, I recognize him as one of the many groundskeepers of Green-Wood Cemetery. In a cemetery this big, it’s nearly impossible to know any of the workers here, but this guy has been working the section Christine is buried in for years. He’s the guy that swaps out the wilting flowers on my wife’s grave before I get a chance to lay a fresh bouquet on a Saturday.

“Got some pair on you,” he continues to mutter. “Breaking into a cemetery and making a mess like you did.”

“What are you talking about?”

Following his gaze, I sit up and lean my back against Christine’s tombstone, taking in the mostly empty bottle of Dewar’s sitting haphazardly beside me.

“Clean up your mess, boy,” he orders, bending to pull the wilted flowers I laid last week.

“Don’t touch those,” I grunt, fixing him with a glare.

“They’re dead.”

“I didn’t have a chance to stop off and get fresh ones.”

“But you had time to grab a bottle of booze and hop a fence,” he snaps, taking a step back. Bending to retrieve his trash picker, he looks at me with disgust.

“I’ll get rid of the bottle,” I tell him, lifting my hands to my pounding head. “Just get the fuck out of my face.”

“Once a drunk, always a drunk,” he scoffs, turning his back to me.

“What’d you say?” I growl, narrowing my eyes into tiny slits as I peer at him.

“I said you’re a drunk,” he calls over his shoulder as he continues to walk away from me. “Been a while since you came here lit. Thought to myself, ‘this guy finally straightened out his act’, but you’re nothing but a disrespectful drunk.”

I’d roll my eyes at the bastard, but my head hurts too much. Instead, I grab the scotch and try to savor the last drop at the bottom of the bottle. Nothing comes out and so I chuck it once the guy is out of my sight. I’ll toss it in the trash before I leave. For now, I lay my head back against the cold stone and drop my hand to the dirt. Lifting a handful, I spread my fingers and watch it slip through.

“He’s right,” I say. “I’m a disrespectful drunk. I shouldn’t have come here, Chris.”

It doesn’t matter how many years have passed, I still come here and pour my heart out to the first woman I loved and lost. Realistically, I know I’ll never hear her voice again, but part of me hopes she’s still with me in some way. That she looks in on me from time to time and when I’m making a mess out of my life, I pray she sees me through it. That she veers me off the path of destruction.

Last night after Lacey threw me out of our house, I rode around for a solid hour trying to fight temptation. In the end, my weak ass wound up at a liquor store. Armed with a bottle of Dewar’s and a flask of Jack Daniel’s, courtesy of my good friend Ralphie at Union Street Spirits, I took my pipes here. Apparently, I left an impression on the clerk at the liquor store and when I got sober, he felt the loss of my presence. Or rather his pocket felt the loss of my habit. The flask was a gift to commemorate my return to hell.

The cemetery was closed when I got here and so I parked my bike outside the gates, climbed the fence and dragged my ass through the lush hills of Green-Wood. By the time I finally found Christine’s grave, I was six sheets to the fucking wind and forgot why I was here. The last thing I remember was dropping my ass on the grass in front of her stone.

Patting the pockets of my kutte, I find the flask and pull it out. Another drink won’t matter. The damage is already done. I unscrew the cap and take a swig. The alcohol slides down my throat and I welcome the burn in my gut. So much so, I take another gulp.

With the liquid courage floating through my veins, I push off the stone and scramble to my feet. I stumble as all the blood rushes to my head.

“Shit,” I groan, bracing my hand on the stone. Once I’ve got a handle on myself, I move my hand and take a step back. My gaze wanders over Christine’s name and instead of bringing the flask back to my lips, I bend and lay it next to the old bouquet.

That was us.

The hardcore devil and the vibrant rose.

She was so beautiful.

So full of life but loving me ruined her.

She will never be a mother and it suddenly feels wrong to share the news of Lace being pregnant with her. Still, it’s the reason I came here.

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