Darkness

*Darkness - working title. If you've suggestions, please leave comments! Also, I know there's some inconsistency... If you catch them, leave comments as well! I appreciate any and all feedback!

Lucas

The wrench slips from my oil-slicked fingers and clatters against the concrete floor of the garage, the sound echoing through the empty bay like a gunshot. I don’t bother picking it up. Not yet. Instead, I stand there beneath the lifted Chevy Silverado, staring at the tool as if it’s somehow betrayed me, as if this small failure is just another confirmation of what I’ve always known. Worthless.

The word slithers through my mind like it always does; uninvited, unwelcome, but so goddamn familiar that it might as well be my own heartbeat. My adoptive mother’s voice. Shrill. Cutting. The kind of voice that could flay skin from bone with nothing but syllables.

With a growl I bend down and grab the wrench; my knuckles white around the cold metal. The Silverado’s oil pan stares back at me, waiting. Everything’s always waiting. Waiting for me to fuck up. Waiting for me to prove them right. You’re nothing!

My adoptive father this time. Deeper voice. Bourbon-soaked. He’d say it with this casual indifference, like he was commenting on the weather, like my existence; or lack thereof, was just another mundane fact of his day. Pass the salt. You’re nothing. What’s on TV?

I’m twenty-four years old, and I can’t remember a single day when their voices haven’t been the soundtrack to my life. From thirteen to last Tuesday; when I made the mistake of calling to tell them I’d gotten a raise at the shop; it’s been the same goddamn song on repeat.

“A raise?” My mother had laughed, that brittle sound that used to make me flinch as a kid. Still does, if I’m being honest. “What, did they bump you up to minimum wage plus a nickel? Don’t get too proud of yourself, Lucas. You’re still just a grease monkey.” I hung up and poured myself three fingers of whiskey and then three more. After that I stopped counting.

The oil drains into the pan beneath the truck, thick and black, and I watch it like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. Anything to keep my mind occupied. Anything to drown out their voices. But the noise never stops. Useless.

I finish with the Silverado and move to the next vehicle; a Honda Civic with a busted transmission. My hands know what to do even when my brain is somewhere else, somewhere darker. My muscle memory kicking in. The only reliable thing about me.

The garage is mine, technically. Well, I work here. Been here for six years, since I was eighteen and desperate for anything that would get me out of that God damned house I called home. Old man Patterson owns the place, but he’s mostly retired now, leaving me to run things. It’s a small shop on the edge of town; a town so insignificant it doesn’t even show up on most maps.

I light a cigarette, even though Patterson’s got a “No Smoking” sign right there on the wall. He’s not here to enforce it, and even if he were, I’m not sure I’d care. The smoke fills my lungs, and for just a second; one beautiful, fleeting second; the voices quiet down. The nicotine hits my bloodstream, and the world softens at its edges. But then it all comes rushing back like it always fucking does.

Glancing in the Civic’s side mirror I catch my reflection. My dark eyes staring blankly back at me; so dark they’re almost black, like someone forgot to put any light in them at all. Black hair that’s too long, falling across my forehead. Olive skin that’s smudged with grease and oil. I’m tall; six-foot-three, and the years of working on cars, lifting engines and crawling under vehicles, have built muscle across my frame. I look like I could break someone in half. Most days though, I feel like I’m the one who’s been broken in half.

The tattoos help, though. They cover my arms, my chest, my back; a patchwork of ink that tells no coherent story because there is no coherent story to be told. Just images. Symbols. Things that looked cool or meaningful when I was drunk enough to stumble into a tattoo parlor. A skull here. Some tribal design there. Words in languages I don’t speak. They’re armor, I guess. A way to control what people see when they look at me. If I’m covered in ink, maybe they won’t see the scared kid underneath. Maybe I won’t either.

I finish my cigarette and flick it to the ground and crush it under my boot. The Honda needs parts I don’t have, so I wipe my hands on a rag and head to the small office in the back. It’s barely more than a closet; a desk, a filing cabinet, a coffee maker that’s older than I am and pour myself a cup even though it tastes like battery acid, and then add a splash of whiskey from the bottle I keep in the bottom drawer. It’s two in the afternoon and I don’t fucking care.

The whiskey burns going down, and I welcome it. Pain is honest. It doesn’t lie to you or tell you you’re something you’re not. Pain just is, and there’s a comfort in that. A reliability. My phone buzzes on the desk. I ignore it. It buzzes again. And again. With a sigh I pick it up.

Three texts from my adoptive mother. Your father’s birthday is next month. You’ll be expected to attend.

Don’t embarrass us like you did last year.

And for God’s sake, try to look presentable. Maybe cover up some of those ridiculous tattoos.

I stare at the messages until the screen goes dark, my reflection staring back at me from the black glass. I set the phone down and take another drink. Last year’s birthday party. Right. I’d shown up on my motorcycle; a blacked-out Harley that’s the only thing in my life I actually give a shit about; wearing jeans and a t-shirt. My mother had taken one look at me and sighed like I’d personally ruined her entire evening. My father had ignored me completely, which was somehow worse.

I’d left after twenty minutes and spent the rest of the night at a dive bar on the outskirts of town, drinking until the bartender cut me off and I had to stumble home, leaving my bike in the parking lot because I wasn’t stupid enough to ride drunk. Well. Not that drunk, anyway.

The darkness creeps in around the edges of my vision, the way it always does when I think too hard about them. About my life. About the fact that I’m twenty-four years old and I have nothing to show for it except a job that barely pays the bills, a one-bedroom apartment that smells like cigarettes and regret, and a liver that’s probably staging a revolt.

The darkness isn’t new. It’s been there as long as I can remember; longer, probably. It’s the space between their words, the silence after the insults, the emptiness that fills every room I’ve ever been in. It’s the weight on my chest when I wake up in the morning and realize I have to do this all over again. Another day. Another chance to prove them right. And the fucked-up thing? The really, truly fucked-up thing? The darkness is the only comfort I’ve ever known.

It doesn’t judge me. It doesn’t expect anything from me. It just is, this constant presence that wraps around me like a blanket, suffocating and safe all at once. When the voices get too loud, when the memories get too sharp, the darkness is there to pull me under. And I let it. God help me, I let it every single time.

I’ve thought about ending it. Of course I have. You don’t live like this; you don’t carry this kind of weight without considering the alternative. The gun in my nightstand. The bridge on the highway just outside of town. The pills in my medicine cabinet. I’ve cataloged all the exits, mapped out all the ways I could finally make the voices stop. But I’m a coward. Or maybe I’m just too tired to even manage that.

So instead, I drink. I smoke. I ride my motorcycle too fast on empty roads at three in the morning, daring the universe to make the decision for me. I cover myself in ink and leather and attitude, building walls so high that no one can get close enough to see how empty I am inside and It’s worked so far.

I finish my coffee-whiskey and head back out to the garage. There’s a Mustang coming in at four, and I need to clear space for it. The work is mindless and mechanical. Exactly what I need.

As afternoon bleeds into evening and the sun sets, painting the sky in shades of orange and red that I barely notice; I finish with the Mustang; just a routine oil change and tire rotation and lock up the shop. Patterson will come by tomorrow to check on things, but he trusts me. I’m good at my job, even if I’m not good at much else.

The ride home is cold. October in this nameless town means the temperature drops fast once the sun goes down, and I didn’t bother with a jacket. The wind cuts through my t-shirt, but I barely notice and take the long way, winding through empty streets, past closed storefronts and dark houses. The town is dying, has been for years. People leave and don’t come back. Can’t say I blame them.

My apartment is exactly as I left it this morning; which is to say, it’s a mess. Clothes on the floor. Empty bottles on the counter. The bed unmade because what’s the point? I’m just going to sleep in it again tonight and wake up tomorrow to do this all over again.

I grab a beer from the fridge and collapse onto the couch, not bothering to turn on the lights. The darkness fills the room, and I let it. It’s easier this way. Easier to just sit here in the black and let my mind go wherever it wants to go. Worthless. Useless. You’re nothing. The voices are louder at night. Always have been. During the day, I can distract myself with work, with noise, and with movement. But at night, when everything goes quiet, there’s nothing to drown them out.

I drink my beer and then another. After the second one I switch to whiskey because beer isn’t strong enough to do what I need it to do. My phone buzzes again. I don’t check it. I know who it is. Know what they want. And I don’t have the energy to care.

The darkness wraps around me, familiar and suffocating, and I close my eyes. Tomorrow, I’ll wake up and do this all over again. I’ll go to the shop. I’ll fix cars. I’ll smoke and drink and pretend that I’m fine, that I’m functional, that I’m anything other than a twenty-four-year-old fuck-up who can’t escape the voices in his head.

But tonight? Tonight, I let the darkness win. Like I always do.