Thanks for reviews. Sorry I haven't updated in a while too. Been busy. Life's gettin' a hold of me lately. :P
I guess I didn't make something clear eariler, so I'll try to explain now. Kyle was kidnapped and taken somewhere, we don't know where. By the time he began to lose his self and mindlessly accept what was happening to him, it had been at least a month or more since he was taken. Keep in mind as well, that even before he was taken, he was starting to lose his faith in Endri, even BJ a little, because he was going ignored for weeks beforehand. A lot of crap's been hitting him and he just snapped and gave in mindlessly. Maybe I should have made the timeframe more aparent. Sorry 'bout that! ;
The following chapter is what I consider too long to keep someone interested to read the whole thing, so I broke it into two parts. Part 1 is up now and part 2 will come up later. Hope that's okay with everyone.
Spencers13 – March 2003–March 2004
R – Drama – Angst
Chapter Twelve – All in the Past (pt 1)
Driving forward, unrelenting, Endrithi Juice pushed his body past its limits, never ceasing, never slowing. Nothing could stop him. Nothing dared stop him. Not even his father, Beetlejuice, could stop him, because even he was pushing his own body past its limits just to keep up with his son.
They were on the hunt.
Endri felt no fatigue as he ran, not even attempting to make it easier on himself by riding in his father's convertible just to go faster. Speed meant nothing if he couldn't tell which direction to follow.
His hand throbbed and burned, and devastating emotions poured into him—emotions not his own—feeding his crazed Mania that much more. What he felt was Kyle's emotions through the blood bond they shared with each other, now that they had become brothers. He had taken the human's blood into his body, fusing it with his own and creating strains of new plasma and DNA, adding the man's genetic code to his own. The human was now practically his twin, and just like some twins could feel their siblings emotions and physical pain, Endri could now feel Kyle's. Briefly, in his Mania–driven mind where just a fraction of his self remained, he wondered if his best friend could feel his emotions—if he had fused the ghost's DNA with his as well. Would Kyle know he was being searched for and worried about? The ghost hoped so, for that could bring the human some comfort wherever he was.
But Endri never felt a feeling of comfort flowing between he and his brother, only pain and suffering and humiliation. It only made him strive to push ahead harder, faster. It only made him want to find him that much more.
A few memories sparked in his mind as he ran. He remembered a long time ago, a time when things were simpler. There were no worries about kidnappings, no threats of insanity, no need for hardly a care. Why couldn't things be like that again? Why couldn't he just wake up from the nightmare that was his afterlife and realize that everything had been just that—a nightmare? Maybe it all was a nightmare—just a dream to wake from by simply opening his eyes. Maybe he was really alive somewhere, back in time so long ago when things were indeed simpler. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't open his eyes. He couldn't wake up. And the realization that he really was there, he really was insane, he really was in desperate search to find his missing blood brother—it hurt, stung, and burned.
His energy–creating heart seized in his chest, and his teeth grit together in a devastated facial grimace. Tears, now a common sight on him, flowed in thick rivers down his cheeks to drip off his chin and splash to the soil below his racing feet. But it mattered not where those unstopping feet tread. It was only a blur to rush past his eyes and body, another hurdle for him to leap over.
Kyle his mind echoed softly. Where are you?
Another voice whispered back, not his own. It was soft, subtle, and barely even there, but the ghost heard it. Endriwhere are you?
His eyes widened, the tears still flowing. I'm here! he shouted inwardly, but hoping it reached his best friend wherever he was. I'm here, Kyle! Where are you?!
Endri the same, soft voice whispered again, save me. Deliver me from this hell.
"I will! I will!" the ghost shouted out loud, startling his father a few paces behind. "Just tell me where you are, Kyle, and I'll save you!"
Beetlejuice swallowed his heart. His poor son had become even more delusional than he thought. His boy must have heard voices and thought they were his friend talking. How he wished he could save his only son from the madness eating him down to nothing.
Save mesave me The voice was fading, echoing hauntingly throughout Endri's mind, a desperate call that thought it was going unanswered.
"No, don't go, Kyle!" the ghost screamed, dashing ahead even faster. "Tell me where you are! Tell me! Kyyyylllle!!" He tripped over an upraised rock in his path and careened for the ground, face first, landing heavily and scraping up his entire front half. Dust and dirt exploded from the impact of his body and curled up around him only to be carried off by an errant breeze.
Beetlejuice slid on halting feet next to his son, almost falling himself with the sudden stop. The dust that billowed up from the scraping movement was blown away on the same breeze that took Endri's cloud, and the ghoul knelt quickly, laying his hands to his son's broad back.
"Endri! You okay, kid?!" He gripped the boy's shoulders and rolled him over into his arms, cradling him close.
A few small tears had opened in his white tank top when it received a few dark stains from scraping along the rocks and dirt. Along the left side of his face, his cheek, chin, and forehead had been skinned, thick blood seeping from the exposed wounds. His left shoulder and arm weren't in much better condition, as well as the exposed upper part of his chest. But instead of jumping up immediately after his fall, the ghost just laid there in his father's arms, almost as if he had been knocked out.
The tears on Endri's cheeks flowed endlessly from his closed eyes, cutting wet paths in the dirt on his face and stinging his new cuts and scrapes. In one part of his mind, he was screaming at himself, berating himself for being so damn weak and blubbery all the time when he should be putting all else aside until Kyle was found. But another part wept and bawled and shuddered with loss and uncertainty. How could he find his brother in the vastness of the Neitherworld with nothing to guide his way, only a subtle pull on his mind that intensified in strength the closer he came to the source? Was he searching in vain? Would Kyle be dead by the time he found him? Would that precious flame of life be put out?
"Endri! Endri! Dammit, look at me!" a voice shouted through his raging thoughts and emotions.
Green eyes encircled with red blinked open, glazed and unfocused. Shining tears cascaded forth, unhindered behind restraining lids any longer. What was that voice? Was that Kyle calling to him again? The face above him wavered and fazed in and out of his reality, the voice echoing and getting lost into nothingness.
Kyle. That name was so familiar to him. He remembered, a long time ago, when he met the man called Kyle—when their mutual quest started, when their partnership started, when their friendship started. He remembered when it all begansixteen years ago
A ghost. What could define such a simple word? The dictionary only describes it as is a disembodied spirit. Is that all a ghost is—just a mass of energy that detached from its body to float around? Surely, there must be more to it than that.
To the average person, a ghost was something to be feared or respected. And to the especially macabre, it was something to aspire to be or even be with or control. And still, others went out in search of the specters, trying to study them and prove they truly existed, because as a whole, the Human race was afraid of death, yet was fiercely intrigued by it.
Those were the musings of one such being. A ghost. He was one of those proverbial "disembodied spirits". But he was not a floating mass of energy. He was not an invisible thing that knocked down dishes or rattled cabinet doors. He didn't go about scaring people witless or try to cause any harm. He just existed, trying as best he could to blend into normal society.
So, what did he look like? If he wasn't a glow–ball or a wisp of smoke or a shadow on the wall, then what was he? He was a man, though technically not so. Men were human, and he was a ghost. But his appearance could have fooled everyone. He looked to be about twenty–five. He was tall, but not overly so; built like he had been working out all of his life, but not obscenely huge; and he modestly prided himself on having some roguishly good looks. His pale, blonde hair fell past his shoulders, and bangs cut level with his mouth covered part of either side of his face most of the time. The soft locks were well cared for, full, and healthy.
Then, at that point, his looks began to deviate from the norm—normal for Humans, that is. His skin was paler than pale, so snowy white it was almost bluish–lavender. But even so, that pale, taught skin stretched over clearly defined muscles—rock hard beneath, yet soft and smooth above. His ears were pointed, like an elf's ears, and protruded from the softness of his hair, giving him an almost lion–esque look. Then, his eyes—those green orbs that some would consider absolutely breathtaking, and others utterly terrifying—sat behind a pair of dark sunglasses to hide their true nature. In his eyes, was revealed everything. They revealed who and what he was, how many eras he had seen, and what he was capable of accomplishing. Surrounding them were hollow rings of violet. The pale skin of his face was stained that darker, rich color just around his eyes, setting them off all the more, and adding to his mysterious, but frightening character.
After a few hundred years and a pivotal change in his behavior, he began trying to blend in, to be normal. He strived to be as human as he could, but could never quite fit in. And after years and years of failing to be accepted as a normal human, he finally resigned to accept what he was. He no longer strived to be human. He strived to be himself. That was what he imagined he had been doing wrong all along. Why try to be something he was not? Why not instead try to be everything he was? And he was a ghost.
Still, however, he disguised himself in public so as not to frighten people. He wore those dark sunglasses to hide his eyes, and a long, black trench coat covered his arms and exposed neck. As long as he never told people what he was, they would assume he was human. Let them believe what they would.
He just wanted to exist. He wanted to be happybut he could never quite find happiness. It was always just out of his reach, slipping between his fingers like the sands of time. But he had all the time in the world. He would be around forever. But that prospect was looking grimmer and grimmer with each passing yearanother year without much happiness.
The ghost sighed. How long had he been wandering that poorly lit street in a nameless town, thinking such depressing thoughts? Too long. He needed something to drink.
The blonde looked ahead to the right and noticed a lit neon sign in a window. Glowing letters made up the word "Budweiser", and yet another sign said "Coors". He stopped at the door, and another neon sign read "Open". It looked like that bar was open late into the night there. It wouldn't hurt to step inside for a little while and wet his palette.
So, after adjusting his shades on his nose and straightening his coat, he reached for the door handle and pushed forward. The old, wooden door creaked open, and light music and smoke seeped out through the opening. The music was nothing to really mention, just a little light country number to add to the smoky atmosphere. Several people sat at tables randomly placed around the establishment. A few played cards, and others just talked about how their day had been. No one was at the bar, where the bartender—a built man himself, but definitely on the aging side—stood reading over a newspaper lying on the counter.
As soon as he entered, everyone's eyes rose to meet him. He was used to it, though. He knew he didn't look exactly normal, but at least he was passable. He had also never been to the establishment before, so he expected everyone's reaction to be such. Instead of feeling awkward under their gazes, he strode to the bar, not scuffing his black, calf–high, pirate boots along the grimy floor, but not rushing either. He sat down on one of the many stools at the bar and rested his elbows to it, lacing his fingers together and eyeing the selection along the wall.
"Don't think I ever saw you in here before," the bartender spoke up, the first voice to breech the silence since the ghost walked in. "What brings a city boy like you here?"
City boy? He looked down at himself. Well, he did suppose he looked a little gothic for those people. He was inwho–knows–where.
"Just passing through," his smooth, tenor voice answered, sounding like sugary honey pouring from his lips.
The bartender raised a greying, brown brow. "Well, what can I get ya, stranger?"
The ghost perused the bottle labels for another moment. "Do you have anything stronger than what you have displayed?"
The man stared for a moment, as if determining the ghost's character, then smirked and reached down below the counter. He brought up a dusty, unlabeled brown bottle and clunked it to the counter. "This stuff'll lay you out with just five drinks. Think you can handle it?"
"I have never been one to back down from a good challenge."
Chuckling, the bartender flipped over a clean glass, dropped two ice cubes into it, then poured the liquor to fill it half full. With a handsome smirk, the ghost lifted the glass to his lips, offered a silent toast to the human, then downed the entire drink in one swallow, not even bothering to sniff it first. He hissed slightly as the alcohol burned his throat on the way down and sat the glass back to the bar, tapping the rim with his index finger, silently asking for another.
With a surprised grin, the bartender obliged, filling the glass back to half full. "I never saw anyone drink this shit like that. You must have a numb tongue, a throat made of metal piping, and an iron stomach."
The ghost smirked. "I just know how to handle my alcohol."
"Ya know, we hardly ever get different faces in here. It's almost refreshing having someone new show up. Where you headed?"
"Wherever my fancy leads me," the blonde replied, taking another long gulp of his drink. Again, he tapped the rim of the empty glass, asking for more. It was refilled a moment later.
"Drifter, huh? You ain't here to cause trouble to our little town are you?" the man asked, suspicion apparent in his voice.
"Sorry to disappoint you, but I am just passing through. I have no desire to cause trouble to anyone."
"Good. We had enough of it a little over a year ago."
The ghost cocked a blonde brow over the rim of his glasses. "Oh? What happened, may I ask?"
"Buy another drink, and I'll tell ya."
He chuckled and downed his refilled drink then set it back to the counter for more. The bartender refilled the glass then set the bottle aside. He leaned onto the bar and clasped his hands, staring off past the ghost, but still talking to him.
"About a year ago, this guy named Kyle Bennington was living about five miles out of town here. He had a beautiful wife. I mean, she was absolutely fantastic. They had a little kid too: a girl about six years old. Everybody thought things were going great for them, but then all the sudden, something justwent wrong. From what I heard, Kyle went home one day from work and found both of them strewn over his front yardin pieces."
"They had been killed?" the ghost asked, paying undue attention.
"Well, I don't suppose they were still alive, I'll tell ya that," the bartender grumbled sarcastically. "Anyway, nobody knows what really happened. They never caught anybody, and there was no evidence of any kind o' disturbance or other violence, just body parts and blood all over the lawn."
The ghost took another swig of his drink. "What about this 'Kyle'? Could he have been the one to do it?"
"Well, a lot o' people do say that Kyle flipped out and killed 'em both, then said he found 'em that way. But there wasn't enough evidence to convict him, so they had to let him go. But to tell you the truth, I don't think he could'a done it." He leaned back up to pour the ghost another glass ofwhatever it was.
"Why?"
"'Cause almost every night, that poor man comes into this very bar, sits at this counter, and says, 'Gimme a beer, Frank. I'm gettin' trashed.' It's sad, really. I've known Kyle for a long time now, and ever since his family was killed, he's never been the same. In fact, these last few weeks, he's been downright sickly. But don't ever think he'll ask for help, hell no. He'd rather die than have people help him out. He's one of those 'I can take care of myself' people." The aging man looked up to the bar clock above the door. "Actually, he's due in here any minute."
The ghost sat in silence for a time, simply processing the story. Now that he had heard all of it, he was curious about how the man's family had been killed. And he was interested in meeting this Kyle for himself.
Just as the bartender predicted, Kyle Bennington stalked into the bar a few minutes later and plunked down onto one of the barstools, putting an empty one between himself and the blonde.
If the ghost hadn't been looking, he would have sworn he had glanced at an eighty–year–old man. Kyle's hair was snow white. It fluffed up from his head in many directions naturally with a patch of light grey puffing up in front, the only deviation from the snowy white hair. He was thin and lanky, but not precisely skinny. And if the ghost's observations were right—as they usually were—it looked as though the man between twenty–five and thirty had lost a lot of weight in a small amount of time. If Kyle's loosely–hanging clothes were any indication, then he was indeed correctunless the human liked to dress in baggy clothes.
"Gimme a beer, Frank. I'm gettin' trashed," he grumbled, reaching into one of his jean jacket pockets and pulling out a pack of Marlboro. He lit one up and puffed on it soothingly as Frank set a Rolling Rock before him.
The bartender winked at the blonde as if to say, "See? I told you."
Kyle swiveled his head to the right and finally took notice to the gothic–like stranger near him. The blonde was subtly looking over at him through a pair of dark shades. "What're you lookin' at?"
Shrugging, the ghost raised his blonde brows and turned away, concentrating on his drink.
"You look a little better than normal, Kyle. Get over that cold?" Frank asked, ignoring his paper in favor of speaking with his old friend for a while.
"Yeah. 'S just a cold," Kyle responded, tilting the bottle of beer to his lips and taking a long swallow.
"Ah, good. So, how was your day?" Frank asked on, standing behind the bar between the only two sitting there.
His white–haired friend chuckled after taking a drag from his cigarette. "Every time I come in here, you ask me the same thing, Frank. You should know the answer by now."
"Yeah, but I feel I gotta ask."
Kyle smiled. "Yeahwell, I appreciate it." He looked back over to "the Goth"—as he had quickly dubbed him—and noticed him subtly looking over again. "What?"
The ghost only shrugged and concentrated on his drink again.
"Why you wearing sunglasses at night? And inside?"
The ghost cleared his throat quietly. Hundreds of people had asked him the same exact question so many times, his response was automatic. "My eyes are extremely sensitive to light. I have to wear the glasses all the time, or I would be blinded. I apologize if it makes you uncomfortable."
"Mm" the human mused, taking another long drink and another puff from his cigarette. "Who the hell are you anyway? I never saw you in here before."
"As I said to Frank, here," the blonde repeated, indicating the bartender, "I'm just passing through."
Kyle chuckled and swallowed more beer. "Yeah, well, you better keep on goin'."
Sourly, the ghost resituated himself in his seat and returned to his drink. That was just the reason he disliked most humans.
Over two hours later, Kyle had already put away ten beers and was obviously drunk out of his mind. As soon as one cigarette was smoked to the filter, a new one was lit to replace the old.
The ghost could only mentally shake his head sadly for the poor man. If what Frank had told him was true, the human was in there every night of the week, doing the exact same thing ever since his family was murdered. The ghost sighed quietly. Humans were so frail of mind, body, and heart. They fell apart so easily, and it could take almost their entire lifetime to build back up from their fall.
It was a shame, really. But in all reality, it was Kyle's fault for letting himself go like that. Or maybe not? Maybe he had been having a tougher time than others would in his situation? After all, Frank said that many of the townspeople thought Kyle to be the one to murder his family. Perhaps they weren't being supportive of him. Maybe instead, they were blaming him, further adding to his torment. It could also be the reason he went to that bar. He could not only drink his sorrows away for awhile, but also talk to the one person who may still be his friend. The blonde–haired ghost smirked at his deductive reasoning. Maybe all Kyle needed was a little care? A friend? Someone who would stand beside him and help him through his pain—not that he was up for the job.
The door to the bar swung open and bashed against the wall, startling many of the patrons, including the ghost. Everyone looked over to see a large man standing in the doorway clad entirely in black—jean jacket, tight jeans, and thick hunter's boots. He stared around with beady, dark eyes at each patron individually. As his shifty gaze passed over them, they would turn around and nervously go about what they had been doing.
The ghost guessed that man wasn't well liked.
"Oh, shit. It's Donnogan again," Frank whispered, nervously shifting his weight from side to side on his feet.
"Who owns that black Jeep outside?" Donnogan's gruff voice was loud, carrying all over the bar easily.
At the counter, Kyle took another huge gulp of his beer. He was going to need it. "That's mine," he mumbled, lazily waving his fingers.
The huge man stepped fully into the bar and let the door slam shut, the noise startling many of the patrons in their heightened nervousness. "Then get out there and move it. You're in my spot."
Languidly, Kyle puffed on his cigarette again, trying to calm the shaking in his hands before anyone saw. Unfortunately, the ghost did notice. "I didn't see your name on it."
Frank leaned over quickly, whispering, "Kyle, now don't you be gettin' suicidal on me again!"
Donnogan stormed up to the other human, spun him around in his stool, and grabbed up his jean jacket, lifting him to his feet with ease. "Don't get smart with me, you murdering little asshole! Get out there and move it!"
Smirking, Kyle lifted his cigarette to his lips, took a long drag, and puffed the smoke out in Donnogan's face. "Make me."
Hissing in anger, the huge man let his right hand slip from Kyle's jacket and pulled it back, ready to take his head off with one punch. "You son of a—"
He swung forward—
BAP!
Donnogan blinked in disbelief. The stranger sitting beside Kyle was gone from his seat and was standing halfway between them, Donnogan's fist caught firmly in his hand!
"I suggest you leave him alone. He seems to have enough problems as it is," the gothic stranger said quietly, not needing to raise his voice to show his authority.
What was he doing?! Helping that human? Why in the world would he help that rude, obnoxious human?! But, for some reason, even though Kyle was drunk and not acting like himself, he was an intriguing character, and the blonde found that a good quality in someone. And even though he himself couldn't understand why he was sticking his neck out for a human—interesting or not—that didn't stop him from continuing on.
"Who the hell are you?!" Donnogan growled, snapping his fist from the ghost's lukewarm grasp and releasing his hold on Kyle.
The younger human plopped back to his barstool and scooted as far back as possible, watching the two exchange words and dirty looks. That guyjust stood up for himdidn't he? Of course, he was so drunk, he could have been hallucinating.
"Someone who knows right from wrongunlike you. I want no trouble. Just leave this man alone."
"His Jeep's in my spot! I always park there!"
"And I will repeat what he has already told you: your name isn't on it. Surely, there are other parking spaces out there," the blonde suggested, taking up a firmer position between Donnogan and Kyle. The rudeness of the gruff human only made him want to protect the white–haired man that much more. No one deserved to be picked on so ruthlessly.
"Oh, sure, plenty. But I want his!" Donnogan pointed to the smaller human behind the ghost.
The blonde only smirked and crossed his arms, standing proud and strong. "Sir, you must be smarter than you look. Do you realize how childish you are behaving?"
"Childi—" he cut himself off in favor of a guttural growl. His right arm swung back, ready to deliver the blow that had been blocked before, but to the ghost's pretty face instead. Unfortunately, that swing was blocked as well and countered with a crunching blow to Donnogan's cheek. He stumbled to the side and brought a hand up to cup the already swelling tissue.
The blonde turned to Frank, bowing just slightly. "I apologize for the trouble, s—" A punch landed square on his cheek, and he reeled to the side, recovering a second later. The ghost jabbed his fist into Donnogan's gut, then he pulled back and cuffed him across the jaw, knocking the burly human out cold. The guy spun around on his heels and fell face first onto a nearby table, breaking it off its legs underneath and sending a few empty beer bottles flying and crashing to the floor.
The rest of the people in the bar stood, clapping and cheering, ecstatic that the jerk who had been harassing everyone for the longest time finally got what he deserved.
Smirking, the ghost nodded politely to the small crowd, then turned and took a seat back at the bar. "I apologize for the trouble, sir," he repeated to the bartender, able to get his statement out without interruptions that time. "That man really wasn't thinking tonight," he went on, inclining his head toward the unconscious human on the floor. "His rudeness needed correcting."
Frank blinked out of his shocked daze. "Uhyeah, yeah. That Donnoganhe's always been a rough character. Uhno one's been able to put 'im in his placeso to speak. You're the first one to ever stand up to 'im and come out with all your teeth intact," he said, still amazed at what just transpired.
He watched as several laughing patrons helped Donnogan into a chair and tapped him in his swollen cheek, trying to revive him.
"He got ya good, Jack!" one of them told the groaning man as several others held him in an erect position. "Now maybe you'll think twice, eh?"
Another guy clapped him on the back, making his head bob groggily. He told him he was a good sport, but eventually, he would have been ousted from his position as "asshole" sooner or later. The man then turned to the ghost at the bar and offered to buy him a drink in gratitude.
With a slight wave of his hand and shake of his head, the blonde politely refused, content to nurse the glass of strong alcohol already in front of him.
"Isn't he great?!" the guy yelled to his friends. "He kicks Jack Donnogan's ass, then wants nothing in return!" He followed up with elated clapping and whistling which others joined in happily.
Everyone continued laughing at Jack as he slowly regained his bearings, telling him he should shake it off and go back home to treat his dog to a kibble dinner, then go to bed. The irate human just growled at them and finally got to his feet, stumbling out through the door and onto the street.
Slowly, the excitement died down, and the ghost turned his attention back to the person beside him. Kyle had returned to his original position, hunched over the bar with a cigarette in one hand and the other hand wrapped around his eleventh half-empty bottle of beer. It seemed the excited events that just took place weren't even noticed by him.
Despite the very loud voice telling him to not get involved any further, the blonde opened his mouth and asked, "Are you all right?" Hardly any inflexion was used in the question, sounding like he didn't care if he was answered or not.
The tenor voice beside him and the strange, barely detectable accent that couldn't be placed roused Kyle from his daze, and he blinked almost sleepily, casting his eyes in the direction of the man who spoke to him. "Huh?"
"I said, are you all right?"
The human looked away again, lifting the smoldering cigarette to his lips and puffing heavily on it. "Why should you give a shit?" he rudely grumbled.
Frank, who still stood between the two men behind the bar, frowned and leaned toward his old friend. "That guy just saved you from the ass whooping of your life, and you say something like that to 'im? You're too fuckin' drunk, Kyle. You should be a hell of a lot more grateful." He turned to the ghost, an apology in his smile. "Sorry 'bout that. He is really drunk. I'm sure he's really grateful for what you did."
Waving the bartender off, the blonde lifted his glass of dark liquid and poured it through parted, pale lips. "Don't bother apologizing for him. I know about alcohol's effect on the judgment. He probably doesn't even realize I'm still sitting here," he grumbled disgustedly. Humans were sometimes the scum of the Earth in his eyes. Ungrateful, weasly, little bastard. He frowned with the thought.
"What the hell did you call me?!" Kyle shouted, whirling on the blonde, anger sparkling in his blue eyes.
The ghost leaned back on the stool, surprise pulling his brows up above the rims of his glasses. "UhI—"
"You're the tightwad, not me!" he yelled, pointing from himself to the stranger, opposite of what he spoke. "I've poured blood, sweat, and tears into my home, and I'll be damned if you lowlife mother fuckers are gonna come in and take it from me! I own that house!"
"Uh" the ghost tilted his face toward the bartender for a little help.
Frank leaned over to him and whispered, "Real estate brokers. They keep harassing him to sell his house so they can make money off it and the land. They keep arguin' that it's too big for one little guy to live in anymore. He gets busted up about it a lot 'cause of his family and all."
Nodding in understanding, the blonde turned his attention back to a seething, white–haired human who was determined to stare at him. "Don't worry, Kyle. I have no interest in your house."
"Yeah, right," the man hissed. Instead of going on, however, he turned back to his beer and took a nice long gulp of it. "My great grampa built that house with his bare handsbeen passed clear down to me" He swirled the remaining amber liquid around inside the bottle languidly. "Nobody cares 'bout sentimental value anymore. Greedy bastards."
Frank sighed and nudged the man's forearm. "Why don't ya go home now, Kyle. It's late, and you're tired."
Nodding, Kyle finished off the last few drops of alcohol then sucked heavily on the filter of his cigarette, accelerating the burning of the embers until the entire thing was spent. He casually smothered the smoldering filter in a nearby ashtray while exhaling all that smoke and placed his empty bottle in front of his bartender friend. His feet pushed against the base of the counter in front of him, and he spun in his seat to face the ghost at his side. He stood, teetered, and fell forward, collapsing boneless against the blonde, forcing him to reach up and catch him.
The ghost sat frozen for a moment, Kyle's face plastered into his chest and the rest of his body dangling limply in his arms, sagging half onto the floor. That was something that didn't happen every day.
Frank sighed from behind the bar and shook his head. "Poor, drunk fool." He picked up the bottle in front of him and tossed it into a bin behind the bar, then sighed again. "He does that on occasion. I'm kinda used to it, actually."
Swallowing, the blonde looked down into the dozing face of the human. "He does this a lot? What do you do with him?"
"I drag 'im into the back until closing time. If he hasn't woken up by then, I take him home. But he chose a bad night to do this." Frank waved his hand out to indicate the entire bar. "This place is unusually dumpy tonight. I won't be done cleanin' till two in the morning. I'll be so tired, I don't know if I'd make it home, let alone to his place to drop him off."
The ghost let his gaze drift off into nothing, and for once, his mouth worked without direction from his mind. "Where does he live?"
Frank's hazel eyes snapped to the stranger, suspicion rising back into his tone when he answered with, "Why?"
Looking up, the blonde smirked, a motion that seemed quite natural for him. "I can take him home."
Surprise couldn't be contained, even if it wanted to be, for both the bartender and the blonde. The ghost couldn't believe he uttered that phrase. Why should he care about what happened in those human's lives? Why should he care if that little white–haired one got home safely or not? It just didn't make sense! But, unfortunately, his offer couldn't exactly be retracted now, so he had to follow through—for the sake of his honor. And he was one hell of an honorable ghost.
Frank was still suspicious, however. Why would a complete stranger want to take a drunk someone home from a bar late at night? Scenarios played out through the man's mind, some tame, some wild and unbelievable. Could he trust that man—that gothic blonde who had already proved his amazing strength and intelligence? The things he could do to poor little Kyle made Frank shiver with uneasiness.
But on the other hand, the stranger was also very polite, polite to the point where he defended Kyle against the biggest asshole in the county and coming out without a scratch, even though he had been punched. The way he looked right then, trying his best to cradle the white–haired drunk without dropping or causing him harm with a strong grip, made Frank's apprehension lessen. The man seemed genuinely concerned, even though he tried to cover it up with a stoic attitude.
Perhaps the bartender should have faith in the kindness of strangers and let that blonde take his friend home. Besides, if the man did anything to Kyle or stole anything from him, Frank had one hell of a bloodhound back home. He would just let that dog go and follow it with a shotgun until he got what he wanted, which would be a blonde head mounted on his wall.
"Yeahyeah, okay. I guess you could. But! I'm warnin' ya" he pointed with an accusing finger.
The ghost looked up to him, his eyebrows raised above his shades again. "Uh?"
"If I find out one white hair on his head has been harmed, or one piece of his belongings is missing, your ass'll be roasting in my oven, and my dog'll be gnawin' on your balls for a treat. Understand?"
A grin couldn't help spreading over the blonde's face as he took great humor from that threat. "I understand perfectly, sir. Your friend will be fine, don't worry."
Frank grunted in acceptance and turned his pointing finger from the ghost to direct to the right. "He lives five miles that way, almost in the middle of nowhere. You'll have to keep an eye out for his mailbox; it'll be on the right side of the road, and it says 'Bennington' on top. His driveway's right next to it, so you'll have to go slow 'cause it's hidden with all the trees around. After that, you got about a quarter mile back to his place along a dirt road—there's lots o' trees, bushes, an' weeds alongside of it. His place is a two story, grey, stone house. It'll be obvious. And I assume his keys are on him somewhere, but no pickin' his pockets, got it?"
The ghost smirked. "Believe me, I want nothing from this man. The sooner I get him to his home, the sooner I can move along with my own life." He readjusted Kyle in his arms and stood with him, only to rest him back to the stool until he could fish through his pockets. He found the man's keys in his jacket pocket and placed them on the bar until he was finished.
His pale hand disappeared into his own inside coat pocket to reemerge with a black leather wallet. Dexterous fingers picked through the pelf inside, pulling out two 100 dollar bills. He tossed them to the counter saying, "I hope this will be enough to cover the damage to your bar. I apologize for wrecking it a little." Reaching back into the wallet, he pulled out a twenty. "This is for that excellent alcoholand this" he added, pulling out another twenty, "should cover for Mr. Kyle's bill since he's a little too unconscious to pay it right now."
Frank stared at the pile of money, gaping. He tentatively reached out and picked up the bills, fingered them a moment to convince himself they were actually real, then folded them and stuffed them into his pants pocket. "Thank you! Sir, you are welcome back in my bar any day!" he announced proudly, reaching out to clap his hand to the ghost's shoulder. "What's your name?"
Smirking once more, the blonde nodded in kind. His pale lips parted, and he uttered his name softly, almost as if anyone else heard, they would be either shocked or appalled. "Endri." Without another word, he cautiously worked his arms around the limp body of a man named Kyle and lifted him gently, cradling him like a small child. After picking up the keys from the counter, he bid a farewell to the kindly bartender, turned, and made his way outside.
The drive didn't take that long at all, and soon, Endri had Kyle into his home and in his bed upstairs. He only hoped he got the right bedroom, but was almost certain he had.
When the human was resting comfortably, the ghost made his way downstairs, gazing at the moonlit surroundings with reserved awe. He couldn't resist taking his glasses off and walking all through the old house, taking in every detail of every room, every picture on every wall, even the pattern on the tiled floor of the kitchen and bathrooms. He never turned on a light, letting only the almost full moon outside illuminate everything for him, giving everything a milky blue hue that glowed with beauty.
That old house was breathtaking in such an atmosphere.
By the time Endri had finished exploring every nook and cranny of the building, it was past two in the morning. But he never regretted the loss of sleep. It was very rare for him to be in a home like that, and the gentle surroundings comforted him and lulled him into a peaceful mood that was also rare to his usually tortured being.
He touched all that could be touched. Being a tactile person, he loved the feel of things as well as the looks. He ran his fingers over the wooden walls, took his boots off and walked barefoot through the carpet of the living room, and even pulled his coat and shirt off so he could lay on the overstuffed sofa and feel its softness on his bare skin.
It was one of those things that was little known about Endri—that he was a tactile person. But it was why he only wore the softest of clothing, kept himself dutifully clean so he never had to feel his own dirt and grime, and why he hated touching anything with a harshly rough surface. Call him picky, call him a neat freak, call him whatever you want, but he would just smirk and say he liked to touch everything that could be touched and simply preferred the softer things.
So with that, the ghost carefully balled his trench coat and white T–shirt into a makeshift pillow, laid back onto that incredibly soft couch, threw his long blonde hair over the arm so it wouldn't get in his way, and slept.
It had been a long time since he ever slept so comfortably and soundly.
Japanese / pronunciation / English Translation:
None this time
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