· Chapter 1 ·

I touched the chilled glass to my lips, felt the cola sliding into my mouth, the carbonation tickling my upper palate, and I thought. 10 minutes earlier, I had been driving east along Interstate 80, drifting back to New England. I was dozing at the wheel, bored of the utter bleakness of Nevada; when my eyes snapped open, I was already driving off an exit, plunging myself even further into nothingness. There was no one else on the highway, I could have simply done an about-face right there, but I saw the shape of an old-fashioned diner loom on the horizon. Something kept the wheel straight, and my foot steady on the accelerator. Then, when I saw the name, a bemused smile crossed my face. I had arrived at the Café of Lost Souls.
I brought the glass down to the counter, letting it sway in between my thumb and middle finger. It hit the counter with a light clink, as I mulled over the unlikeliness of someone stumbling upon this quaint Café, whether they indeed be a lost soul or not. I bathed in the irony of it, and let out a faint chuckle. My gaze drifted off my beverage, and slowly studied my surroundings. It was cozy and friendly, and the smell of "All-day Breakfast Wednesday" wafted through the air. It seemed like the entire population of the surrounding 150 miles must've been there; five or six other customers sat in booths or at the counter.
I sipped from my cola again, an ice cube slipped into my mouth, where it was crushed by my closing jaw, and the frosty fragments quickly melted. The fragrances of waffles and syrup had piqued my interest, so I called the waitress, "Hey, Wendy? Grab me one of those Hungry Belgians, will ya'?" Wendy was an older gal, graced, or cursed, with the face of a matron. Yet, I'd stake my revolver that she wasn't a mother. She had shoulder-length brown hair, and she was wearing a white smock over a blue dress.
"Sure thing." The sheer absurdity of my entire situation drew a quiet laugh from my lungs. Here I was, sitting in the one outpost of civilization for hundreds of kilometers, talking to people as if I'd known them for years, and them acting like they'd known me even longer. I was half-expecting for a crowd to spring out with a "Surprise!" and a rain of streamers. Humoring myself, I scanned the room, checking behind the counter, glancing under the stools next me, and rather astounded by the fact that I didn't think I would be that shocked if I did indeed find a group of surprise party-throwers lying in wait.
A glint on the floor caught my eye, and, always fond of shiny objects, I picked it up. It was a quarter, one of the new ones, in fact. Massachusetts. I rolled it around my fingers for a few seconds before grasping it in my palm, feeling my sweat engulf the cold, neglected copper- nickel coating. The tap of ceramic on the countertop, as well as the overwhelming smell of waffles and Wendy's sudden re-appearance in front of me, knocked me from my thoughts, but I welcomed the distraction. "Here ya' go. If ya' need anything, just holler." stated Wendy. I nodded and thanked her, and she went back to mingling with the more engaging patrons.
I swirled my soda in small circles, observing the whirlpool form, dragging the reluctant ice around its cycle. I wasn't hungry, but I sliced the waffle, letting the pieces saturate in syrup, if only to keep myself busy. I didn't know why I ordered it in the first place, but I didn't even know why I was here, and I daren't dwell on it. I slid off my sunglasses, twirling them between my thumb and forefinger. I thought that it would have made a nice carnival ride, for some race of the exceptionally small. Brain hemorrhaging would surely occur, but hey, it'd be fun to watch. I smirked to myself, momentarily glad that I hadn't slipped far enough to take myself that seriously. Almost instantaneously, the frown regained control of my face. I could barely even remember what had transpired, how I ended up here, but I shuddered at the thought of attempting to.
The cash register rang, shooting the drawer open, eating payments and dispensing change. I slowly looked over at Wendy, and she looked back. She smiled her warm, cozy smile, and walked over to me. "What's a boy like you doin' out here anyways?" I shrugged indignantly, assured of the fact that I was a pessimistic old man, aging much too quickly for my body. "Come on, everyone's got a story."
"Of course everyone's got a story," said a gruff voice behind me, which I spun to face, "But some people'd rather keep it secret-hidden away." He was a big, burly, hulk of a guy; he had red stubble covering his face, and a lumber-jack's cap shadowing it. He had a plaid vest on over his white sleeveless, leaving his thick arms fully exposed. The word Veritas was tattooed around his right; some Latin word that I used to know. "And hiding never does nothin' good." He spoke it like a challenge.
The old wall-clock ticked, and the ancient fan in the corner whirred. A radio show drummed on from the kitchen, and my heart thumped faster in my chest. I was suddenly the center of attention. I was anxious and sweating, but I had no doubt what it was that they wanted from me. Yet, a shiver still went down my spine, and it wasn't related to the chill of my drink. "Well, do you have a story, sonny?" asked a blonde, a dame with hair like gold, who wasn't wearing enough clothes, even for the heat of the desert, now on the stool to my left. It was her genuine interest that hit me the hardest. Consciously, I wanted to know why the hell they cared, but I knew that it was more than that. I really just wanted them to keep caring.
I glanced around uncertainly, slowly chewing on my sunglasses, before settling on a nice crack in the wall to stare at. "I used to," I uttered, my gaze not shifting from the solitary break in the plaster, "Not anymore." They backed off, and I was ambivalent; I had fulfilled my acrimonious resentment, but I was still lost and alone. I couldn't recall why I was so morose, so caustic, but it was familiar, and it was easy. I took the path of least resistance, too worn down, too worn out, too tired; I couldn't bring myself to face adversity of any kind.
I rubbed my shoulder blade and deltoids, my fingers running over the numb deadness that was once a 7 inch gash. It was years ago, but it was still as present as ever, and I doubted that time, alone, would make it go away. I ran my middle finger along the wound's course, its entire width fitting in the indentation. I must've pushed my shirt down, because as I massaged the physical memory, I heard a gasp from my left. It was blondie again, not even bothering to politely avert her gaze when I turned my head. I stared for a moment at my oblivious observer, wondering exactly what was so amazing.
I turned to face a whistle of awe emanating from a man behind me, my rosary dragging against my skin; the jagged edge of the shattered cross chaffing against my chest, another constant reminder of events passed. Carl's whistle began to die down --apparently he had caught a glimpse of my scar as well, and I self-consciously removed my hand from my loose t-shirt. "That's quite a wound you have there." stated Carl, his words accompanied by a vague gesture in my direction, coffee mug in hand.
"And that's quite a one you have there," I retorted, nodding at the deep laceration running down the left side of his face.
"It is, isn't it?" he replied, exploring his face with the fingers of his cup-hand. "I used to be a carefree, reckless, daredevil and," bringing his hand down and revealing the aged wound across his cheek, "I can't say that I regret it." A grin spread across his face, hinting at a magnanimous personality within the body of a brute. He sat down in the stool to my right, set his coffee down, and tilted his cap back with one of his massive hands. The bright desert sun shone directly on him as he spun away from the counter, surprisingly graceful for man of his stature, and then leaned against it, hands behind his head. "Well, how'd you get it?"
"It's a long story," I said dismissively, reaching for my wallet, "And haven't I got better things to do than tell it to some lumberjack I just met in the middle of a desert?" I muttered to myself, lost in more places than just the physical realm. I got up, calmly putting my legal tender on the counter, leaving a sizeable amount more than was due. I moved towards the door, sliding my sunglasses back over my ears. "Later, Wendy."
"You're not even gonna tell us your name?" I turned back, and her gaze locked with mine. I didn't want to, but my need for human contact, and something those eyes of hers, overcame my desire to forget and escape, if only for a moment.
I took a cigarette from my pocket and lit it. Bringing it to my lips, I inhaled. I took the cigarette down. "Logan Harvey." But by the time the name clicked with the café's inhabitants, the cigarette was out, and I was gone. I was running.

My foot pressed the gas nearly to floor; I raced across the deserts of Nevada, trailed by a cloud of dust. I looked back at the fury of sand with a grin; it was chasing me, right on my ass, but it didn't have a chance at catching me. I turned forward, and something seemed wrong. Something that felt more wrong than just leaving those people at the café. It was something in the back of my mind, I couldn't place it. One hand on the wheel, I massaged my shoulder, and it hit me.
My rosary.
The realization that the fractured cross was still back at the café slammed my foot on the brakes. I got out of the car, slamming the door. Bringing another cigarette to my lips, I sat on the hood. I stared at the road ahead of me, the vast expanse between me and escape. I glanced behind me, at the café that I was too far away from to see. I would have done anything not to go back, but I didn't have a choice. I was halfway there before I knew it. It wasn't the same as before, but once again, there was no turning back.
My tires would have burned on the asphalt as I started back, but there was none, only packed sand. I don't think it didn't really hit me how far gone I was until then; when I realized I wasn't driving on a real god damn road, and I wasn't even speeding away from it, I was speeding back.
The sun glared in my eyes as I drove, unimpeded by my cheap sunglasses, and I would've much rather drove straight into it than back into the Café's dusty parking lot, so, of course, I didn't.
As I brought the car to stop in front of the Café, I listed to myself the reasons going back in was bad idea. I'd made such a scene leaving that going back in was going to redefine awkward, they'd probably contacted the cops, and, most importantly, I didn't want to hurt them. Or myself.
Ignoring my better judgment, as had become customary, I swung the café's door open. As I walked in, all eyes were on me. Any determination to walk in unfazed and retrieve my rosary instantly faltered. I stopped mid- step, doing my best to avoid eye contact. I frantically searched for the rosary with my eyes, but it was nowhere within sight.
I looked up at Carl, whose large figure loomed in front of me. As I nervously rubbed the quarter in my pocket, exploring the engraving with my fingertips, Carl began to speak. "What're you doing back here?"
"No reason." I tersely replied. No one believed that, myself most of all.
"The way you left, there's gotta be a reason. And a mighty big one, at that." Wendy reasoned from behind the counter, a stack of dirty plates in her grip. I opened my mouth to speak, but I was cut off by Carl.
"Anything to do with this, perchance?" He reached into his vest's chest pocket and withdrew his hand. He opened his fist, and there, dangling from his grip, swinging slightly, was my rosary. I must've looked like a wreck, before I had a chance to say anything; Blondie was at my side, offering me a drink.
"Here, drink this. It'll calm your nerves, honey." I recoiled, violently, reflexively, and knocked the glass from her hand. It shattered with a crash, and I stared at the fragments, transfixed. My jaw tightened, I felt a lump in my throat, and my eyes got watery. It'd been too long, and too much. I needed to get it out.
"We've all seen the news, Logan." Carl used my first name like an old buddy, and it didn't seem out of place. "But we all know its tendency to not portray the whole truth. You don't seem the horrible fella' they make you out to be." Those words meant a lot, and when he said them, that's when I knew I wouldn't regret having gone back, and that I was going to be there for a while. "We want to know what really happened."
"I-I don't know where to start." I stammered, trying hard to keep my voice steady, and barely managing. Blondie led me to a stool and handed me a glass of water, which I took absent-mindedly.
"The beginning's always a good place." I took a sip of water, blinked slowly, and inhaled deeply. Having steeled myself as best I could, I began.