Faceless In the Dark

Downtown Dallas, TX...

He sat in the very same Chevy truck that he had died in six years earlier. The rusted beast was parked, purposely, in the shadows away from the other cars, next to a large green dumpster. The truck looked abandoned, amid the dimly lit parking lot, except for the occasional drag of his hand-rolled medicinal cannabis cigarette which illuminated the cabin with an eerie disfigured red glow of his profile. A small plume of smoke escaped the two holes above his deformed (though reconstructed) lips as the “Girls, Girls, Girls” and naked silhouette motif blinked and winked at him tauntingly. In the darkness he grabbed a pain pill and chewed it on the good side of his mouth; the side that had three remaining teeth. The bones in his now mended face, once gaping and splintered raw, still ached and screamed with pain from time to time. A single strand of saliva fell from the corner of his mouth and bypassed the place where his chiseled dimpled chin once was and dripped onto his pressed uniform pants. He wiped the deep dark black and thin scarred skin beneath his reformed lip with the back of the hand holding the joint and almost simultaneously took another slow mellowing hit. It was after ten p.m. and he’d been sitting there, in this very spot, for the last three hours mustering the courage to go in.

Tonight would be Chief Warrant Officer 5 Duncan H. Hughes’ last night on earth. He was resolute to finish what he failed to do six years ago. This time the barrel of the shotgun would go directly into his mouth…not under his chin. This time, there’d be no hesitation, no nervous flinching, and no mistakes. This time, there’d be no surviving; only quiet physical and emotional pain-free darkness—for eternity. Duncan, a decorated military veteran, was a war hero; he had the medals and a shattered family life to prove it. He'd never say but the crisp formal uniform he wore, this night, bragged of an impressive military career. He wasn't anything (anymore) but back then he was a Night Stalker; a proud member of the United States Army's 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment (Airborne). A soldier’s soldier with Hollywood (Denzel Washington like) good looks. Of course, that was well before his rendezvous with a shotgun. His uniform told the story. He was a special ops helicopter pilot and every mission (whether attack, assault or recon) was done under the cover of darkness. He was a modern day Grim Reaper who flew at low altitudes, high speeds and killed with no advance warning but a tragically failed mission, an entire team killed (less him), a never-ending bout of guilt and PTSD got him honorably discharged and that was the day he really died.

And so here he sat, in full uniform, grossly disfigured from the neck up and scared to death to enter the gentlemen’s club. “Fhuck it.” He breathed in a scratchy voice that came from his throat and not his lips. The pain meds and marijuana had finally kicked in—false courage to burn. He got out of his truck, corrected his tie, straightened his ornamented dark blue uniform jacket, brushed off the imaginary dust that was on his medals and like a stoic soldier marched into the fray of his immeasurable fears. He opened the first set of doors that led to a cashier's window and was cacophonously met with Madonna’s highly sexual and provocative melody “Justify My Love”. The girl at the window, no more than twenty-two (and scantily clad) did her best to be polite but he had already seen her revulsion. He ignored it, paid the cover, nodded at a bouncer and opened the second set of doors that led to the bar. The beat bumped and Madonna moaned. “Wanting, needing, waiting…For you...to justify my love. Yearning, burning, For you…to justify my love…” At center stage a topless girl spiraled slowly, upside down, as a handful of faceless old men sat stateside seemingly lost in a time that had long passed them by. Each of them quietly blank-faced, glossy-eyed and eerily spellbound; each conceding to their bitter spirits and unquenchable depravity.

Duncan, unconsciously and respectfully, turned his eyes away from the woman and found an elevated area in the back with a cozy loveseat and table. He half wondered why this spot was available. Several of the dancers, who lingered at the bar, watched as the new mark with the military uniform walked in but then directly or indirectly turned away and busied themselves with their skimpy outfits or smartphones once they got a keener look. 'Don't blame em.' He thought as he took his seat and waited at attention. A cute waitress with long red hair and a tight fitted black dress finally stopped by. "Um, this is VIP." She said looking past him and chewing gum. "Sorry." Duncan gurgled. "Can I sit here?" He started to get up but then sat back down again. "You can." She said indifferently. "But it's a ten drink minimum plus a purchase of champagne. What can I get you?" It was clear why no one else was sitting here. He contemplated moving but reconciled that tonight was his last and then said with a rasp. "Fine. Bring whatever." Moments later, she returned with a large tray of martinis and a chilled bottle of champagne. She set them on the table in front of him. "$160 please." He reached inside his chest pocket and pulled out a large white envelope packed full of one hundred dollar bills and handed her two. "Change?" She asked. He shook his head and she left him with a courtesy nod and appreciative smile. And then Duncan sat uncomfortably alone, faceless in the dim lighting, looking around the club and awkwardly tapping his right thigh to Pitbull's 'I Know You Want Me'.

He watched for nearly forty minutes as several beautiful ladies walked passed him; choosing to sit, dance and converse with other patrons—patrons that didn't resemble an eight-day-old carved pumpkin. He started to fully comprehend the ridiculousness of his reality and the collar around his neck began to moisten from embarrassment. In his glory days, he could have charmed any woman he wanted and often did. But now, not even women who get paid to dance and talk with men would give him the time of day. It was a somber irony and he finally acknowledged (within himself) how stupid this idea...really was. Stupid of him to want to experience a counterfeit sensual smile, a seductive look, or even a memorable flirtatious conversation with a beautiful woman. Stupid to want to cling to something meaningful, in his mind, before pulling the trigger tonight. Stupid...indeed. Duncan breathed the Night Stalker's creed "Death waits in the dark" and stood up to leave.

"Hey, soldier. Buy a girl a drink?" She wore five inch, knee high black stiletto boots, a sheer black wrap-around skirt and a white bikini top that glowed a fluorescent purple in the soft lighting but it was her aqua laced eyes and long eyelashes that took his breath away. She walked up to him and took his hand. “I, I...was just leaving.” He said throatily. “Awe…have a seat handsome. Have a drink with me.” She pouted. “Don’t call me that.” He mumbled and politely tried to pull his hand away. She held firm and sat down on the love seat still holding his hand and looked up at him keenly. "C'mon. Sit with me." Her voice was sultry but hinted of girlish innocence. Seconds seemed to pass and he finally relented. “What’s your name?” She said vivaciously and bit her bottom lip coquettishly; still holding his hand. “Duncan.” He said rigidly. She giggled sweetly and then stiffened her body like a robot, furrowed her brow and sat upright at attention—momentarily mirroring his posture. “Well Mr. Duncan, you’re a very uptight soldier.” He didn’t smile but wanted to. He had resolved himself to leaving this place and once he made a decision he was usually stiff-necked about it but with this woman still tenderly gripping his fingers...she made it all too easy for him to stay. It had been a long time since anyone held his hand, let alone, someone as pretty as her. Almost knowingly she pulled his hand onto her lap; turned it over and caressed the caramel colored inside of his palm with her other perfectly manicured hand.

“You have strong hands, Duncan.” She said with a sexy tone but didn't look at him. She had locked in on tracing the deep grip lines and rough calluses of his palm and then the vascularity of the back of his hand. He cleared his throat and looked at her nervously. “Thank you.” He mustered. She looked up at him and their eyes met. “But you have sad eyes. Handsomely...sad eyes.” He wanted to look away but couldn’t. Her bubbly disposition, her voice, her smell, her smile, her eyes, her French manicured fingernails were much too intoxicating. "So, what happened?" She gestured to the obvious with a hint of inquisitive empathy. He broke their stare self-consciously. No one had ever been so direct. "Um..." He cleared his throat. "an accident." He lied. She shook her head knowingly, didn't press or judge. "May I?" She gestured with her left hand to touch his face. He swallowed extremely hard and held his breath before nodding yes. She inched in closer to him, enough so that he could smell her flowery sweet perfume and minty breath. She started with his eyebrows and then his scarred sunken boneless cheeks, then the spot where his nose once was and then his reconstructed lips. His eyes moistened and shuttered as he held his breath and waited for her repulsion. "Fascinating." She whispered softly and locked into his eyes as her soft fingers traced his misshapen jaw line. At close range, she smiled and with her thumb tenderly wiped a forming tear at the corner of his left eye and then unhurriedly leaned back. "Duncan?" She smiled. "You need a drink!" He let out a slight chortle of air followed by an edgy smile of relief as she handed him one of the many martinis that were set before them.

As she did so he noticed the make-up covered six-inch vertical scar just below the palm of her delicate creamy white wrist and she saw that he saw. "My eyes are up here Sweetheart." She said facetiously and touched his knee. He looked at her. "So, what happened?" He said in a low gruff but with the same inquisitive empathy, she had exhibited with him. She looked at him a little less confident. "An accident...too, I, I suppose." She lied and breathed the real memory out of her lungs with a subtle sigh and then looked away...seemingly jaded. The scar and what it represented embarrassed her. He nodded knowingly, not pressing nor judging. "May I?" She looked back at him and smiled incredulously. 'Who is this man?' she thought and then shrugged (hoping she looked indifferent), bit her bottom lip again, this time insecurely, and then allowed Duncan to gently take her hand in his. He turned it over and touched the raised pinkish skin below her palm. As he trailed the scar with his thick brown fingers she closed her eyes. It was clear to him that she had also danced with an unspeakable darkness and he suddenly felt a keen sense of camaraderie and a reverence for her that went far beyond her physical beauty. "What's your name?" She opened her eyes and (for whatever reason) decided to tell him the truth "Celeste." She gestured towards the drinks "You mind?" She didn't wait for an answer and reached for a martini, crossed her tone legs and took a long sip.

Duncan also took a pull from his glass but dribbled a bit and he hoped that she hadn't noticed. She instinctively took a napkin and wiped the bottom of his lip and acknowledged his embarrassment. "Sorry." She said. "I'm a mom...habit." He could now see that in her, beyond the sexy outfit, make-up and the fantasy she was trying to convey. "He's seven and autistic..., his name is Dillon." Her thoughts drifted for a second and then realized she was out of character. "I'm sorry. How about a lap dance?" She mustered a seductive flirtatious smile and moved in to rub his inner thigh. He stopped her. "If it's okay?" He took out his envelope and gave her a hundred. "Mind if we just talk?" She took the money. "Yeah, Okay, Sure." She smiled and gave him a soft kiss very close to his ear which gave him goosebumps on his neck and butterflies in his stomach. "Thank you." She whispered. And so they talked. She learned that he was forty-two and divorced. He had a daughter but she lived with his ex in Charleston. He hadn't spoken to either of them since his "accident" six years ago. He learned that she was thirty-three and grew up an army brat. Over the years she did a little modeling and wound up in a couple commercials but nothing came of it; in between, she always danced. The money was good. She'd keep telling herself it was temporary…just a means to an end to pay that first-year tuition but she had long quit telling patrons she danced to put herself through college; no one believed her anyway. She’d never been married but had experienced more than her share of men—far too many faceless men danced with her in the dark. Her son’s father was unknown to both of them and that added to her shame but it was clear she adored her little guy.

The DJ announced “Sapphire to center stage" and she looked bothered. “Shit!” She huffed. “I hate this part of my job. I have to go up there. Will you wait for me?” Duncan grabbed her hand gently and realized it was time to go. He had an appointment with the darkness. He stood up. “No.” He said somberly. “Celeste, thank you for this…you’ve given me a wonderful gift and I’m eternally grateful.” He handed her the entire envelope. “Take this…it’s for you and Dillon.” She shook her head. “No, I can’t. Just wait. Okay? It’s just three songs. I’ll be right back.” Duncan looked at her. “I really can’t.” She reluctantly took the hefty envelope, hugged him and looked at the DJ. “And now…at center stage the Beautiful, the Seductive, the All-American girl…SAPPHIRE!” She looked at Duncan and kissed him on his lips softly. “You’re a special man. Thank you.” She touched his chest and walked away leaving him inquisitively numb. 

He watched her as she seductively and playfully walked towards the stage. He turned away before he could see her stop and say something to the redheaded waitress with the little black dress. Duncan floated away with her lipstick on his deformed lips and the smell of her perfume on his uniform but didn’t look back...it would only complicate things. As he walked out the first set of doors the waitress with the black dress called to him. “Mister. This is for you.” It was his envelope still packed full of hundred dollar bills but with writing on it. It said ‘Duncan, I see you. Call me? XOXO, Celeste.’ There was a phone number and a lipstick kiss. He gave the waitress a hundred, thanked her and walked to his truck a bit disoriented, confused and beautifully bewitched—this wasn’t part of the plan. He sat in his truck and with the soft light of the dim street lamp caressed her penmanship with his eyes and thought of her. Underneath the passenger seat, he pulled out the sawed-off shotgun and like an unflinching warrior put the barrel in his mouth.  He closed his eyes and thought of her smile, her eyes and the softness of her lips on his and watched her dreamily walk away to that stage—and then without hesitation pulled the trigger. ‘I see you.’ The back of his head disintegrated in a flash of blood and brain matter followed by pain-free eternal darkness.

Duncan sat up from his bed breathing heavy, disoriented, shaking and shimmering with sweat. The digital clocked glowed a red 4:44 a.m. He gathered himself and became at ease when he saw her silhouette comfortably sleeping next to him and (in between them) an angelic Dillon. The nightmares had become less and less over the years since meeting Celeste that fateful evening; she had saved him that night but to close friends she would often say the same of him. He breathed a gentle sigh of absolution, and found it easier to feel comforted by the peace that lingered in the shadows. He touched the cheek of Dillon and stared at his wife. ‘I see you.’ He could see both their faces in the darkness even when he closed his eyes and as he did he drifted off to sleep; still faceless yet no longer faceless in the dark.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

? 2017 Jason N. Versey

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I am the author of the book  A Walk with Prudence -Practical Thoughts of Wisdom for Everyday Living

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