Every beat brought more tension. Shimmering eyes, laced and half-wild, where the only movement in his tall and lanky figure. A figure slouched in a chair, elbows on armrests, legs spread, one hand covering his mouth, another resting on his body. A leather jacket rested behind him, chaps covered his legs, a helmet sat on the table, and a backpack rested by his side.
The pain was immense. Ravaging. He struggled against it. Raged. It crept from the hidden parts of his mind, lacing its way throughout his body.
A grimace and involuntary spasm ran through him.
Angrily he rose, quick and sure. Determined not to break where others might see. Throwing on the jacket and backpack, he grabbed the helmet and strode to where he'd parked. The movement helped. It always had.
He knew it was dangerous to drive when he felt this. He couldn't care. Needed to feed what was inside him, distract it in-order to escape it. So, with practiced movements his helmet was on and the key was turned. The familiar purr of the motorbike, the anticipation, made his lips quirk in a half-smile. He wove out of the parking lot, with short, quick bursts of speed. Controlled. Yet not.
All too soon he was off the streets and on the freeway. It was here he could truly find a little peace. His bike was made for this, and so was he. The speed and freedom, the opening up of the throttle, the pull of acceleration, the electric sound of the engine beneath him, the ravaging of the wind, it all came together.
He let himself have it all for a few moments: the bike weaving in and out of the traffic, brazen and sure. He was awash in himself in the world: the desire to go faster, the desire to risk just a little more, the desire to let go of it all.
It wasn't long. It never was anymore. Neither cured nor broken, his better angels broke through and swallowed his descent. A coolness washed over him. The pain a distant hum. Shutting his eyes for a second, the road racing towards him, a last indulgence. When they opened again they bore him home.