death ride

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic

Waking up in a dark morning, a day without light, a sun that does not shine. You open up your bottle of whiskey, no you do not drink it, you inhale it. How many days have it been, you wonder.

The mockery of these similar days is nowhere to be acceptable, a bird he used to be, flattering wings, and a free soul, remember when you rode your bike, and flew away, up in the hills, the adrenalin boosting in your whole body, nothing to stop you, now one to hold you back.

That whiskey bottle looks familiar, you think, doesn’t matter, you chug another cup, passing by the kitchen you notice that something is missing. It is okay, she isn’t around anymore to tell you what to do. Sit and watch the television, is that real? Or is it a hallucination, is it her on the news? No … this cannot be real.

Kawasaki, your favorite ride, that dominant need, it came from somewhere, and ended up her way, first down, second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, all up, that is how life works out with us bikers, we don’t slow down, we know what we want, we get what we want. But hold on, the breaks, where are the breaks? Hold on!

Your stomach is begging for mercy, haven’t absorbed anything but alcoholic drinks, it’s been weeks, I, the one watching had enough already! A rotten sandwich, lotus, tomatoes, bacon, as if you call that nutrition. A knife, a knife is what’s missing, did she take the knife? Doesn’t truly matter, you do hope to get murdered by her, at least then you will be able to hate her.

The breeze cuddling your skin, more of a T-shirt guy, never preferred a suit, never driven drunk, nor high, you respect people’s life, you cherish yours, you are worth it. Her behind you, hands on the gas tank, helmets banging each other on every speed change, first down… it’s windy, yet you still smell her perfume, where you in heaven?

Time for a bottle of wine, not to chug, to cry over, this episode I have witnessed many times, you lose it man, too much for me to handle, she is gone, can you blame her? Look at you, you did that to her, you made her leave. Or is that what you want to hear, to make this parting easier on yourself.. how about her.. Where is she now…

Speeding, the longer, the faster the ride, the better it gets, the feeling of belonging to that part, the feeling of that realization that you are extremely happy. What a bless…

On the couch, there lays her hoodie, her helmet, you talk to her, I know you do, he still loves her, how couldn’t he, she was a masterpiece; not too clingy, but clingy enough, not too loving, but cruel enough, beautiful but way too strict, upsetting but way too controlling, she was everything he hated, yet everything he loved, poisonous yet sweet. The Irony of life.

In an over whelming moment, he turns to her, grabs her hand, put it on  his chest and shouts his love to her, she couldn’t hear, he got louder, she was about to confess, her love to him, but the big man didn’t want that, God had different plans.

You imagine her body on top of yours in bed, you imagine her chubby belly, her big breast that was never just a breast, it was home for you, to you. She loved teasing you, you thought it’s cute. her small dreamy eyes held a universe. she was nowhere to be perfect but you loved her, within her flaws you saw perfection, she was yours. You imagine how you used to grab her under, bang her against the wall, cuddle right after wild sex, or was it love?

Breaks, you hit the breaks, going 250 per hour, and you hit the breaks, her right behind you, inhales for the last time, a car in front of you, exhales the first time. Unexpectedly you are fine, life gave you another shot, but have you seen her? Where is she? What happened to her? Why is her head far away from her body? What is happening? You fade into the oblivion.

Get up you piece of shit, fix your bike, ride again, be free once more, she is gone, she left you! Playing that same song on repeat, her favorite.. love is a bitch. You look at yourself in the mirror, what a beard; he looks like a cave man. The missing knife, in the bathroom, here you go, once lost always found.

The news spoke about the death ride, he went back home, safe and sound, few bruises and scratches, ones never to be healed, ones to be found forever in his soul, ones permanent in his body, a broken leg. But he was far away from breaking a leg.

Take it in your hand, you hate her anyway, she left you, you didn’t kill her, she left. Now you follow. Take the knife and love her the way she loved you… the promise you never made, is to be done not said.

Not this way, this is what you always say when the way you chose is not working, you try another, not this way, until you find your path, she will always be by your side, saying… “you can do it, for us, love”. The best way to die is to live fully, for her.








Submitted: March 22, 2020

© Copyright 2021 besma aging. All rights reserved.

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Add Your Comments:


Ad Adi

Well,sounds like a lot doesn't happen in this story.

Sun, March 22nd, 2020 10:58pm


that was the point actually

Sun, April 12th, 2020 8:07am

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