❝In which two people call up a helpline in order to find someone just as broken as they are. ❞
"Does...does it bother you that my dad's in prison for murder?"
"Well, judging by the fact that I moved away from America to get away from the memory of a...
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"Okay. So. Here's the deal. Both my dear brother and his good old friend Vaughn can ride motorbikes and, apparently, riding a motorbike is a very fun experience. So the plan is, two drivers, two passengers. They ride the two motorbikes, one each, and then we get on the back of them as said passengers and have a hell of a time while they do all the work. Although, I suggest you get on with Vaughn. I've heard girls fall in love with guys on motorbikes and I don't want you falling in love with my brother."
Isabella could barely hear him, Elliot's words fading into nothing as she stared at the vehicle in front of her. It was so familiar, so familiar that she could almost feel the leather between her legs. She could almost feel the exhilaration that came with the wind rushing through her hair, hear her own laughter as she stared at the lit up city below. Her hands could almost feel the soft leather of his jacket, feeling the chuckle rumble through his chest as he continued to wind up the hill. She could feel her cheek pressed against his back. Desperate to be closer.
"Elliot, I don't think..." Her hands had begun to shake at her sides, aching to reach for the thing that had long since evaporated into thin air. Her whole body was protesting, hopelessly screaming at her to get away from the vehicle that held so many good memories. Because, unlike the memories of her father, these were so, so painful. Because they reminded her of how a boy had once been charming. And kind. And thoughtful. And humorous. And chivalrous. And virtuous. And broken. And a little bit cliche. But that had been okay. Because she had loved him. Maybe she still did. Which was very, very wrong, but still the truth. Maybe.
But then she looked at the bikes once more and a new feeling crawled its way up her throat, threatening to burst out in a venomous explosion of anger and frustration. Because this was so, so pathetic. So pathetic that it made her loathe herself with the sort of hatred that drove guns and firearms. Because, how pathetic was she? How weak and feeble? To let a motorbike send her running straight back to her past. It was so ridiculous that it seemed sensible. Why was she letting the past chase her whole future away? Why was she still hiding from the world? Why was she still so goddamn afraid? Why the hell was she letting this whole thing hang over her head like a damned guardian angel? Hell, what right did he have to do that to her? So what, he had tried to kill her and everyone she loved. So what, he had mainly succeeded. So what, he had wreaked complete havoc. So ******* what? She couldn't let him win. She wouldn't. Not even as he was rotting in a grave. It was about damn time that he stopped. That he stopped stopping her from living.
Because she didn't deserve that.
And neither did he.
Because she had survived. And it was finally time to accept that. Yes, it was going to be difficult. But she had people to help her now. She always had. It was just time to let them. It was time to choose. To choose to keep on surviving.
So she forced her hands to stop shaking, curling them into fists, nails cutting into her palms. Cutting into her palms in a way that left small, white moon crescents imprinted on her hands. A symbol of night, to close the bleeding day of fear and cowardice.
She blinked, taking a deep breath as she struggled to push the dark thoughts to the back of her head. And smiled, the crescent on her face like the ones on her hands. Because, finally, she wanted to get through this.
