The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER SEVEN

Encompassed by a plethora of glimmering metal and twinkling chrome, the off-road bikers, I shall call them, loitered alertly by the conspicuity of flashy motorcycles, showcased in all shapes, sizes, colours and models, whilst the other unfriendly looking individuals, seated side-by-side beneath the weathered canopy of an over-occupied beer garden, imbibed alcohol like it was going out of fashion.

This was a bad idea.

For all intents and purposes, I was ostracised by the locals prior to the accident, many of whom warned me never to show my face on this side of town unless I wanted said face to be splattered on the walls.

Making an appearance is not only brazen. It is downright idiotic. I might come out of this situation with missing teeth and possibly a broken nose. Either or both scenarios sounded painful and expensive to rectify.

Exhaust pipes rumbled to life with a mighty roar, the galere of leathered bikers preparing to hit the road in a systematic order.

Grey smoke hung in the air like an eerie fog, and I stood back, watching the ghastly sight to behold, as the raging adrenaline junkies, with a twist of the throttle followed by a deranged caterwaul, alternately revved out of the car park onto the main road with eagerness and velocity.

A handful of wolf-whistles came in my direction as the unlikely admirers raced past like immature daredevils, and I had to jump back, practically falling into an overgrown bush of wild roses, before two or more reckless motorcyclists, unfazed and unregretful, drove right through me, without a care in the world and put me back in the hospital.

Apparently, in this godforsaken area, the inconvenience of harmless pedestrians did not belong on the narrow path of total pedestrianisation because the venturesome motorists seemed to think they owned the damn road and the bloody pavement!

Untangling myself from the bed of squashed flowers, I staggered away from the thorny bushes, shaking dry, dead leaves out of my hair and brushing away the mulch of wood chippings from my knees.

Chivalry is well and truly dead.

Those men are incorrigible.

Irredeemable.

Despite the setback of the bikers' deliberate nonsensicalness, I bypassed the casually dressed men and the provocatively direct women commingled by the outdoor smokers' area with steadfast determination in my unshakable stride. Each disorganised table had an eyesore of a centrepiece: empty beer bottles, half-filled pint glasses and overflowing ashtrays.

The entryway is nearly close enough to touch. I reached out to grab the door handle when a mob of loud, vociferous females—in short, skin-tight dresses, knee-high boots, leather jackets, oversized statement earrings and creatively lacquered hairstyles—came out of nowhere and threw various looks of contempt and disapproval at me.

One by one, they shoved past me, a shoulder jab here and an elbow jab there, whilst muttering an unrepeatable slew of four and five-letter expletives under their breaths.

Subjected to contumely is not new to me; however, in spite of the inexcusable highhandedness that precipitated unmistakable embarrassment and unconcealed forebodingness, I did well to overlook the stream of vile insults, albeit red-cheeked and pathetically spineless.

You would think, by now, after months and months of unjustified hatred thrown at me, in all winds and weathers—as if I were some unapologetic pilfer unworthy of extol and deserving of stoning by amateur geologists who elected themselves for the unpaid yet satisfying job of hurling unpolished rocks at my head—that I would be experienced in belying acute fear in the throes of professional tormentors and schadenfreude situations.