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I stand above him, chest still heaving, heart pounding in my ears.
The old bastard’s breaths are shallow, each one weaker than the last.
“Hope you burn,” I whisper, my voice raw.
I turn away from the dying monster and head for my room.
It’s a cluttered mess of memories and mistakes, but I know exactly what I need.
My duffel bag sits under the bed, collecting dust.
I yank it out and toss it onto the mattress.
Clothes first—jeans, tees, socks, nothing fancy. It’s just enough to get me by.
My fingers brush against the snake tattoo on my chest as I pull on a fresh shirt. A reminder of who I am, of where I came from.
The room is closing in on me, the walls suffocating.
I grab a few more essentials—a photo of Mom before the drugs took over, an old pocketknife she gave me when I was ten, and a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels.
I stop for a moment, staring at that bottle.
At the memories it holds. I toss it into the bag anyway. Might need it later.
My bike keys jingle in my hand as I head back to the living room.
The sight of my father’s lifeless eyes sends a shiver down my spine, but I don’t linger.
I flick off the lights, plunging the house into darkness.
Stepping out into the night, I take a deep breath of the cool Alabama air.
The roar of my Harley is the only thing I need now.
It’s my ticket out, my escape.
With the duffel slung over my shoulder, I stride toward my bike, determination hardening inside me like steel.
“Time to move,” I mutter, swinging my leg over the seat.
The engine roars to life beneath me, a comforting growl that drowns out the chaos in my head.
I rev it once, then twice, feeling the power surge through me.
“Goodbye, you piece of shit,” I say, glancing back at the trailer one last time.
The place where everything went wrong. Where I lost everything.
I twist the throttle, and the bike leaps forward, carrying me away from the ghosts and straight into the unknown.
I gun it down the backroads, the night swallowing me whole.
The wind slaps my face, stinging like a thousand tiny needles, but I don’t care. It’s better than the numbness creeping up on me.
“I need to go to Billings,” I mutter to myself, the word barely audible over the roar of my Harley.
Rosa’s there. She’ll know what to do.
