Page 107 of Endo
None of it matters right now. All that matters is this: The vibration of the bike beneath me, the smell of the track, the hum of adrenaline rushing through my veins.
And her. Always fucking her.
The race marshal steps forward, raising the flag high. I exhale slowly, the world stilling for just a second.
The flag drops.
The throttle twists beneath my hand, the engine roaring like a beast unleashed. The bike surges forward, the track rushing up to meet me, the wind screaming against my helmet.
Everything else disappears. The world blurs at the edges, narrowing to the strip of asphalt ahead. Every turn, every twist,every second is mine. The finish line isn’t just a destination—it’s a challenge, daring me to prove that I’m still here, still whole.
I take the first turn like a knife cutting through butter, the bike leaning so far I can feel the heat of the pavement. It’s smooth, instinctive, and for the first time in a long time, it feels like I’m not fighting against anything.
This is where I belong.
For the first time in years, I feel free. Untethered. Alive.
And as the next straightaway stretches out before me, a cocky smirk curls beneath my visor.
They say you can’t have it all. I say screw that.
I’m taking it all.
Let’s see who’s got the guts to stop me.
THE END
EPILOGUE
ECHO
Home - Edith Whiskers
The road ahead feels endless,and that suits me just fine. The hum of my Ducati Monster 821 vibrates through me, steady and grounding, a sharp contrast to the chaos swirling in my head. Riding has always been my escape, my way of outrunning the weight of the world—even if it’s only for a little while.
Tonight, though, the ride isn’t helping. Not with this. Not with where I’m heading and what I’m about to do.
The humid night air nips at my face, the visor on my helmet cracked just enough to let the breeze hit me. My fingers flex on the handlebars as I weave through Tampa’s streets, the lights casting long shadows on the asphalt. Downtown fades into quieter neighborhoods, the kind with manicured lawns and houses that seem worlds away from the run-down apartment buildings I grew up in.
Growing up with Evelyn Cooper wasn’t exactly a fairytale. She wasn’t the worst mom—she kept a roof over our heads and food on the table, mostly. But there were nights when the fridge was empty, when she’d stumble in smelling like cheap vodka,slurring apologies I didn’t want to hear. I learned pretty quickly how to take care of myself. Bills, groceries, laundry, I learned how to handle it all on my own by the time I was ten.
I don’t hate her for it. Not completely. She wasn’t perfect, but she had her moments. She taught me how to ride my first bike, and sometimes, she’d take me out for ice cream before dinner. When she was sober enough to drive that is.
Those were the good days, and I held onto them as tightly as I could.
But everything changed when she got sick.Stage four cancer.The words hit like a wrecking ball, shattering the shaky balance of our lives. She went downhill fast, and I was stuck watching, alone as the woman who’d once been larger than life withered away before my eyes. I did everything I could—doctor’s appointments, treatments, sitting by her hospital bed while she cried about all the things she wished she’d done differently.
Like telling me aboutthem.
I didn’t find out until the very end, when she was too weak to even sit up. She’d looked at me with tears in her eyes, guilt written all over her face, and whispered, “You’re not alone, Echo. You have family.”
The words didn’t even register at first. Family? I’d spent my entire life thinking it was just the two of us against the world, and suddenly there was more? She told me their names, where to find them, begged me to reach out. I didn’t have the heart to ask why she’d kept it from me, not when she was already slipping away. But the anger still burned, hot and unforgiving, mingled with the grief of losing her.
And now, here I am, chasing a connection I’m not even sure I want.
I pull onto the street, the house coming into view. It’s bigger than I expected, all clean lines and sharp edges, with a driveway that’s cluttered but in a way that feels lived-in.Bikes are scattered across the pavement, tools and rags tossed haphazardly around. Two guys are hunched over one of the bikes, their hands moving with the kind of precision that says they know exactly what they’re doing.
I park near the curb, cutting the engine. The sudden silence is deafening. My fingers tremble as I unclip my helmet, pulling it off. I glance at the house again, the weight of what I’m about to do pressing down on my chest.
