Okay guys. I have no idea if this is finished, and I'm not happy with it. At all. However, I don't feel like working on it any more today will help, so I'll go ahead and post it. This challenge is about learning to write every day, even if it doesn't go well. >_> I won't say much more, other than: sorry, my bad. :)
#5 - Speed
The lights in the city are like beacons. They call to him from the bridge; his toes are tensed and bunched up at the metal bars. He stands looking out over the river beneath him, staring into the abyss that sits between his toes and the lights. Beyond the inky rippling water he finds that he cannot focus; the city is blurred, a cacophony of colours in his head, in his ears, in his eyes. Red. Amber. Pale yellow and white. The glass of the buildings reflects everything tenfold and the colours are screaming.
His toes in the ends of his shoes force the leather to scuff at the tarmac and he feels the zing in his chest. It starts off like a faint thrumming within his ribcage, but he knows how it will go. He can feel it building even as he rolls his shoulders and turns his back on the blackness outside of the bridge. Here he is safe, standing with his feet firmly planted on the ground.
He knows it cannot last for long.
The motorbike is an old model, a Triumph T140. It is red and orange and yellow. Like the lights. He feels like it is taunting him, like it also feels the zing and knows what will come. He touches the right handle softly, a caress that leave him shaking. He knows better than to ride at night - usually. Tonight is not Usually; Tonight is Different. He takes a deep breath through his teeth and mounts. The lights are blocked by the bridge supports, but this doesn’t seem to help.
He wants nothing more than to go: to go so fast that everything becomes as foggy as those lights, so that everything twists and writhes into that ecstasy of light and sound and the smell of burned rubber on tarmac. The squeal of wheels - not his - and hammering beat of his heart.
What would he give for that?
The problem, he thinks, is everything.
The bike is between his legs, the comfort that it expends almost rivals the obnoxious ringing in his ears. He wants to shout, to scream. He wants to drive right off the bridge.
He almost did that once.
He kicks the stand away before he can talk himself out of it; his wife would never forgive him. Or would she? Perhaps everything is backwards. He doesn’t care any more.
Before he knows what he is happening, the world is speeding and he is stationary. Everything slams by him so quickly that his brain feels like it is filled with cotton balls. A whoop is ripped from his lips, and he realises that he is cold. Cold, but buzzing. It is like being drunk - drunk on lights and smells. He wants to stop, to let the feeling wash over him, but he knows that if he stops it will be gone.
And then there is only blood thrumming in his chest; the zing is gone. He slams on the brakes.
What is he doing? He has a family; a wife and small kids. He can’t. He skids to a halt on an empty road, the sound of his dying engine echoing around him, reverberating off the glass. It had looked so inviting from the bridge - now the red is as angry as he is. The yellow is jaundiced and he wants to throw up.
She tried to make him sell the bike.
It was his father’s.
It was his father’s death.
He should know better.
For a second he can hear only his heartbeat in his mouth. Loud. Banging. No, it is thrumming. Thrumming like - revving. There is a burning smell from behind him. His legs are numb. His stomach is in his throat. Can’t breathe. Can’t move.
Triumph.
The bike is in the river. Red, amber, yellow and white.
The lights in the city are like beacons. They call to him from the bridge; his toes are tensed and bunched up at the metal bars. He stands looking out over the river beneath him, staring into the abyss that sits between his toes and the lights. Beyond the inky rippling water he finds that he cannot focus; the city is blurred, a cacophony of colours in his head, in his ears, in his eyes. Red. Amber. Pale yellow and white. The glass of the buildings reflects everything tenfold and the colours are screaming.
His toes in the ends of his shoes force the leather to scuff at the tarmac and he feels the zing in his chest. It starts off like a faint thrumming within his ribcage, but he knows how it will go. He can feel it building even as he rolls his shoulders and turns his back on the blackness outside of the bridge. Here he is safe, standing with his feet firmly planted on the ground.
He knows it cannot last for long.
The motorbike is an old model, a Triumph T140. It is red and orange and yellow. Like the lights. He feels like it is taunting him, like it also feels the zing and knows what will come. He touches the right handle softly, a caress that leave him shaking. He knows better than to ride at night - usually. Tonight is not Usually; Tonight is Different. He takes a deep breath through his teeth and mounts. The lights are blocked by the bridge supports, but this doesn’t seem to help.
He wants nothing more than to go: to go so fast that everything becomes as foggy as those lights, so that everything twists and writhes into that ecstasy of light and sound and the smell of burned rubber on tarmac. The squeal of wheels - not his - and hammering beat of his heart.
What would he give for that?
The problem, he thinks, is everything.
The bike is between his legs, the comfort that it expends almost rivals the obnoxious ringing in his ears. He wants to shout, to scream. He wants to drive right off the bridge.
He almost did that once.
He kicks the stand away before he can talk himself out of it; his wife would never forgive him. Or would she? Perhaps everything is backwards. He doesn’t care any more.
Before he knows what he is happening, the world is speeding and he is stationary. Everything slams by him so quickly that his brain feels like it is filled with cotton balls. A whoop is ripped from his lips, and he realises that he is cold. Cold, but buzzing. It is like being drunk - drunk on lights and smells. He wants to stop, to let the feeling wash over him, but he knows that if he stops it will be gone.
And then there is only blood thrumming in his chest; the zing is gone. He slams on the brakes.
What is he doing? He has a family; a wife and small kids. He can’t. He skids to a halt on an empty road, the sound of his dying engine echoing around him, reverberating off the glass. It had looked so inviting from the bridge - now the red is as angry as he is. The yellow is jaundiced and he wants to throw up.
She tried to make him sell the bike.
It was his father’s.
It was his father’s death.
He should know better.
For a second he can hear only his heartbeat in his mouth. Loud. Banging. No, it is thrumming. Thrumming like - revving. There is a burning smell from behind him. His legs are numb. His stomach is in his throat. Can’t breathe. Can’t move.
Triumph.
The bike is in the river. Red, amber, yellow and white.
Words: 645
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