by Henry Young
“Bitch” he hissed into the wind. His hand gripped the throttle tighter, fingers squeezing it into life. The bike jerked and the back wheel twisted slightly as the power came in but he corrected it easily and raised his leather boot clad feet onto the pegs.
He powered through second into third gear, accelerating hard, only easing back at about sixty five.
His heartbeat raced in time with the engine, he leaned left as the edges of the road bent into the darkness ahead of him.
He glanced back but the blackness quickly re-enveloped the world behind him.
Warm air rushed at his face, he blinked involuntarily as another moth skipped over the headlamp and tore past his face into the night.
Silvery slithers of moisture trailed from the corner of each eye, trails across the landscape of his cheek.
The bike slowed and stopped, he threw back his head, eyes closed to the stars above him. In his mind still burned a single image, through the blur of the grey net curtains, of her, sat between his legs, head buried in the bastard’s lap.
He switched off the engine, silence rushed at him from all around. He reached for the rope, limp, trailing from the back of the bike. The chink of the engine cooling broke the silence as he followed the rope back to its knotted end.
“Bitch” he whispered as he gently flicked dust filled hair from the face of the battered corpse.