My life was beginning.
I had nowhere to go but forward. No one to worry about but me.
How many times I had asked myself why it had taken me more than thirteen years to reach this point. I had lost count. Then again… no amount of nagging or begging or pleading had ever gotten through to the bitch. I had tried reasoning with her. I had run away. She always found me. The bruises healed quickly enough… but I still bore the scars. They would never go away.
But enough was enough. I was finally outta there.
And I had her bike.
Inevitably, the mental self interrogation started.
I had hoped that the lines flashing under the wheels would be hypnotising and help keep my mind off what I had just done. That the light, dark, light, dark stuttering of the streetlights would distract me. That the engine beneath me would numb my mind and my body and let me just escape before I started grilling myself.
The “what ifs” started to cloud my thinking, taking my focus away from the road under me and onto the whirlpool that was my subconscious.
What if someone looked for me?
What if someone noticed her bike was gone?
What if one of her clients wondered where I had gone?
NO! No, no, no! I couldn’t think like that. Not now.
I glanced down at the severed head in the bottom of the sidecar.
I knew I was free.