31 - Tough Love
Logan
From up here, the city looks peaceful. Overlooking the world like a god in your own right is cleansing, cathartic even.
The exact type of emotion one would represent with their last moments on Earth.
People often talk about the overwhelming calm.
The acceptance that comes with deciding to take your own life.
In the times I’ve come close, I’ve never experienced it.
And it’s most likely because, technically, I’ve never succumbed to it.
The resignation doesn’t ever come from me. It’s the constant background noise; the inescapable voices, the shame and the guilt. Despite jumping in front of the oncoming bullet, I failed to save my mum.
I often think about what I could have done differently back then. I should have done more. I could have attacked the gunman; I should have grabbed Dad's gun from his top drawer. But I didn’t.
Useless. My existence offers meagre enrichment to those around me. A disease. A parasitic cancer that does nothing but suck the life from your soul.
And now, Cordelia, the woman who is carrying my son, cannot stand to even look at me.
Won’t answer my calls, my texts, my desperate attempts to reach her.
Back when I first confronted her about the pregnancy, she said something to me in French.
At the time, I didn’t understand, so I did some research.
Tu es mort pour moi
You’re dead to me.
Now all I hear is her voice, bitter and full of angst, but oh so beautiful. Because even when she’s angry, her voice is a melodic lullaby to my soul.
If I’m dead to her, then I might as well be dead to the rest of the world too.
This method takes balls. I’d planned to meet my end in the cage, under the force of another warrior’s wrath. But once Dad and Scar were made aware of the situation, they’d marched straight to The Vault and threatened to shut the place down if the bouncers so much as let me step a toe inside.
Bastards.
The road below is promising. Solid—unforgiving. I can already imagine my body sprawled out across it, crimson pooling like some obscure piece of art. An abstract painting to be hung on the walls of Cordelia’s mum’s gallery.
Death is exquisite. And blood flourishes within its existence. The perfect supplement that must accompany it, to breathe that last fleeting glimmer of essence into the body.
I’ve never taken a life without drawing blood.
My eyes flit back to the road below. Streetlights line the way far into the distance, like fireflies of the night. Cars are sparse at three in the morning, which will guarantee no injury to any innocent drivers. Everything is as it should be.
“I knew I’d find you here.”
I spin so quickly, the metal fence rattles beneath my arse, and I have to grip the bars just so I don’t accidentally fall to my death. This is my decision, no one else’s. I won’t have that choice taken from me.
Clarke stalks from the shadows, his eyes shining like a beacon under the moonlight. Heavy leather boots crash through the puddles left from yesterday’s downpour. With his bike helmet clutched to his side and his leather jacket conforming to his muscular physique.
My brows draw together as he peers up at me, a vacant expression on his face.
“How did you know I’d be here?”
Clarke rolls his eyes, fingers skating over the serpent tattoo climbing up his neck. “Because you’re predictable, amigo.”
I snort and cast my eyes back over the horizon. “She hates me,” I murmur quietly.
“Boo fucking hoo.”
I snap my gaze back to him so fast; I almost strain my neck. Lip curling, eyes flat and cold. “You really are an arsehole, aren't you?"
Clarke shrugs his massive shoulders. “Old news, Cox. Besides, I don’t think that one’s capable of hate. Her mother treats her like shit on her fancy designer heels, and her dads so absent he’s no better than a sperm donor. And yet, she still dotes over both of them.”
My throat works as I swallow hard. He’s right. Cordelia talks about them with cruel intent, but her actions never follow through. Clarke lets out a huff of air, as if I’m inconveniencing him with the attempted suicide mission.
“Come for a ride,” he says, jangling the bike keys between his gloved fingers. “Give yourself a minute. Take your mind off her.”
Impossible. Every second, every minute, every hour is spent conjuring up images of her face. Analysing each interaction, all the precious moments I held her in my arms, the bewitching sensation of her lips, her soft skin.
My teeth sink into my lower lip to hold onto my crumbling composure. “I can’t live without her.”
Clarke shakes his head, striding closer with a renewed sense of self-importance. He pays no heed to the vulnerable position I’m in as he grapples the metal fence and shakes it.
“Let’s get this over with then.”
“Fuck— “I screech, abruptly cut off by having to save myself from the death fall. Nausea claws up my throat at the very real prospect of being smeared across the asphalt. Being part of some crime scene with my best mate watching over me like a bloody grim reaper wielding his scythe. That’s when it hits me–I don’t want to die.
Clarke halts his attempt at snubbing my existence, craning his neck to meet my eyes. Black as the void as usual. But there’s something else swimming in them too, softening the sharp edges.
“Look,” he says, lips drawing into a thin line. “We’ve been through this before. We both know you don’t want to die, Cox. And we both know you won’t go through with it. How do I know that? Because you’re not a fucking quitter.”
Eyes widening, and brows shooting towards my hairline, I stare at him.
“I’m not best friends with a quitter. So get your whiny arse down here and stop wasting my time.”
Tough love. Clarke’s specialty. Sometimes it’s what you need. Someone to just tell you how it is without skirting around or caring about hurting your feelings.
With a sigh, I swing my legs over the fence and jump. My boots hit the ground with a thud, and the impact ricochets through my entire body. I pry my eyes away from my reflection in the shallow puddle at my feet to look at my friend, who’s got both arms outstretched wide in invitation.
“C’mere.”
“No, I’m— “
Clarke shuts me up by lugging his arms around me and clamping down until I quit squirming. Neither of us are ‘huggers’, definitely not him. Part of the real reason he does it is to make me uncomfortable because he thrives off people’s misery, which doesn’t exclude me.
Even though I will myself not to cry, the tears stream down my face, soaking into his leather collar. His masculine scent fills my nostrils, somehow soothing the ache in my chest. My heart. The one muscle that single-handedly controls my head.
After a few minutes he releases me, and I step back, wiping my snotty nose with my cuff. “How do I get her to see sense?”
Clarke snickers. “You do what we do best, amigo. You make her. And you don’t give up until she gets it. You’ve both been through heartbreaking trauma. You need each other if you’re going to survive it.”
I nod, with a renewed level of determination at the forefront of my mind.
“Now. Let’s ride,” he smirks before pulling his helmet over his head.
I tug on my gloves, with fingers stiff from the biting chill of the wind. My trusty helmet waits for me atop the black leather seat. As I reach for it, Clarke’s eyebrows rise.
“I can’t believe you were going to dump your bike.”
I shrug. “Don’t need a bike when you’re dead,” I say bluntly.
“You could have at least given the beast to me,” he snorts through his helmet, before straddling his own bike.
My lips curl and I chuckle. “No chance, buddy.” I sweep my hair back, slide the helmet in place and snap the visor shut.
We ride through the night like two tortured souls with nothing to lose. Except that’s no longer true and never was. Both of us have a lot to lose, including each other.
Adrenaline surges through my body as we eat up the road at speeds of over 150mph.
With the wind threatening to tear us down at every corner, it’s a hair-raising ride charged with raw emotion.
The thrill I get from riding is and always will be the same.
The danger, the exhilaration, and the blood coursing through my veins. I never want to be without it.
Because in times when all hope seems lost, it’s the only thing that makes me feel truly alive.