25
Tainted
That night …
The motor growled down to silence beneath him, a deep, throaty rumble that faded like a dying breath. He sat there for a moment, the engine ticking as it cooled, the weight of choices pressing down on him, like a heavy boot to the chest.
The building crouched behind the chain-link fence — a feral beast constructed of brick, rusted sheet metal, and gaping windows, waiting to consume him.
He kicked the stand down with his boot, metal hitting pavement with a dull thunk. The bike tilted into a familiar lean, the kind that always felt half-drunk, and very precarious.
Kinda like he felt now.
Teetering on the precipice, seeking an escape from the chaos rattling inside him.
He’s lived with scum — became scum.
He swung his leg over, muscles stiff from tension. His body knew fucking well what his brain was toying with. And it was screaming at him to resist. To just get back on the fucking bike and ride like the demons of hell were behind him.
Because they were.
Once an addict, always an addict.
He took off his helmet and slung it over the handlebar, fingers lingering there for a beat, stalling time by not letting go. As if he knew once he did, all bets were off.
The air reeked of exhaust, motor-oil, burned rubber, and something else — the sweet allure of oblivion. It curled into his nose and sparked a fire in his spine. His mouth flooded, dry and wet at the same time, like he could almost taste the hit.
His jaw clenched.
God, he missed it.
Not the high. Not really.
Rather, it was the silence he craved.
The whiteout.
The way everything stopped hurting for just long enough to pretend he was whole.
Clean.
He’s tainted. Probably covered in filthy prison ink.
The burn spread from the base of his spine, up and across his back, rising with the stain of ink covering his back, his neck, his scalp. He scraped his hand through his hair, gripping tight, twisting. Twisting.
Tell me, Mister Druggie, what’s it like to fuck a woman pining for your look-a-like?
Was that true? Did she merely see his twin when she looked at him?
Everything in him screamed to walk across the forecourt.
To disappear into the building.
To let his life burn down in the sweet, warm slide of nothingness.
Sharp shards of pain pierced his fogged mind, and he pulled away his hand, not surprised to see a clump of hair dangling from his fingers. “Fuck,” he muttered. He shook the hair off, watched it drift down to the ground.
His breath came hard, chest rising like he’d just finished a race.
He’s a hero. Twice the man you’ll ever be.
He stared at the compound. Then at the bike. Then back again.
He swallowed. Hard.
He’s a hero.
A hero.
His hands shook.
He could go in. He wanted to. Fuck, how he wanted to.
Wanting wasn’t the same as needing.
He’s a hero. Twice the man you’ll ever be.
Yet he stood immobile, his entire body vibrating, heart thumping against his ribs, breath soughing through his lungs.
The wind picked up, tugging at his jacket, rattling something loose in the chain-link fence.
Drug addict.
He stood there in that liminal space until his pulse slowed enough for him to breathe without shaking.
Hero.
He patted his chest, felt the pendant burn into his skin where it rested beside the angel wing.
Then he reached down, flipped the kickstand back up, and swung his leg over the seat. The engine coughed once. Then roared to life.
He didn’t look back as he rode away.