Bikes & Blood

𝐗𝐕.

Children screamed with delight beneath the warm rays of the sun, their squeals of elation interlaced with the haughty and yet joyous calliope music that danced across the wooden planks of the boardwalk. Amara's combat boots thudded against the planks of wood, thudding in time with her heart as she wordlessly meandered through the laughing and smiling tourists that eyed the blackish-purple bruises across her neck.

Amara's lip twitched as she fought the overwhelming urge to sneer at the passers-by that stared at her with varying expressions of pity. She didn't want their pity. She didn't want their lingering stares that seared into the skin of her back as she wove through the bustling boardwalk and into the busying carpark. She didn't want any of it. Pulling the black t-shirt further up her neck, she slipped between two cars and a series of bicycles before she pulled the keys to her motorbike from the back pocket of her black plaid pants.

The familiar, faded red Honda sat waiting in the same place that Amara had left it. Not a single piece missing or ruined on the beloved bike, despite the misfits that roamed the streets of Santa Carla. Amara scrutinised the boardwalk-goers, twirling her keys around her fingers. Their beaming grins, excitable chatter and distinctive clothing choices irked the bay-haired girl-the darkness to Santa Carla's boardwalk bellowing through Amara's head, screaming for them to see that the boardwalk hid the monsters of the night within the blinding neon lights.

Within plain sight, and for all too see.

With a disgruntled huff, Amara slid the key into the ignition of her bike and started it in one fluid motion, fingers impatiently drumming on the metal handlebars as she waited for the engine to warm up. She twisted the throttle of her bike with a faint smile itching to grow across her face. The rumbling of the bike's engine coaxing the dreary cloud away from her mind as she kicked the kickstand up, revving the bike one last time before she wove through the people in the carpark and into the quiet streets of Santa Carla.

***

The Californian heat seared into the skin of Amara's back as she drove up the gravel driveway to the old lodge-like house she called home. The crunching of gravel beneath the wheels of her bike wove together with the rumbling of the engine, filling her ears with a unique cornucopia of crunching gravel and the rumbling purr of her motorbike. Amara's gaze flitted towards a red, beaten-up Land Rover parked beneath the shade of a large tree. A crease embedding itself into her forehead as she pulled up beside the car that looked like it'd seen better days; red paintwork faded from years of use. Killing the engine to her bike without taking her eyes off of the unfamiliar car, Amara pulled the key from the ignition, dismounting from her bike before she stuffed her keys into her jackets pocket.

Voices ghosted past her ears, brushing against the shell of her ear as Amara crossed the gravel driveway and climbed the two front steps of the veranda. Her father's laughter drifted across the warm-summery sky from within the house as she pulled the fly screen door open and stepped through the doorway, pulling the front door closed behind herself. Amara's boots thudded against the hardwood floor; her focus locked upon the voices coming from the brightly lit kitchen, more so than the noise she was making.

She stilled in the open doorway of the kitchen; black boots perched upon the threshold of the doorway as she contemplated turning around and heading up the stairs to her room. Gnawing on the flesh of her bottom lip, shifting on the balls of her feet, Amara shrugged her shoulders and walked into the kitchen without another thought. Short, quiff-like, dirty-blonde hair drew Amara's eyes away from her father, whose slate-grey eyes met hers the moment she stepped through the doorway.

Crystalline-blue eyes clashed with her own as the two men in the kitchen stopped talking. Her father's brows furrowing with concern as he stood up from his seat at the kitchen table. "What the hell happened to your neck?" He blurted out; politeness tossed to the wind as parental concern burned within his eyes.