Finish Line |h.s|

One

*tw: suicidal ideation*

March 25, 2020

Karisma

Swerve into a tree? No, my mom would be pissed if I ruined Liam's truck. I felt around the dingy interior of the beaten-up Ford, the tiny nerve endings in my fingers refusing to send signals to my brain. My hands looked like the leather of the passenger seat. Old, raggedy... ugly. I inhaled deeply, hoping to catch any lingering scent of Liam. It's been five years and these seats have carried over a hundred people by now. There was no Liam here.

I could walk into traffic, however that sounded excruciating, and I think I would feel too guilty for all the trauma and therapy I'd burden whoever was lucky enough to hit me with. I heaved a heavy breath, taking a swig from the whiskey bottle I stole from Zayn's top shelf. That's where he kept the good stuff. My mind kept conjuring up idea after idea, none of them worthy enough to help me rid the agony that had settled into my bones.

"Alright, I'm cutting you off." An arm scattered in tattoos reached into the open window of Liam's truck and ripped the nearly empty bottle from my hands. Tiny splotches of brown liquor spread into the threads of my jeans and rolled off the cracked leather of the seat. Alcohol helped. Especially on this day. It was the one day everyone gave me a pass. It made the scratches on my stomach not so prominent and the ache in my chest a little less sharp.

"Hey!" I swatted at the arm resting on the window frame, "get your own alcohol."

"This is my alcohol, genius." Zayn rolled his eyes at me, pouring the rest of the sticky liquid onto the pavement of the parking lot. Zayn was the only one that gave me a hard time about the drinking. I think it had a lot to do with after-math he always ended up having to deal with. "Come on, Niall's just about done setting up. Maria's going to be late, we need a flag girl." He reached inside the truck and hit the unlock button before opening up my door and pulling me out of the seat and onto my feet.

I stumbled slightly, using his shoulder as a grip to steady myself out of my drunken stupor. "I don't even think I can walk straight, let alone direct a bunch of bikes on where to go." I managed to mumble out as I straightened out the few wrinkles in my flannel. Maria managed to run "late" every month, and every month Zayn would ask me to be the flag girl. Every month, I gave him the same answer. Every month, he gave me the puppy dog eyes I had to squeeze my eyes shut to avoid.

I couldn't bring myself to step foot on those tracks again and I don't think I ever will. It's not that I don't want to, I think about it almost every day. Every time I drive past this abandoned track, Liam's truck right up against the wired fence, and gaze into the gravel that took my brother's life. I wish I had the strength to march up there and feel even an ounce of what Liam had gone through that day. To feel my entire body envelope in flames, to watch as everyone I loved disappeared around me, to be left entirely alone and ruled as a great tragedy that had to happen in order for this town to learn a lesson.

I sighed, leaning my head back as fresh tears threatened to brew behind my lashes. Zayn's fingers caught the end of my flannel and he tugged lightly to bring my chest against his. His soft lips brushed my forehead, his stubble scratching the bridge of my nose. Zayn was never good at consoling me, but where he lacked in words he made up for in intimacy. Always holding me close, his fingers in my hair, his lips against my neck.

We fell into this role, whatever it is, so easily after Liam's death. He was at my house day in and day out, silently cooking, cleaning, paying the bills, whatever it took to ease the gaping hole missing in our too big house. I'd like to think this was his way of grieving. To take care of everyone and everything. Maybe he was avoiding it a little bit too, just like I was.