The Way I Feel

2. Dandelion Stars.

—=— NICK —=—

...watch yourself unravel.

No. Shut up. The engine...just focus on the engine. It's louder, drowning it all out when I finally let it.

I needed this. Everything from this fucking day to Jack's watery eyes blinded me from it, but I know now that I can feel it beneath me how much I needed it. It's not just the bike though. I know that much for certain. Or the feeling it ignites in my nerve endings. No. There's something more. Hell, there's so much more when I'm finally calm enough to release my constant flow of inhibitions.

Nestled amongst my sporadic, jumbled mess of memories that I can't seem to return to that lockbox that holds them, is something that's obviously the main reason my heart actually has a reason to beat. At least for now.

Something as vital to me, to my body, my very soul as the near useless muscle in my chest and my tainted lungs. Something close to knowledge. Or a particular kind of knowledge. The knowledge that she made this happen. My mom...she made all of this possible. This release. This outlet of stress relief that's dangerous as all hell, but also soothing. Comforting. Even more so when I picture that day three years ago.

That day when mom surprised me with a motorcycle after I'd finally stopped whining about how much I wanted one. I wasn't a spoiled kid or anything, but that didn't halt the dreams I had. The fantasies. The what-ifs.

She bought it secondhand, because like she said as she gave me the keys way back when, "We ain't made of money Nicky." I knew that. It was funny to me that she thought I gave a shit. She didn't have to tell me, because I was well aware. Maybe more aware than a sixteen year old kid should have been when it came to the likes of household finances. She and dad, they tried so hard. Desperately hard to hide it from us. From my brother and I, despite the fact that I'm too nosy for my own good and Jack is a sucker for snooping.

So when she told me. Told me that she'd bought it secondhand from an old college buddy of hers who'd been letting it sit unused for a couple of years, my first reaction was minor disgust because the bike was a beaut and most certainly deserved a tad more respect than being subjected to dust collection in some old garage. And then I thought back a moment and hugged my mom, because I was at least a good enough son, a good enough person, to realise the sacrifice she'd made on the behalf of something as trivial as my happiness.

And I hugged her tighter than I ever had before because that bike, it meant more than anything in the world to me in that moment. I promised to pay her back of course. She told me to save it for someone who gave a shit. Then she pulled two helmets out of god knows where and even now I can remember her exact words. Clear as summer sky.

"It's worth every penny sweetie. As long as you're happy, nothing else matters. Now get your ass in gear and let's take her for a spin!"

It remains one of the happiest moments of my entire life. And when you're me, well I think it's pretty obvious how rare those types of moments are. So it stays locked up. Safe in the little lockbox that holds it along with the rest of them.

Or at least I try to keep them safe. Now most of them just serve as reminders. Demanding attention like flashing neon signs or over the top billboards, practically screaming about the fact that she's gone, her existence reduced to the pitiful confines of my mind. So yeah, I can't protect all of them from it. From me. From being torn to shreds by my own mind. My own thoughts. My own feelings. From becoming rotten. Rotten with my guilt. My loss.

There are some that I can't stop from becoming a desolate thing, ripped apart and left to wither and decay. To decay like that smile I've torn to pieces a million times and yet it always finds a way to cling to me.