The Reasons Why

PROLOGUE

DISCLAIMER: This is not the main POV for the rest of the story

(scarlett winters)

It's been 3 long years since the accident, which is three years since she died and I didn't. You're only ever meant to see that shit on TV. It doesn't seem real, when the airbags come up and the car swerves 'round and 'round in circles before hitting a fire hydrant or something. Rolling over a few times in the process. That isn't the least realistic part of television accidents though. It's when everyone survives without so much as a scratch.

I'm not the best with memory, but every night, I have the same crystal clear nightmare. The sudden impact. The smell of the petroleum fumes, burning. Bright red scratches tattooed across my Mom's face and arms, beginning to spill onto the driver's seat. I could have sworn we were doing the speed limit. Maybe if I had looked both ways, it would've somehow ended differently. But now, every night, I'll always remember Mom's loving gaze flickering lifeless. Her specked hazel eyes retracting and her eyelids fluttering, her rigid brown hair trapped between the headrest and the car seat, with flames engulfing the console.

There's things I wish I told her. Things I call out to her in my nightmare in an exasperated voice, gasping for air amidst the fumes and flames. But, in reality, I didn't say anything. I was just contorted, my ribcage shattered and the air pressed out of my lungs, tears drying up under my eyes as I fell in and out of consciousness. I never felt so helpless.

And after all the bullshit we had been through together too - Charlie joining the military, the divorce, the move, graduation... My Mom, who was authentic, practical, and most importantly real, is now just reduced to a dream. A nightmare. My nightmare.

I remember him being there. Helping me out of the car in all my contorted-ness, my screams of agony blaring through the sound barrier as glass crinkled off of my clothes, rain seeping into my wounds. Wounds quickly healed. I remember, but I don't want to remember.  There's more, but I don't want to talk about it. Not right now. I've got something else to look forward to today, so that'll keep me going until I return. Hopefully, it'll distract me from whatever is waiting for me at home. Destination: Boston, Massachusetts.

After I finish watering the plants and completing my relentless workout, I take a brisk shower and throw over a baggy t-shirt with the album cover of 'HIT ME HARD AND SOFT' by Billie Eilish. As I wrap a towel around my bundle of white hair, I look out from my apartment balcony and see the sun rising over the Golden Gate bridge, the light reflecting off the burgundy red hedge. I smile, knowing I'll be flying out that way in just a few hours.

I miss finding the joy in the chirping birds that swoop past the guardrails, baring blue and black feathers to brighten up the sky with innocence. Now, instead of looking ahead to the astounding horizon line and the sweeping oceans beneath the big red bridge, I look down. Down to the 75 foot drop, where cars squeeze through tight alleyways and the cracked road stares up at me. Maybe the further up I jump from, the longer I'll stay dead. Today won't be the day I find out though. Today is the day I get answers to my curse.

Hereafter, I stress-eat and flip through my notebook dedicated to safekeeping all the information I have on this man. All the potential answers about how and why he was there that night, and why I think he keeps popping up in my life. Here's one. I believe that he might be like me, in someway or another. I have photos stapled into the notebook of this man from all different eras - Texas, 1963. Tokyo, 1952. Russia, 1981. Boston, 2029. That's all I really want. That's all I really need. Answers.

On my way out from the apartment complex, I head towards the parking space and pass Mom's Chevy waiting for me on the curb, shining a polished cyan because of how well-kept it is. I head straight for where my motorcycle is idle between two cars overlapping the parking spaces lines, which makes me want to tear my hair out but anyway. With the starting of the ignition and the turning of the throttle, I drive off. As stones and pebbles kick up behind me, I skid out over the bumped concrete lot and onto the road, bopping my head to 'Softcore' by The Neighbourhood. Not that I have my AirPods in, I just have a never-ending playlist in my mind.