On the Shores of Miami

9. Beginning of the Drama

Miami's day life passed by me in a blur - a riot of colours, smudges of white and grey glass-cement buildings, brightly coloured sign boards. But I drove and drove and drove, so far past the speed limit that the cops I passed decided against chasing me. I've never gone this fast, since I only ever took this bike out for test runs and engine checks, but the speed I was travelling at now was both satisfying and thrilling.

After speeding off I'd grabbed the helmet with one hand and jammed it on my head, not bothering to close the face piece and allowing the full view of everything. I wove through expensive convertible cars like I did this all the time; not one of them suffered a dent, a bump or a scratch from my bike. In fact, I got an appreciative thumbs up more than once, but it did nothing to improve my mood.

Cass's words echoed through my mind like a dull, persistent ache going straight to my heart, pounding furiously fast against my chest. Each throb was like a stab in my head, and each pierce brought back multitudes of memories I didn't want remembered.

My fists clamped down hard on the bar handles, the grooves in the rubber creating patterns in my hands. The accelerator hummed almost joyfully at the increase of speed. This was Miami's more ordinary side, with the simple double-story and terrace houses with everyday inhabitants leading their everyday lives. The stretch of gravel in front of me was endless, and I sped up so much my front wheel lifted off the ground and bumped back down in a sudden burst of speed.

Even here, I was a sight - a red headed woman racing down the roads in a red and black Ninja 250r. I had to get away from any civilization before I lost control of my building temper. I needed to be somewhere alone, somewhere I could think and clear my head before I did something stupid.

A mother who worked so tirelessly just to earn a living by selling her body, lost in her drug-induced hallucinations; a father who couldn't hold a job for an hour and spent whatever little he had to drown himself in awful liquor. No love, no care, just pain.

So many times, so many nights; more than a decade under his limbs and more, never knowing what I did wrong. The thought that I was unworthy, ugly, stupid, useless, came to mind when I was at least ten.

The sting of old scars came back stronger than ever, so strong that it threw my entire balance off. The pain travelled up my back to my shoulders and straight down my arms, sending me into a brief seizure. The bike immediately swerved, but before I could regain balance, it'd gone off the road into the wild jungle that bordered it.

By some divine intervention, the tree trunk I hit was deeper into the overgrowth and thinner than most. I lost control of the bike, sending it flying into the greenery, over dried leaves and broken twigs, loose stones and fallen branches, until the front wheel finally stumbled over something and I was lifted off the bike seat.

I barely had time to shield my face with my hands when I crashed directly into the thin bark of the tree, shaking it precariously and causing it to lose most of its leaves. Immediately I bounced back, falling directly on my bike into a pile of freshly fallen leaves and small red seeds.

Momentarily disorientated from the slight twinge of pain coming from my arms, the throbbing on my knees and the forming bump on the side of my head where I'd knocked against the trunk, I lay there on the covered ground staring up at a ceiling of huge leaves.

I blinked at the spots of sunlight, slowly sitting up and almost lying back down from vertigo. Quickly shutting and reopening my eyes, I took deep breaths, forcing myself to calm down. My arms were decorated with small scratches and a couple of bruises, but nothing more; my knees were scraped badly, but they didn't hurt so much when I stretched my legs out. All in all, the damage could've been worse.