by Ashlyn Moore
The man on the bike raced around the corner. The speed helped him forget. Focus and control were all that mattered to him when he rode. The sunglasses helped hide his grief stricken face and the
wind helped whisk away his tears as fast as they came. He couldn't, he wouldn't think about his father's death again. He had stopped thinking about it when he was sixteen. But again, the scene
rose and he shoved it away. Faster, faster. Make it go away. The man on the bike sped on. His wife, oh poor wife, ripped from him in the night. Dead days before their anniversary, dead before
their son was four. He faltered a bit, thinking of her lifeless lips and pale as they buried her. Dead and gone. Dead and gone. Taken by the awful cancer that had dragged on and on. They had said
she was getting better and she didn't look so sick but life, as it is, gave in to death. Stop, please, stop. Pleading with the memories, pleading with God. He wanted to forget. He didn't want to
remember the son he'd left behind. He couldn't face what he'd done. The poor boy was trapped inside his mind after all, plagued by who knows what. It broke the man's heart, seeing him like that
and not being able to do a damn thing. The boy never moved, never ate, never drank. Only stared blankly at his ceiling. Sick too. The man reasoned with himself. He might as well be dead.
And sped on. Faster, faster. Rounding each corner without even slowing. Without flinching. On and on he road like that. On and on until the semi hit him. On and on his mind had raced with
thoughts he didn't want to think. Until it was all blissfully stopped by the first of thirty one impacts with the asphalt. Dead and gone just like his father. Dead and gone just like his wife.
Dead and gone just like his son will be soon. Left alone with nobody to look out for him. Left alone and he couldn't even look after himself.