Follow Into Dark - WIP

ONE. 

It was there, with the roar of Roach, the sucking sweetness of the fresh and clean air mixing violently with the smell of a two-stroke engine. That pure and wondrous breeze was the one thing that finally listed all of the weight of the world off of his shoulders. 

The ache in his hands, from the firm grip on his handlebars, that was a soreness longed for ever since body and heart went numb to the constant rattle of the world. 

All that remained around him now was the trunks of nature, whipping by, and the odd additional car on the highways floating past in the opposite direction. 

He rode towards hope. Or, “hope”, which was a perfectly crafted analogy for the whole thing, and he intentionally observed. Hope was 342 kilometers away, or so the most recent highway sign had read. That was a few minutes ago. 

Whether or not Elliot intended to actually arrive this time, was unclear. It was more of a habitually freeing emotional parlor trick he would play on himself when he bugged out, hopped on his beloved motorcycle, and sought some clarity. A clearness he felt during the act often solved his current burn, but it was not one that he managed to maintain once the stead of his sanity slept at the flick off of its key. 

Ignition, it seemed, was a crucial ingredient in this discovery and recovery process. Perhaps more aptly thought of as a stabilization experiment. For he had not intent in direction, nor an idea of destination. Yet, somehow was completely driven by the formality of going. 

It was that he was moving, not where, or why, and only marginally how, but mostly and importantly that. 

Years would pass and the standout would be the memory of doing such. Never the culmination. And while not doing, it was simply the fondness found in the knowledge that he would once again do, sometime, hopefully soon, that perpetuated the fascination with this act. Riding, as it were, was both crutch, and therapy. The drug of his choice. A moment of brief freedom within a world where choices you are to make seem laid out in a particular order predestined. Designed by someone without any fingerprints on your own life. 

This time, however, he was dead set on reaching Hope. Armed with the clarity, he’s managed to find while getting there. 

A brief window of about 40 kilometers saw more trafficking. Large, unfriendly men, inside micro-home-sized cabs, hauling city-block-sized trailers. Up and down, left and right, throughout the country. Men that Elliott presumed would spend precious attention span concentrating on getting to where they are going, the fasted way they can. Concerned by only the sight of their partners, the tiny hugs of their children, and the money they’d have made from this bullet delivery. How it would result in food, mortgage, college, and maybe ever -- one can only dream -- walking away from a life of “a to b” altogether. 

Kids. 

That idea again. Children, and the light they bring out in their parent’s eyes. The concept and sensation bounced around violently within Elliott’s helmet. Until a small patch of gravel through a soft and slow bank left drew his focus back to keeping his bike upright at eighty kilometers per hour. 

Readjusting himself on the saddle once on the other side of the turn, he focused on his breathing. Another practice in meditation while on the road. Lost, for a moment, was his reality. Oftentimes neglected, in the most innocent of ways, due to human empathy, and this insatiable ability to tie your own life preserver to another boat.