to stop, to end; | closed.
He should’ve seen it coming. He should’ve known that his time was up.
But, to be completely honest, he knew that his time was up the second they went back to England. He felt it, the afflictive touch of time eliminating his existence with every second that went by—there was less of him to bring back. The more it dragged, the harder it was to cope with that godforsaken feeling he was cursed with. But, still, he could’ve called it off; he could’ve saved them both the trouble. Not that he thought Caroline was going through any trouble right now, anyway.
She had Kai now, that’s all she needed to survive.
And Keith?
He had no one.
Absolutely no one.
His father was missing, his mother was dead and he was too far away from home, in a cold city that he didn’t even like. Not that he had a ‘home’, anyway. Not that he could go back there to his messy apartment and survive inspiring her staining smell, or the scheming visage of her, fabricated by his mind, in every corner of the house. But, it wasn’t the house that was haunted; he knew that, it’s the people who lived inside.
However, it didn’t matter. He didn’t matter. None of this mattered; the rush of velocity crushing the air against his car, the loud music blasting out of the stereo and vibrating through his body, as if it was trying to push him to the edge—as if it was trying to trickle that scream he built up inside, or that trembling tear staining his hues. He wanted nothing but to feel nothing, to go back to that numb, cold, bastard he was before he met her. Why did he allow himself to fall into this mess, anyway? Didn’t he know better?
The error he made was trusting her, trusting her to love him, to let go, to be enough. But, here’s the question; wouldn’t he do it again if it meant seeing her smile?
It wasn’t the first time that error was made, anyway. There was a girl before Caroline, a girl he’s known all his life—a girl he lost for another man, too. One who wasn’t good enough for her, one who couldn’t protect her, one who let her die—but, it’s okay. Keith has never been enough to anyone, too.
No one ever saw him, really saw him. He’s always been seen as the dangerous street-racer, Rio’s right hand, the worst thing that’s ever happened to Miami. He was just a shadow; a feared myth. And no matter how much he loved, how much he cared, it made very little difference in the end. He’d die a shadow no one ever took the time to see.
The acceleration wasn’t enough, the roaring engine failed to calm him down, the slipping turns he took didn’t make a difference; he had no destination, no journey. He wondered, too, if he’d feel alive in a crash. Physical pain was different than this pain, even though he could’ve sworn it felt like every rib of his body was twisting and turning, but still, it was different. It’s not that he wanted to die, no, it was the opposite; adrenaline was his escape. He felt alive, challenging fate; this was part of the challenge. It had to be. Everything had a reason in this game. He just had to find the trigger and pull it.
He lost her.
He lost Caroline.
Losing was a first, and losing to Kai was the worst first anyone could have; but, then again, Caroline was never really his to begin with.
He took a sudden left turn, forcing the car under his will, cursing the alcohol that wore off his body.
He was shaking under the memory of her crying and apologizing over and over and over again, he knew she didn’t mean it, he knew that it wasn’t her fault. She asked for his forgiveness, she was sorry because he gave her his heart and watched her and Kai walk all over it for her own happiness, because he couldn’t be selfish with her. He tried, but he couldn’t.
“Do you know what dying feels like? To have your heart ripped out, stomped on, and burned right in front of you while you are forced to watch?”
He shouldn’t have said that. But, that’s probably better than the rest of the things said.
It’s a good thing the alcohol was kicking in with his memories; he didn’t need to feel pathetic and guilty.
But, still, he couldn’t breathe. The road was unclear, he could feel his grip loosen against the wheel; nothing, he felt nothing. The weight was pushing him down, the overwhelming sensation was too much; breathe, he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see—he couldn’t control anything, anymore.
And there it goes, that scream he built up in the back of his throat. Yelling curses in the wind, fumbled questions, confessions; this was it.
His vision was clearer now, his target was nearing.
A dead end.
He slowed down, but not enough; would he let himself end? Would it end it? The constant itching reminder that he wasn’t good enough? Would the adrenaline of the possibility of dying be enough to make him feel alive again? He could stay in the car, run himself off that bridge; he’d be beating God, if he even existed, at his own game, right? He didn’t choose to feel like this, he didn’t choose to go through this. He didn’t choose to be an orphan, abandoned by the people who gave birth to him; he didn’t choose to lose the parents who chose to be with him. He didn’t choose to live as a criminal, to distain his childhood, to fall in love with a girl who wasn’t his. Whatever higher power was out there, it forced him into this hell. So, he might as well choose how it ends.
In a car.
Off a bridge.
They’d say he was too drunk to see where he was going, just another cliché of an intoxicated driver. But, they’re wrong; he wasn’t intoxicated with cocktails, he was intoxicated with life, with himself. He was his own enemy. It was a civil war with a predetermined winner. He wanted to stop, to end. But, to stop what? To stop the car or to end his journey?
Too late, too soon?
No.
With a sudden rush of clarity slapped by his surroundings, he jumped out of the car and rolled on the ground grunting. And with the rousing loud crash of gravity grasping the vehicle, he felt it. That jumping realization of his heart, it worked.
“Great.” He let out a wry chuckle. “—Now I don’t have a place to stay, or a car to drive."
