The motorcycle roars down the highway at 63 miles per hour. She’s already being reckless by having stolen her ex-boyfriend’s motorcycle, so she’s definitely not about to push her luck by going at anything above 65 miles per hour. In all fairness, he deserved to have his motorcycle be stolen.

She knows she won’t find any peace on the road, but she’s sure as hell at least going to try. Escapism is her only way of coping. Her eyes narrow on the long strip of black concrete of her side of the road. Her fingers grip the handlebars tighter and she clenches her mouth. The rage fills itself up in her body relatively quickly. It’s a faster-acting drug than anything she’s ever tried. “Maybe you should go to therapy,” he would tell her in between drags of a joint, “it’ll help you fix your fucked-up-ness.” And to that, she’d retort, “Maybe you can go to hell.” It wasn’t that she was opposed to therapy. After all, her mother was a psychologist. She knew why she was the way she was; she just didn’t believe she deserved better.

The sun’s rays shine down on her bare arms, providing a comforting sense of warmth that snaps her out of a thought spiral. As she keeps driving down the road, she can start to feel his hands on the back of her neck, his fingers tracing circles down her spine. “You can’t escape me,” his voice clouds her mind like a puff of smoke. She shakes her head and blinks a few times to remind herself that what she’s feeling and what she’s experiencing just isn’t real.

She glances towards her right. The trees are lined-up perfectly, like a painting. It reminds her of a phrase that her high-school English teacher used to have, something about having “all its ducks in a row”. At least nature has its shit together.

Her attention turns back to the road again. What if she did try going faster, even just a bit? Her lips curve upwards and she leans forward to accelerate the motorcycle. The engine roars louder. How about a bit more? She leans forward again. Her ears ring and her blood boils with adrenaline. She is out here all alone, dancing a fine line between life and death. Balance isn’t her forte. She only knows extremes.
— -n.d