Pairing: No Pairing
Warning: Suicide, death
Summary: Suzie likes to ride her motorbike.
Suzie likes to ride her motorbike -- a bright red Ducati 916. She always wears a helmet and leather jacket, because she's seen accidents, she's seen what happens. She likes her skin the way it is and wants to keep it that way, thank you very much.
What she likes best about riding her bike is the wind in her face and the sense of speed. It's even better when the roads are wet, and there's a constant edge of slippery danger.
It feels like she's saying "Fuck you!" to God.
That's what she said to her mother, the last time Suzie saw her: "Fuck you! I don't want to dress up like a tart for some boring prig you think is worthy of my virginity."
Ma had just sighed heavily and said, "Please yourself, Suzie. I don't have time for your nonsense," before getting in the car and driving off -- taking Aunt Eliza and Suzie's baby brother, Tony, off to buy new clothes and shoes for cousin Julio's wedding.
Barely an hour later, her mother's rusty old Toyota slid onto the train tracks as though the threadbare tires were greased -- Susie saw the CCTV footage in court, while the other driver (now sober) stared down at his folded hands. (He got two years, served six months, and already has his licence back. Suzie keeps track.)
In the crime-scene photographs, the ruined Toyota looked like a worn-out accordion.
(Suzie sometimes dreams that a giant appears at the crash site, scoops up the smashed car and plays the Für Elise on it. Through one of the windows, she can see her brother's head flopping back and forth in time with music.)
Six months and fifteen days after that particular express train, Katie stole Dad's keys and went out to sit in the car with the engine running, and a hose snaking through the window. When she was found by the next door neighbour, her lips were bright red, like cherries.
Katie never woke up, even though she was still alive when she reached the hospital, and even though Suzie kissed her bright red mouth.
(The neighbour who found her, a mousy woman called Lucia, committed suicide six months later. She did it the old fashioned way -- a noose and a kicked-over chair. Suzie's father dropped the news into breakfast conversation, between passing the toast and cursing the weather forecast.)
When Suzie rides her bike, and there's that edge of slick beneath her wheels and the scream of wind against her face, she thinks Fuck you, just fuck you over and over, like the chorus of a song that won't be forgotten.
She's not going to die like that. She won't. She refuses to give God the satisfaction. In fact, if she had her way, she'd never die at all.
Some days -- the 25th of April, and again six months and fifteen days later -- Suzie thinks it might even be worth the risk of eternal damnation to get one up on that smug, accordion-playing bastard.
This entry was originally posted at http://cupidsbow.dreamwidth.org/343