Disclaimer: Though they're never named, this fic involves Logan & Marie. I own neither of them. I just like to screw with them.
Note: Just a one-shot that I wrote when I was angsting out. It was influenced by Blake Shelton's She Wouldn't Be Gone. It's a great song. Listen to it and enjoy!
-She Wouldn't Be Gone-
So this was it? This was his life now? When in the hell had the glitz and the glamor disappeared to reveal the shit-covered reality underneath?
No, surely this was someone's idea of a sick joke. Surely he was dreaming and this gaping hole in this chest was imagined- a phantom pain.
She wasn't gone.
She couldn't be gone.
Yet, the scene was real enough. The people around him were casting him those looks that spoke of disappointment, regret, and maybe even a little hatred. Oh, he'd seen those looks before but he'd never expected them to be from these people.
He couldn't' remember ever having actual friends before he'd met her- before he'd come here. But, weren't they his friends? Surely he could rely on them to, if nothing else, tell him the truth.
All the signs were there, but he still kept waiting for someone to jump out from behind a damned bush and reveal that it had all been a horrible joke on him. Sniff Sniff. Nope, nobody was hopping out anytime soon. It was just him.
It was just him now.
The beer in his hand was somehow forgotten as it slipped from his numbed fingers, only to clatter loudly to the ground below. Vaguely, he recognized the sound of breaking glass, but he paid no attention to the mess as he stalked forward.
He wasn't even sure how he'd gotten the bike out of the garage and out on the open road. There was a huge gap in his memory, but he didn't care. All that mattered was the feel of the wind against his face, the cool breeze against his body.
This was freedom.
This was solitude.
They were two things that he'd always appreciated, but now it left a fucking crater in his chest. He knew that there used to be something there, but now it was empty, dark, and aching.
Didn't he heal? Hadn't he healed from more injuries than any man has the right to experience?
Why in the hell did this hurt so much?
And more importantly, why in the hell was he crying?
He couldn't fathom a reason, couldn't think of a decent excuse as he pulled the gleaming silver Harley to the side of the road so that he could wipe at his eyes. Oh, no helmet. Surely it had merely been dust, a bug, a tiny mutant terrorist. Anything other than what it really was.
He was, most certainly, not crying about her.
Goddamnit, when had he ever given a shit before? When had he ever bothered to care what others thought about him?
He shivered involuntarily, only to realize that it was the feel of the disgustingly cool tags against his chest that chilled him to the bone. Had they always been so damned cold? Jesus, they were colder than a witch's tit.
Surely that was the reason that she'd left them behind. Maybe they bothered her and she just didn't want them hanging over her head. There were so many possibilities, each as reasonable as the last.
A string of curses that would make a nun's hair go gray instantly spewed forth. As he suddenly slumped forward, eyes glued to the side mirror.
The sun was setting behind him and he couldn't help but wonder why it had all been so damned important to look for answers to questions that didn't really matter. It'd seemed so important then. He'd wanted to know who he was, where he came from. But, did any of it really matter?
The cold tags against his chest insisted that it didn't.
None of it fucking mattered anymore.
He'd officially lost the one thing that had counted in his life- the one thing that he'd had but never truly appreciated.
Maybe, just maybe, if he'd realized that she wouldn't wait forever for him to see the truth...
She wouldn't be gone.