Page 24 of Never Distract a Biker

"Justice will be done," I vow, my voice resolute in the stillness of the room. "For you, for the Bratva, for us."

10

Scarlett

I sit beside the hospital bed, my fingers entwined with Mom's, her hand so frail it feels like crumpled paper in mine. The constant beeping of machines fills the sterile room, a morbid symphony that has become the backdrop to our lives these past few months. They hum and whir, impersonal witnesses to Mom's battle—a fight I'm afraid she's losing.

"Miss Wood?" The doctor's voice is soft but it cuts through the mechanical noise like a knife. I look up, and his eyes hold a sorrow that makes my stomach drop.

“Is everything alright doctor?”

“The results are out.” He doesn't have to say it; I already know. But he does anyway. "The cancer has spread too far. Continuingor scaling up treatment at this point would be futile. I’m afraid there is nothing more we can do."

The words echo in my head like a cruel chant. 'Nothing more we can do.' My heart feels like it's being squeezed, every beat a struggle as if it's trying to pump concrete through my veins instead of blood. I blink rapidly, refusing to let tears fall. Not here.

"Thank you, doctor," I manage to say, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me. He nods a silent gesture of condolence, before leaving us alone again.

Mom sleeps on, oblivious to the sentence that has just been passed. I watch her chest rise and fall, each breath a precious rhythm. She has limited time now. How does one measure the life of the person who gave you everything? In days, hours, minutes?

I lean closer to her, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. "I'm here, Mom." It's a promise, a vow. I will not let her face this alone. Not now, not ever. She stirs slightly and opens her eyes, and for a moment, our green eyes meet—hers clouded with pain, mine fierce with unshed tears.

"Thank you, sweet pea," she whispers, her voice a mere wisp of sound.

"I love you," I reply the familiar phrase a lifeline in this sea of uncertainty. I squeeze her hand, feeling the fragile bonesbeneath the skin, holding onto the connection between us for as long as I can. It's not enough. It will never be enough.

I lean back, the chair creaking under my weight, and memories flood unbidden. Sunlight dappling through the leaves, my father's laughter ringing in my ears as I soar higher and higher on the swings. "Look at you fly, Scar!" he'd call out, pride lacing every word.

"Be brave, my little bird," he used to say. But bravery feels like a distant concept, an unreachable star in a sky shrouded by the imminent truth waiting to happen.

My mind travels back to happy days. The scent of simmering tomato sauce wafts through my mind, rich and comforting. My mother's voice, a soft melody hovering over the bubbling pot, wraps around me. She hums an old tune—one I can't quite name but know by heart. Her hands move gracefully, chopping basil leaves that she grew on the windowsill. The green flecks fall like confetti into the red soup below.

"Scar, always add love to your cooking," she would say with a smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "It's the secret ingredient."

I cling to that memory, desperate to soak up the warmth it brings. The sterile hospital room fades, and for a moment, I'm back in our tiny kitchen, basking in the glow of her presence.

Ours had been a happy and content family. Dad had loved my mom fiercely. But that illusion was shattered with the echo of aknock—a sound that resonates deep in my bones. It's been years, yet the noise still sends a chill down my spine.

I see them again, two police officers standing at our door, hats in their hands, solemnity etched into their faces. They deliver the words that rip the fabric of our world to shreds.

"There's been an accident involving Mr Wood." The words hung heavy, stealing the air from my lungs.

"Is Daddy okay?" The question had tumbled from my ten-year-old lips, naive and hopeful.

Their silence was thunderous, confirming fears I hadn't even known to fear. Childhood innocence is gone in a breath. And just like that, we're adrift—my mother and I, clinging to each other in a sea of grief.

"Daddy's watching over us," she'd whisper when things went wrong, but even then, I could see the struggle in her eyes, the light dimming with each day he didn't come home.

"Be brave, my little bird," echoes in my head, not just my father's encouragement anymore, but a mantra—a plea to keep flying even when the sky falls.

The light in Mama's eyes, once bright and fierce, now flickers like a candle in the wind. I see it every time she tries to smile through the pain, every wince she thinks I don't notice. It's the same dimming light I saw years ago when we lost him—the man who was our rock, our laughter, our everything.

"Stay strong," she'd say, voice barely a whisper as she held me close, her arms trembling yet unyielding. And she did stay strong, for both of us, even when her shoulders slumped and her spirit seemed to crumble under the weight of his absence.

It's that fragile strength that binds us, a shared resolve to keep moving forward, one day at a time. She became my hero in those dark days, stitching together the remnants of our shattered life with quiet determination.

As the rhythmic beeping of the machines fills the silence between us, I fight back the tears threatening to spill over. Her breaths come slow, labored, each one a battle against the tide that threatens to pull her under.

My fingers tighten around hers, a lifeline connecting our fading hopes. "I'm here, Mom," I murmur, though she can't hear me over the sound of her struggle. But it's a promise, from the core of my being—a vow to remain steadfast, just as she has done for me all these years.

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