Page 25 of Never Distract a Biker

"Until the end," I whisper into the stillness, a silent oath that wraps around us, binding my heart to hers. The end may be inevitable, but so is my resolve to stand by her, to be the daughter she raised me to be—brave, loyal, and unwavering in love.

The chill of the room seeps into my bones, the sun dipping below the horizon and stretching shadows across the sterile walls. I shift in the chair that's been my nest for hours, muscles aching from the stillness, but leaving is not an option. She needs me—my voice, my presence, my strength.

"Remember the time we went apple picking, Mom?" My voice is a whisper meant only for her ears. "You laughed so hard when I nearly fell off the ladder. Said I had your grace."

A flutter of eyelids, weary but fighting to see me through the haze of painkillers. Her lips curve upwards, just a little, but it's enough. Enough to fuel my hope, to keep the memories flowing.

"We came home with more apples than we could ever eat." A chuckle escapes me, tinged with nostalgia. "You baked pies for a week straight. Our apartment smelled like cinnamon and love."

Her smile fades as she drifts back to sleep, but the brief connection ignites a spark within me. I hold onto it, letting it warm me against the creeping cold.

"Stay with me, Mama," I breathe, clinging to the precious moment, willing her to fight through another night. "Just a little longer." A single tear escapes and runs down my cheek.

I reach out, my fingers trembling slightly as I brush a stray lock of golden hair from her forehead. It's soft and still full of life, unlike the rest of this sterile room which reeks of antiseptics and despair. Her skin is warm under my touch, and for a moment, Ilet myself imagine it's just another day. That she'll open her eyes, smile, and tell me everything will be all right.

But the silence hangs heavy, and the truth claws at my throat, threatening to unleash the sobs I've been holding back. I can't cry. Not now. She needs me to be strong—to be the rock she's always been for me. My heart clenches, a silent scream in an ocean of quiet agony.

"Stay with me," I whisper, more to myself than to her. "Please."

The clock ticks on, each second elongated into an eternity. Time is both my enemy and my only companion as it inches forward, dragging me toward a future I can't bear to face. The thought of walking through life without her is like staring into an abyss. It's cold, vast, and empty.

What will I do when she's gone? Who will I be without the woman who shaped my world, and taught me how to love, and how to survive?

"Scar," she'd say, "you're made of tough stuff. Remember that. You are named for power and passion."

But I don't feel tough. I feel broken, shards of the girl I once was scattering with every labored breath she takes.

"Remember," I murmur, echoing her words, trying to convince myself. "Tough stuff."

As the hours drag on, the weight of impending loss is a tangible thing, pressing down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I stare at the walls, at the machines, at her—my universe reduced to this small, dim room.

“I'm not ready.” I sob quietly. How can anyone ever be ready for this?

"Mom," I choke out, my voice steady though it feels like I'm falling apart inside. "I love you. Always."

And the night stretches before us—a vast, uncharted darkness that I must navigate. I hold her hand, anchoring myself in the present, in the love that ties us together.

"Always," I repeat, the word a lifeline in the growing dark.

A spasm of coughs tears through the silence, and jars me from my reverie. My mother's body convulses weakly, a sound and sight that claws at my heart with steel-tipped fingers. I fumble for the tissue, and swipe at my cheeks where tears carve silent rivers.

"Shh, mama, it's okay," I whisper, but my voice trembles like a leaf in the wind.

My hand finds hers again, skin so thin, every vein a blue roadmap to her weary heart. I cling to her, to this moment, as if I can anchor her to life, to me. But I also do not wish for her to keep suffering.

I lean in, lips close to her ear, breath hitching with unshed sobs. "You don't have to hold on for me," I say, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue. "I'll be okay."

Her eyes open, a flicker of the vibrant spirit she once was. She sees right through me—she always does. But she nods, giving me the unspoken permission I'm not sure I want.

"Promise me, Scarlett," her voice, a ghost of its former warmth, wraps around me. “Promise me that you will be okay.”

"Promise," I echo, though the word is a stone in my throat.

The night creeps on, casting shadows across the sterile walls of the hospital room. I remain glued to the chair beside her bed, the fabric imprinting its pattern onto my skin. The machines hum their monotonous lullaby, but I find no comfort in it, only a stark reminder of the fragility of life.

I reach for Mama's hand again, my own hands now steady, deliberately gentle. It feels like I'm cradling a fallen bird, so delicate, so close to slipping away. Her breaths come slowly, a metronome counting down the time we have left. I haven’t left her side in days, afraid that she would slip away when I’m not here.

I smooth back her hair, once fiery red, now dulled and thinned. It's like handling silk, each strand an echo of the vibrant woman who raised me with laughter and resilience. The woman who never gave up, even when the world turned dark.

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