Page 9 of Broken Trails
“I can, and I do.” The room is thick with tension, their voices overlapping—reasoning, lecturing, pleading. It’s all too much. My body feels heavy, my head pounding with exhaustion. I just need to sleep, to shut it all out, to breathe without their voices clawing at me.
“I’m done. I need to go,” I say over my shoulder as I grab my handbag and head for the front door.
“Zoe, wait,” Dad calls. I hesitate for a fraction of a second, but I can’t stay. Not here. Not with them. The air in this house feels stale, suffocating, like the walls are pressing in, trapping me in every judgemental glance and unspoken accusation. I need space—real space.
“Zoe!” Mum’s voice rings out behind me, her footsteps sharp, closing the distance. “Where are you going?”
“Someplace to sleep,” I say, my back still to them.
“Get back inside this house!” she snaps, the command echoing off the hallway walls.
“Where will you stay?” Dad calls out.
“I’ll figure it out.”
Mum calls out again, but this time I ignore her. She’s been giving orders my whole life, and I’ve obeyed more of them than I care to admit. Not this time. I’ll figure this out on my own. Ialways have. It’s what I do—pick up the pieces, patch the cracks, keep moving forward.
The thought settles, heavy in my chest. It isn’t a comfort, just a truth I’ve been carrying for years. Depending on anyone has only ever ended one way—hurt, disappointment, and the reminder that I was never built to fit the mould they wanted me in.
I’m done trying.
5
The Good Life - Three Days Grace
“Mate, don’t tell me you’re still babying that bloody bike of yours.” Jackson’s voice buzzes through my phone speaker. I smirk, shoving a spanner into my toolbox.
“Still runs like a dream, Jax. Unlike your knee after that last spill.”
“Oi, don’t remind me. I’ve got the scars to prove it.” His laugh comes through, but there’s a hint of nostalgia in it. “You’re not seriously gonna sit this one out, are you? Think about it. The first event in three years, Michael. Three years.” My mouth opens to speak, but he beats me to it. “Don’t give me that ‘I’ve moved on’ crap. You loved it, mate. Don’t pretend you didn’t,” Jax presses.
I pause, leaning against the workbench, my eyes catching on the faded photo pinned to the wall. It’s me, mid-air on my old dirt bike, covered in mud but grinning like an idiot. Back then, it was just me, the track, and the burning need to win.
Motocross wasn’t just a sport to me—it was freedom. My form of escape .
When the world felt like it was crumbling around me, when Dad’s yelling echoed through the house, or the crash of a bottle shattered the quiet, I’d throw on my gear and ride. Out there, on the track, none of it could touch me. The abuse, the drugs, the alcohol—it all faded behind the roar of the engine. Harrison bore the brunt of Dad’s fists, shielding me from the worst of it, but I still felt it. Every scream, every bruise, every insult carved a little deeper.
Motocross was my way out, my way to forget.
“So, you’re thinking about it, huh?” Jax teases over the phone, his voice full of that familiar cockiness that used to piss me off back in the day.
“I did love it,” I admit. “Still do, if I’m honest.” There’s nothing like the adrenaline, the world blurring around you as the bike hums beneath you. I let out a sigh. As always, life got in the way. “But I sold my Yamaha YZ250 a couple of years back. Had to clear some bills.”
“Bloody hell, the YZ250? You worked your ass off for that bike!” Jax says, genuinely horrified.
“Yeah, well…” My gaze shifts to the corner of the shop where my Ducati sits under its cover, sleek and untouched by dirt. “Found my Ducati not long after. She’s been mine ever since.”
“Ducati, huh? Fancy bastard,” he teases. “The Ducati will be perfect.”
“Yeah, but she’s never touched a track. She’s not that kind of ride.”
“Excuses,” Jax fires back.
“How’s Kate?” I ask, steering the conversation away from myself. “Still putting up with you?”
“Barely,” Jax laughs. “Married life’s good, though. Keeps me out of trouble… mostly.” There’s a pause, then his tone shifts, turning serious. “Look, the boys are all coming back for this one. Even Rick.”
I scoff. “Rick? Didn’t he swear he’d never race again after his collarbone?”
