Sadly, it began with the end.
Most do.
Occasionally of course, you get the ones that begin about a third of the way through. But the smell of cheap cologne always ruins them.
The end was messy, as ends are wont to be. There were too many people watching, and not enough caring.
Oil glazed the motorbike helmet, making it look like a shiny hot cross bun that’d had all the raisins picked out by a raisin hater. And then been burnt.
A shattered headlight lay in the gutter, twisted metal kissing shards of glass.
A toddler screamed in delight as the back tyre broke free, bouncing down the road, skittering through fallen leaves, headed toward the distant rain clouds. Tires are happiest when they’re wet.
The other tyre lay still, still anchored to the bikes body, mourning its twin. It knew it would never feel the sweet skid of a slippery corner again, never charge through a puddle and watch the water fan out behind it in a rough display of giddy power.
She stood staring at the mangled remains of her Yamaha. Once shiny crimson, now a bruised and empty shell.
A tear ran unnoticed down her face, dancing down to the left to caress her cheekbone.
And still the tyre rolled on. Alone. Half of what it should have been. But free.
It had turned out brilliantly. The sponge had risen to perfection - not too high, but with enough air that one could just see the tiny holes that had filled the mixture, turning it from wet concrete to a soft cloud. She had filled it with toffee cream, spiked with brandy. Then she rolled the long layers around each other, spiraling around like a snail shell. And there it lay, a perfect cylinder. A perfectly baked, perfectly iced chocolate log. Maria gazed at her beautiful cake, a flush of pride welling up inside her. With a sigh of contentment, she placed the cake carefully upon a shelf to wait for dessert.
It was twenty three minutes past eight. Everyone was waiting. Maria excused herself, almost skipping into the kitchen. Finally, she would prove to them that she was going to be more than just a bakers apprentice. She would show them that she too had the talent to create beautiful pastries, delectable desserts. She opened the pantry door, switching on the light. But all it illuminated were the stacked tins, the jars of flour and sugar and dessicated coconut. Her beautiful cake, that she had placed so carefully just hours before on that very shelf, had gone. With a sick panic rising in her throat, Maria caught sight of a shiny brown slick of chocolate, halfway down the pantry wall. She slowly followed it down, past the dried herbs, past the stacked plates, to the floor.
There's a hole in my chest.
When I breathe in, breathe in deep enough so that all the air in my chest makes me feel dizzy with the effort of filling my lungs, still there is an emptiness there.
I don’t know if it’s my heart or my soul.
Maybe it’s both.
Everything seems pointless.
For a while I though I just need a hug.
That I was tired.
Hungover.
Maybe I needed to eat.
It’ll be better tomorrow.
But now it is tomorrow.
There have been many tomorrows.
And still it's empty.
Sure, sometimes it'll feel better for a while.
Instead of a constant dull ache in my chest it'll only hurt when I think about it.
Other days it is all I can think about, a gaping wound, a monster devouring all my emotions.
Leaving nothing but a dark hole, an abyss of silent, decaying confusion.
Maybe it will eventually just all rot away, and there won’t even be a hole anymore.
Nothing. My chest will contract, seamlessly closing it over, and the place where I should feel won’t exist anymore.
Maybe I will learn not to miss it.
