Hold me [ Dylan Sprayberry Fanfic ]

Chapter 21

Dylan's POV
The engine of my motorcycle made a warning thud, before it buckled--and stopped moving. I'd given up keeping the hood on my head so I was soaked; my clothes stuck to me, and my skin began absorbing the water like a dish rag. I flicked my wet hair back from my eyes and shouted to the sky in frustration. I pushed my water-logged bike over to the side of the road and into a muddy ditch, the hollow pound of the rain made my heart sink.
It was getting harder and harder to see, which meant I was getting farther and farther away from Bridget. The wind pushed against my back as I followed the white line down the center of the road as if it were my lifeline, and today, it was. The sky was pitch black and it was only 6. That's one of the few things I hate about living here; the storms were unpredictable, one moment it'd be all sunshine's and smiles, then the next it'd have a climate right nice for D' Day. Bridget's figure kept running through my head like a broken record, I didn't want to imagine her out here. As selfish as it sounds, I didn't want to imagine her anywhere but in my arms. A memory flashed in my head, like lightning,

"So, why are you so afraid of thunderstorms? The lightning, right?" I asked Bridget one afternoon, as we lay on the porch swing in my backyard, Bridget on top of me, an old blanket strewn out over the length of our legs. She shuffled uncomfortably, as if i'd just blew one of Coach's many spit-covered whistles in her ear. Bridget tilted her head upwards, letting her chin rest on the top of my chest. I remembered her smell engulfing me, roses and strawberry shampoo, as she lifted one of her arms from underneath the blanket, and grabbed hold of my hand.
"I guess you could say that, but i'm not so afraid of the natural aspect of it," Bridget cleared her throat, she was avoiding the question. I paused to brush a strand of black hair from her eyes,
"You know you can tell me anything."
"I know." Bridget replied immediately, which made a shameless smile creep up on me. To know Bridget thought of me as someone she could come too was more than comforting, it was like an entire door opened to me.
"I feel alone," Her voice was barely above a whisper. My heart clenched.
"It feels like the day the soldier's came to my house all over again--no one ever came, not even my mom. Just thinking of my Dad out across so many oceans, so far away on the ground somewhere, cold and alone like me." Bridget seemed to morph into that fatherless little girl again, scared and small. I began to wish i'd met her sooner, way back then when she needed someone. She huddled against me, and buried her head into my chest. I imagined my own 6 year old self, wrapping my arms around her like I was now, and offering a sip from my juice box when all the other kids ignored her. Most of all, the reason why I wanted this for Bridget, was because I didn't have it for me when I was little either. I wouldn't say I was sorry, because 'sorry' never fixed things. In all honesty, it just made it worst. So I pulled the blanket over our heads like we were kids again, and didn't say anything. She was away from the storm, and I was away from the world. And from that instant on, I swore i'd always be there for Bridget. Always.

I broke into a sprint, searching my whole perimeter--just in case i'd catch sight of her.  I was heading for the mall, I knew that much. I crossed the intersection without thinking, trying to get to the other side; the mall was a road away. A road away until I was with Bridget. A flashing yellow light disoriented me as I stepped across the white line towards the left lane. I turned to the blinding light, squinting; before I could react--a sharp pain exploded all through out my midsection and chest. I flew back a good yard or two before my body finally hit the ground. The back of my head slammed against the road, i'd never known how it felt to be on the receiving end of a fight until then. Every time I breathed it felt like someone was driving a knife through my lungs. I attempted to roll over onto my side, so I could get to my feet--or at least find a more comfortable position to let air into my punctured lungs, with each finger I moved a new kind of pain shot up through that limb.
There'd be no moving for me.