Tyler's pov:
When I pulled the motorcycle to a stop. I felt a deep relief knowing I didn't crash into the man or hurt myself.
I jumped off the motorcycle and walked to the man. "Are you okay?"
The other man grabbed the grocery bags from the ground and looked in my direction with a gloomy gaze. "Watch where you're going next time."
I took off the helmet and placed it into my hands. I was almost offended by the man's rude attitude, but I was tired. Absolutely tired.
I shook his head and replied, "My bad, I didn't mean to hit you."
I was waiting for the other man to say something, but the other man was just staring at me silently, observing me with his dark gaze.
I felt a shiver down his spine.
I curled my lips into a forced smile. "Yes?"
The other man smiled and asked, "Your name?"
I didn't want to give out my name to this man. This man may have looked beautiful, but I could sense a darkness underneath the man's skin.
Tyler grinned. "I don't think I'm obligated to give you my name."
The man tilted his head and said casually, "Even though you almost hit me."
Tyler gritted his teeth and gave in. "Tyler."
The other man gave me a strange glance. I couldn't read it, but I could hear the high-pitched sirens coming in.
I turned toward the car crash and saw police cars pulling in.
The police cars surrounded the car crash, and an ambulance flowed along. The area was filled with flashing offers—blue, white, and red.
Eerie. It reminds you of death. Injuries. Sickness.
I turned in the man's direction. But he wasn't there. He disappeared without saying a word.
I furrowed my brow. "What a weird guy."
I walked toward the police cars, and one of the police officers looked in my direction. The uniforms gave off an intimidation aura, but I didn't let it get the best of me.
And I need to leave. But I need to make a statement about what happened here.
The police officer was a woman with pale blonde hair, and she was writing in her notebook about something.
She lifted her head at me, "Yes."
I responded, "I wanted to make a report. That old man in the car crash tried to kill me. But I managed to get away."
The blonde-haired woman furrowed her brow. "Hmm, you'll have to come to the station with me, but I want to know, are you injured?"
I shake my head. I spread out my arm to show my proof.
She nodded.
***
I arrived at the station about thirty minutes later. I was chatting with the same blonde-haired woman, who was listening to me about everything that happened on the street.
Sure, the old man was provoked to kill me since I gave him the middle finger. But what should you call that? Road rage?
I narrowed my gaze downward while the blonde-haired woman continued writing in her notebook.
For some reason, I find this whole thing suspicious. My mother died two hours ago. And I don't know how she died yet, but it can't be from a natural cause like old age or sickness.
After all, she wasn't sick or old.
And later after the police call, someone tried to kill me, but is it really that simple? A simple coincidence.
That man wanted to kill me because he lost his temper, but really, how common is it for someone to lose their temper and try to kill someone just because someone gave them a middle finger—literally the 'fuck you' phrase?
The woman closed her notebook with a clicking noise, and she said calmly. "Thank you for telling me what happened. Now I will tell you about your deceased mother."
Her words sucked me in like drugs. I listened with my heart pounding, my hands clenching underneath the table.
She looked at me with calm eyes, but I could sense a hidden sorrow. A loss.
"Your mother killed herself."
I was astonished.
K—killed herself? How? Why?
My mother is the fiercest person I know alive and would rather die than give up. Why would she kill herself?
None of it makes sense. It doesn't.
The woman across the table looked at me. Staring. She patted me on the shoulders and said briefly, but her words carried a tinge of sincerity, "I'm sorry for your loss."
My throat felt tight and stiff. I swallowed and asked, like a sharp knife stuck in my throat. "H—How did she kill herself?"
The woman sighed and sat back down and opened the files in her hand. She opened the note and read out loud.
"Apparently, alcohol was found in your mother's system, and she slit her wrist before she died. And—"
I stared at her. I can tell she was hesitating, but she sighed, continuing to speak.
"Your mother was found in her bathtub, with her wrist slit."
I shake my head. "It can't be. It can't be."
I said it over and over. It can't be true. My mother is not the type to harm herself nor to kill herself.
Most of all, she wouldn't leave me here by myself.
The woman watched me murmuring to myself, and she asked calmly, "Is there anyone I can call for you? A relative? A family?"
I laid down against the chair, feeling heavier and more tired than ever. My heart felt so numb that I spoke calmly. "No, it's just me and my mom."
The woman furrowed her brow faintly. "Are you sure? I noticed that you have a stepfather—"
When I heard that, I spoke up, "Former. My mom and he broke up about six years ago, and I have never heard from him since. Not even once."
The woman said calmly, "Well, I just spoke to him on the phone about half an hour ago. And you're still a minor; you're only seventeen years old, and you have no income or any money. It's best to stay with him until you can get on your feet."
She said sincerely.
I said nothing.
She sighed, "Alright, you'll be meeting him in two days. I'll suggest you say goodbye to your mother and your loved one."
She said before leaving the room.