I just wrote this one day with the intention of turning it into a story, but it just never became anything else. Not for lack of trying on my part, mind you, but I like it, so I figured I would just post it as it is and if I decided to come back and make it a story, I would.
--
He pushed his friends away
He pushed his friends away. He didn't answer the phone, didn't go to visit. He stayed out for hours on end riding an empty road, drowning out any and all sounds with his motorcycle, drowning in his own mind. They assumed he was depressed, or crazy, and he wasn't entirely sure that he wasn't anymore. His friends tried desperately to pull him out of a dizzying downward spiral that he wasn't sure he was really in. He didn't need company. He had that. Too much of it. Within his own head, there was too much going on. He merely wanted a moment's peace. He tried to find it on a barren road, but instead of peace, he found only guilt at brushing off concerned friends and their attempts at happiness. He once found a peace of sorts at the church, but even that was wearing thin with the onset of this vile disease, oozing black and rotten from his arm, constantly reminding him of a past he yearned to forget, filling him with pain he was sure he deserved, but couldn't quite help but want to fight it. He didn't deserve to fight it. His past deeds warranted this pain, and, so, he endured it.