It was the roar of the crowd

75.

That gave me heartache to sing

83.

It was a lie when they smiled

89.

And said, "You won't feel a thing"

94.

It's almost a game now, he supposes. Push her to see just how far she can go.

And as we ran from the cops

The speedometer lurches forward. The engine purrs, welcoming a challenge. He's flying now, the sun-baked road offering no resistance.

We laughed so hard it would sting, yeah, yeah, oh

97.

She didn't comment on the drugs. The failed classes. The scars. The filthy swears. The pornography.

If I'm so wrong (so wrong, so wrong)

Her attention was always focused…elsewhere.

On him.

Reno.

His hands tighten around the handlebars.

How can you listen all night long? (night long, night long)

The tattoos, of all things, set her off. Two reverse ebony teardrops on the edge of his eye sockets. Hurt like a mother.

His mother.

How will it matter after I'm gone?

He smirks.

100.

Because you never learned a goddamned thing

It's three in the morning and the highway's deserted. No one's around to hear him blasting My Chemical Romance as loud as the radio can go. No one's around to tell him he's an emo or a faggot or he needs to put on a helmet for God's sake before he crashes and wouldn't that be just like him, stubbornly ignoring everyone until he's broken beyond repair with only himself to blame?

106.

The wind's ripping through his crimson spikes, yanking them far past their normal length. He knows Larx would gleefully kill a puppy for his secret to gravity-defying hair: extra-hold hairspray, a dash of blended avocado and mayonnaise, and a helping hand from Mother Nature.

Then the storm hits.

You're just a sad song with nothing to say

112.

He was stupid enough to forget that Mother Nature, like any woman, is prone to random and horribly violent fits. Hydrogen bullets from above pierce his bare arms and freeze him slowly from the inside out.

Why did he ride shirtless, again?

About a lifelong wait for a hospital stay

120.

The world is literally a blur. He's in a snowglobe that's been dumped on its side and hurled across the room, liquid glitter seeping between glass shards and soaking into the carpet. He leans forward, subconsciously pressing his bare chest to the icy metal.

He's no longer in control.

131.

And if you think that I'm wrong

His fingers are curled numbly around the handlebars – he can no longer feel them. He can't move at all. He's immobile, locked in his path like a heat-seeking missile as the bike enters the tunnel.

147.

The song continues in his head, mocking him, long after the radio signal cuts off.

He's already accepted his fate as the wall approaches. It's almost as if he's an innocent bystander, observing as the motorcycle crashes in surround sound and glorious Technicolor. At any moment, he can pause the screen and tear his eyes away from the horrific accident and change the channel to a sitcom about pregnant teenagers or toddler beauty pageants. It's not real. Nothing's real anymore.

But a tiny part of him knows the truth – like usual, he royally screwed up. But this time, there's nothing he can do about it. No pause buttons or reset switches. Pass GO without collecting your two hundred dollars, thank you very much. Here's a one-way ticket to jail for your trouble. Skip your turn.

It's his last seconds, and he's thinking about Monopoly.

A dry chuckle escapes his thin lips. Three teardrops streak down his face – two are permanent inked reminders. Only the last one is real, an involuntary reaction because he's scared shitless of whatever's about to happen.

He closes his eyes.

156.

You never learned a goddamned thing…