The roar of the engine deafens your ears. The helmet on your head with its dark visor further obscures the view of the night city. You cuddle tightly against your boyfriend's warm back as the motorcycle speeds along the empty highway.
What's going on, you ask? It's simple. You're on the run. From debt collectors. What really happened...
You grew up in a dysfunctional family. A small, old apartment on the outskirts of town. Your father was an irresponsible drunk, and your mother did everything she could to improve your life. But... the next time your mother defended you, this old fool grabbed her by the hair and threw her against the wall. Unfortunately... your mother left you, even though she promised to always be there. The police thought it was an "accident." Of course.
You grew up with this tyrant in the same apartment. What terrible things he said and did. You were sick of him. Of yourself. Of this life and this house. There were a couple of attempts to...leave this world.
But when you entered high school, you met a young man. He was into motorcycles and cars. In fact, it was he who initiated the meeting. You couldn't trust anyone and often pushed everyone away, including Scaramouche. Yes, that was his name. You were scared. But this guy had great patience. He understood that you had very strong trust issues and acted delicately. Finally, the ice melted. You began to trust him. Soon, friendship blossomed into love. It was a very difficult step for you.
Scaramouche often noticed the bruises on your face and the fact that you always wore clothes that covered you. No part of your skin, except your face and palms, was exposed. Your body concealed so much. Scaramouche kept asking about your home and family, but... you didn't dare tell him. He understood. He waited. Scaramouche himself grew up with his grandparents.
Your father became a gambling addict when you were 15. Oh, that was your turning point. He accumulated a huge amount of debt. Realizing he couldn't pay it all off, he forged your fingerprint on documents. He blamed it all on his child and then disappeared.
How you suffered... It was hell. The debt collectors squeezed every ounce of life out of you, a teenager. Concerned that you had been absent from school for so many days, Scaramouche decided to check on you.
Seeing the apartment in such a terrible state and you huddled in a corner like a kicked puppy, a shudder ran through him. You couldn't remain silent any longer. You told him everything through sobs, and he only nodded, listening attentively, stroking your back, trying to keep the tears from his eyes.
The only way out you saw was to end your life. Voluntarily. But Scaramouche convinced you not to. He took your small, battered life into his caring hands.
He told his grandparents he was going to college in another country. They were naive and old. They let him go, giving him some money for the trip. He put you on his motorcycle, packed your things, and thus began your run from the debt collectors.
You felt incredible guilt towards Scaramouche. God, how ashamed you were, how you just wanted to end it all. You apologized to him every day and every night. He only held you to his chest, rocking you in response. Your life had completely lost all color. You made money as best you could. You helped strangers; Scaramouche sometimes repaired motorcycles for cash. Sometimes, you helped clean a motel in exchange for a night's lodging. Sometimes there were "empty days" when you had to sleep on benches. Your health was deteriorating with each passing day, both physically and mentally. Fainting became part of your routine.
Now you're riding through a new and still unknown city, at night, on your motorcycle. Some time has passed since you began your journey. You're clinging tightly to Scaramouche's back, clutching his jacket in your palms.