I died again today.
The intravenous medicine had burned through my veins, no cooler than the last three treatments. And then, I’d died. For a full five minutes.
In the fog of discomfort after they’d revived me, I’d jokingly asked if I could go around telling people I was a zombie now.
“What do you call a zombie that dies a second time?” I’d mumbled.
“You didn’t die, Lucy. You’re fine. You did amazing today.”
But… I did die. That’s what you call it when your world stops, even if it’s only for a heartbeat or two.
Fifth phase of treatment.
“You did it, Lucy. The next few days will be rough, but you did it.” Doctor Emerson’s eyes were damp. He blinked rapidly, as if fighting back tears.
His words tried to push into my brain and take root. It was hard to let them. Because I survived.
It was worth it.
As the team began disconnecting various monitors and preparing me for transfer to recovery, I fixed my gaze on the ceiling. Thirty-two by twenty-one tiles. That’s how wide the room was. The tile directly above me had one hundred and fifteen divots. I'd been aware enough to focus on my surroundings. The pain, though wildly uncomfortable, hadn’t made me lose consciousness this time.Or thank God, die on the table again.
The strangest thought occurred to me as they wheeled me out of the procedure room: I had cheated death today. After a lifetime of merely surviving, I had fought for my freedom and won. Whatever happened in the future, I had proven something to myself in this sterile room—that I wanted to live,truly live, not just exist in sterile isolation.
I’d walked through the proverbial and literal fire, and my veins were now a highway of burn scars. I knew logically that I had weeks of follow-up care and anti-rejection protocol before I was truly on the other side of the agony. Yet, once I was, I’d never let anyone decide what I could or couldn’t do. No limitation would ever define me again.
22
XANDER
{The day of Lucy’s last treatment}
Free-falling. No safety net. I dare myself to die.I surrender to the gut-twist between life and oblivion.
Standing in the passageway, just past the stark line separating well-lit arena from the shadows, I closed my eyes and, bit by bit, inhabited my body. It was a pre-performance ritual, a study in extremities. Consciously, I focused on my feet. I moved my toes in the boots. My thoughts shifted higher. Calves. Knees. Thighs. Dick. All still present and accounted for. Pushing ever higher, I filled myself like a tailored suit. My flesh and organs fit just so inside the skin. I belonged here, at this moment, in this time. I claimed Xander of DemonX.
My concentration faltered as I traveled past my neck.
Suddenly, I was looking into a mirror. A face stared back at me. I knew, logically, it was my own features reflected in the glass. But, illogically, I found a stranger within the construct of the eyes and nose and mouth.
“Fuck,” I mumbled, “I’m going to botch the jump.”
Still, the show must go on.
Walking forward, into the light, I felt the crowd before I saw them—a wall of sound pressing against my back as I adjusted my leather gloves, making sure they were tight enough for control but not so restrictive that I'd lose feeling in my fingertips. The stunt was set up middle of the arena. Racers still circled the track, kicking up choking dust. My bike stood sentinel several yards away. I crossed the distance with determined steps, mounting the seat and rolling my shoulders to drive away tension. Anxiety tried to build, but I swallowed it down into my stomach where the acids would destroy it thoroughly.
When I started it up, the custom Duke 390 beneath me purred with barely contained power, its engine sending precise vibrations through the lightweight frame. Three thousand people waited for me to defy physics, to throw myself and this machine into the air in a calculated act of controlled chaos over a row of Black Hawks, blades spinning in a blur.
I shifted in the seat, taking in the screaming fans, hoping that would center me.
This was the moment everything faded away.
SkidMarkzzz was packed tonight, the stands surrounding the dirt arena filled with fans waving DemonX flags and holding phones aloft to capture the spectacle. The scent of gasoline, beer, and anticipation hung thick in the air. I revved the engine once, twice, measuring the response time between throttle and power. Perfect. She was ready.
Gritting my teeth, I settled deeper into the machine. My helmet pressed against my temples with familiar pressure; the visor slightly smudged in the upper right corner—something I'd need to fix before the next run. The blemish tried to pull me out of the moment. Distraction could be deadly.
Turning my head slightly, I caught sight of my brothers at the edge of the arena. They stood mere feet from the tunnel I’d exited, yet I’d been oblivious.
Fallon, spine rigid, eyes cold and dissecting, probably doing last minute calculations about the jump. Asher’s feet jittered, adrenaline leaking from his pores. Nitro gave me a double thumbs up and shouted something I couldn’t hear over the rumble of the engine and the crowd and the pulse in my own ears. Kane just stood, thick arms crossed, waiting for my inevitable triumph.
