Who was he alone?
He was Michael Rose, son of Jason Rose.
One thousand times his father hit the dirt, and each time climbed back on the broncs that eventually killed him.
Mike would climb back onto life, ride his eight seconds. After that, he’d ride eight more.
Through broken bones, concussions, and nasty horse bites, his father had endured. “We’re survivors,” Jason had said, each time his family cried for him, feared for him and his dangerous sport.
Survivors.
Until they weren’t.
Mike did have someone left.
Himself.
He climbed back into his Bronco and fished through the glove compartment for something to write on, finally turning up the envelope holding his truck’s registration. Finding a pen took a bit more effort, but after a few moments he fished one out from under the seat.
If he didn’t have Trickster to channel his pain, he’d have to cut out the poison himself. By the vehicle’s dome light, he opened up his soul and poured his heart out on paper.
A song he’d write for himself and not Raptured Roses.
He should change his name, disassociate himself from the family that no longer wanted him.
But no, the preacher took his family’s name, not the other way around. His father gave him Rose, and Mike Rose he’d stay.
Down on my knees
But not for prayer,
Down on my knees
You put me there
I can’t stay down,
Stand up again,
Out on my own
For what you call sin
I had it all
Yet nothing worthwhile
I walked away
You’ll never win
No matter what,
I’ll be okay
I don’t need you
To find my way
