Rage

"Fuck!" I hiss taking a long drag from my cigarette.

I whip my hips violently holding the bitch on her knees by her hair. I feel her gag but I don't let go tagging on her hair violently. I feel boiling inside and then I unload down her throat. I let go of her hair and finish my cigarette with one deep drag. The girl gets on her feet and looks back at me. She is swallowing hard and is rubbing the scalp on her head and I lift my chin up asking her to provoke me.

Candy is a rotter, a club whore and knew well what she was getting into. Most bitches avoid me but none dare deny me. I am a patched brother and even if that is not enough, they all fear me. Candy is a different case. She willingly came to me and I know why. She hopes that if she puts up with my shit long enough, I will make her my Valkyrie, drag her away from being tossed around like a fucking toy from brother to brother and lay my claim on her.

"Rage?"

I blink at her slowly as I zip my fly. My back is against the wall of the hallway and I can hear the brothers have their own party in the bar.

"Rage." Candy is pushing her luck "Why not go into your room and finish this?"

I reach for my packet and get another cigarette. The fire from the lighter shines momentarily in the corridor and on Candy's pale face. Her hazel eyes are looking up at me hopefully. No one, not even my brothers ever go in my room. And I have fucked no bitch ever except those blowjobs in the hallway. Candy knows that finding her way into my room will take her one step closer to being an official, claimed woman. I chuckle cruelly and turn my back to her. Before I go out the hallway and into the bar I hear Candy sniffle. She is a stupid bitch if she wants to come closer.

Out in the bar the party is raging. All the brothers are in apart from those on a run and they are all having a good time. I can see them smile and laugh, joke and drink. And I envy them for it. I am there with them, just had my dick sucked and yet there is no smile on my lips. I go straight to my empty table and sit on the chair putting my elbows on my knees and lowering my head, messing with my Mohawk over and over again. I smoke my cigarette and then go for the bottle of whiskey on the table. I drink straight from the bottle and let the liquid burn me. Another fucking day that I draw breath, another fucking day alive. That's a good cause to drink.

"Shit!" I hiss and throw my head back with the bottle glued to my lips.

Another sleepless night. One of many. I might have passed out for a minute there but that never counts as sleep. I have almost forgotten how that is and I doubt I had a good night's sleep. Ever. I am up since before dawn today and the first thing I do is light a cigarette. They say that these damn things lead you to the grave but I am not any closer to oblivion than I was the day before. I get up and out of the bed running my fingers through my hair trying to get my bearings. Since I don't know what sleeping is, I can't always tell when I am awake, when I am in a nightmare and when drunk senseless. All I know is that there is this itching inside my skull, scratching like a fork on a plate. All the fucking time! I can't sleep, I can't stand still and I can't let the memories flood back in.

I drag my feet to the bathroom, I pee and then bend over to retch my insides in the filthy toilet. I wash my face and then look at my reflection in the mirror. It is broken and has blood on it. My blood. I had smashed it with my head a while back and broke my nose bloody. That night was a good night but even that broken nose, that pain didn't last me long. I look upon the broken, red reflection on it and I can't recognize my own self. How fucked up is that? I could walk down the street and see me coming and I wouldn't know it. The doctors are calling it fucking something but I don't give a shit. I am a dead man breathing so who gives a fuck what is wrong with me? I leave my room behind and go out the bar.

It is early in the morning and everything is still in the bar. No one is up yet after last night's party and I know no one will be up before midday. I like that time of the day. I am alone, as alone as I feel inside. No one looks at me with wary glances, no one speaks behind palms for me, no women looking my way wanting but not daring. I go down the stairs and into the gym. Tor's father made the gym and made sure most of the brothers spend some time there. It has weights and benches scattered all over the place, punching bags and a ring in the middle. I work out for hours before my limbs tremble and then I go into the shower under the cold water till I feel numb. That lasts me for a while.

I go into the kitchen wearing nothing but my cut and tight black jeans and look around for some shit to eat and ease my churning stomach. If Tor needs me that day, I have to be able to do his bidding. If I can't, who am I? If not Rage, the Riders' Hellhound, who? I open the fridge and get my hands on the first edible thing in it. I sit on the floor and nibble on it looking absently at the empty wall. Then I go straight into the bar, and sit on my chair. By noon I am still at the bar, squirming on my chair, messing with my hair and driving my nails in my wet palms. It is going to be another bad day, I know it.

"There you are!" Runner leaves a bottle on my table.

I look up at the man and that calms me down a bit. There aren't a lot of people I like but Runner is on the top of that list. He is the one who found me on the streets and brought me here and gave me what I lacked: a family and a purpose. Even if that purpose is to kill and maim people. He smiles down at me with one of his usual wide smiles that women love.

He is a dark man in all colors and his chocolate skin, compliment of his Puerto Rican heritage, adds to it. He has a lean, tall figure and a gentle face that makes him look like a fucking model. One has to see him drag a man tied on his bike till nothing is left but his head to rethink that impression. In his mid-thirties, he is almost ten years older than me but I have been with the Riders for more than eight years now and Runner is a true brother to me.

"Mind if I join?" Runner asks.

I nod reluctantly. The brother knows me well and knows even better when to come to me as he sits across me on the other side of the table. Even so I can't guarantee that I won't go off on the slightest provocation. It is a bad, bad day. I am on the verge of breaking. I need to take the edge off and I need to do so quickly. I am half way asking Runner to spar with me in the ring but I know no brother will go in there with me. Last time one did, he ended up in the hospital and though there were no hard feelings, there aren't any more volunteers to spar with me.

"Are you OK, brother?" Runner searches my face.

I grunt and grab the bottle. I don't ask Runner if he wants to drink. He knows well that the one bottle is just the beginning for me.

"Rage," he softens his voice "I am here for you, bror."

I turn to him and lift my chin. Everyone in the club respects me. Or is simply downright scared of me. They treat me well but keep their distance. Everyone but Runner and Tor. Runner is the one that found me in the lowest of lows and dragged me out more or less alive. I respect him for this and he is the closest thing of what others called family. When Runner brought me to the club, the Riders took me in as one of their own. And Tor, the new president, our King, sees me as an asset and beholds me as his most trusty weapon. That is all I am: a fucking loaded gun with the trigger in limbo, waiting to go off. I am a Hellhound, a fucking monster from the underworld and that's where I am going when all this fucking agony of living will be over.

"OK, bror" Runner sits back and sips on his coffee.

I chuckle softly. The Riders of Tyr, the motorcycle club that took me in, were born in Sweden and grew strong to the point when some members left to conquer the U.S. as the Vikings had done before them. Of the original Swedes only Tor and Bjorn are direct descendants, Tor being the son of a former King as the Riders call their president. Yet being one of the most diverse MCs in the country, the Riders have all sorts of races in their ranks, from Puerto-Rican to Native American like Ironhand is. Still, most brothers mimic the original Scandinavian slang. Anyway, seeing a dark Puerto-Rican speak Swedish is a bit funny.

Still the smile on my lips freezes as if there was a hook attached to it that yanked it back to the depths of Hell where it escaped from. I down whiskey straight from the bottle,my legs shaking with tension when the door of the bar opens.

I turn my hazy eyes to the newcomer, my whole body wound up like a spiral, hoping it will be an enemy to my brothers, someone I can take my edge off on. Instead, there is a woman standing there, the sun coming in from behind her, shadowing her.