Wish I had my Bicycle (revised/unfinis)

I stopped, in stride froze. The weight of the next few steps held me firmly in place, the forest seemed to be waiting, exactly like before. My leg threateningly jerked; once, twice, only sizing the desire to continue with the implications of the actions. But my foot never left the road. It almost seemed too much to ask of it, untested and untried. I wish I had my bicycle now.
I remembered what had happened the last time that I was here, half way across the bridge, the first time I noticed the forest staring at me in this way. Running from the town that was then my home; the town on one end of this bridge, the town facing the forest on the other. I remember what I had done, and wondered if it was still there. I had to look. Leaning slightly to the side of the bridge, I could see it, my bicycle, just over the edge of its tin railing horizon. In the shallow creek running beneath the bridge, it had not moved an inch in the years sense I threw it there. It patiently parted the clean water with its contorted frame that waited on the rocky bed of the creek. To me it looked a twisted hand grasping upward, crooked fingers breaking the water into a tangled web that trapped and pressed them together. The metal exhibited corrosion and damage beyond what the years and the water could have done to it. Being disregarded and forgotten seemed to have accelerated its decay. It is a display of fractured rust flaking, and disintegrating instantaneously, a display that wouldn’t be there much longer. Its color, a carnivorous shell of yellow, orange, and green was the hideous result of not only rust, but life and scum from the creek consuming the bicycle. It was these, almost blister or sore like fingers jutting from the surface, that burnt into my mind and screamed against the babble of the water, drowning my thoughts.
I realized that in the daze created by my rediscovery that I had walked to the side of the bridge and was now bent over the weak, tin railing. This sight had pulled me, and forced a closer look on to me. I deserved to see what I had done, and the bike knew that. I had bought the bike in a feverish state founded on absolution. My thoughts had been heavy on my condition for some time. The ways, ideas, and desires of the town I call home had begun to grow unbearable and physically sickening to me. It was a problem that had built over years. Eventually I began to entertain thoughts of blasphemous philosophies, directly conflicting with the ways of home, and later, thoughts of a better place away from the town. So when, during a contemptuous walk of rambling irritation to myself around town, I noticed the dull black bicycle in the window of a shop for only two days’ pay, $75, I needed little more excuse. I immediately bought the bicycle and rode for the one bridge in and out of town. Confidently, and comfortably on my new bicycle it turned out. There was no doubt of my resolve, or my direction.
I got this far, as far as I am now. I had stopped. The weight of the forest on the other side held me firmly in place just like today. I watched it, the forest, staring at me, almost inviting me with branches stretched to welcome me. I thought I have no food; I have no blanket, no tools, and no more money. I panicked. I had nowhere to go. The forest still stared at me from the other side regardless of my hesitation just like it is today, waiting. I can’t possibly leave can I? I can’t. I looked behind me to my home. “That’s my home. It has to be”. I jumped off my bike and wheeled it to the side of the bridge. I told myself as I looked back to the town, “No, I can’t. I’m making a mistake”. I became confused and scared. I gave conditioned instincts my upbringing had given me control. I lifted my bike and threw it as far as I could from the height bridge. I had turned back, and was walking towards home before the bicycle had landed in the creek.
Now I’m afraid to take a second look back to town, and see what might be there. To see the simple comfort I’ve always found in its minimalistic design, or to see a weapon wielding mass coming to the bridge. I’ve been chased through the streets like an unwanted breed dodging rocks and fists. After years of concealing my contempt after that day it swelled gradually and it inevitably manifested in outrages I could not control or predict. These acts, of sudden violence and disrespect, have made me a sight of perversion in their ways. A vile trader in their eyes. In fact, the mob hunting my head should be here soon intent on tarring me limb from limb. There was only one way I could have gone to escape the town and they know it. I have been exiled from my home, and I have been sincerely threatened with violence and the bloody exhausting of my life from the people who raised me. This time I don’t have the luxury of second guessing myself, and turning to my home. I wish I had my bicycle now.
I turned my back to the sight of my rusted mistake, to my home; to the hazy forest on the other end of the bridge was the only thing in front of me now. One way or another I suppose it was going to happen. The forest was still waiting, still staring, and inviting me onto its path. “Nowhere else to go” it explained. Of course it was correct, so I took the next step towards the other end of the bridge for the first time. No, there certainly isn’t anywhere else to go now. I quickly followed that step with many more trembling strides towards whatever it was the forest had always wanted me to see. I wish I had my bicycle now.