Happy Lowman imagine based on the song “H.O.L.Y” by Florida Georgia Lines
My mom was mexican.
That wasn’t any secret, my aunt was mexican as well, hell, even more mexican than my Mamma. They were both religious as hell, if that makes any sense, at least it does to me. I had to make a remark on her nationality because the lady worried a shit load about me. And she prayed, she prayed for the sinner in her son, for the blood she decided to ignore on my clothes when i turned 17 and started getting involved with MC’s. When I got my first Harley, she watched me park it outside our trailer and she held her small hands to her chest, praying already.
When I got married; I had two people praying for me. I have to say she saved me somehow. (Y/N) saved me in any way a person can be saved. It was like falling down a waterfall, the same water hitting your face, pressing your chest, making you breathless in the worst way. All the blood, all the bullets, the speed of the road, watching brothers die, watching kids being born in the same shitty world you’re used to. Knowing you wouldn’t change a thing.
And her, in the middle of it all. My aunt used to get mad at me almost everyday. For several reasons. “You don’t help around the house” she said. “You’re dropping out of school” “You don’t help me with your mother”, “You’re not hanging around the right crowd” She always said that I was like a fire ball, burning everyone around me. I can’t blame her. After having her kids killed in gang fights and retaliations, I wouldn’t be happy to see my nephew walk the same road. She also said that she hoped I could find my piece of heaven on earth. I never really understood what she meant until I saw my piece of heaving walking inside TM, drenched with rain, her clothes sticking to her body, some make up on her cheeks, wet shoes.
Piece of heaven. Peace, content, happiness. That’s what I saw in her. Calm. Having the roar of my motorcycle to last forever within me, to feel it even when I was alone at night, looking at the ceiling, alone, or getting my dick sucked by some old crow eater that wanted a piece of SAMCRO with her. (Y/N) was indeed my piece of heaven and I understood what my aunt meant. Once in a while, someone shows up, someone who sits on the back of your bike and whispers “slow down” whenever you were riding too fast, someone who would clean the blood from your shirts without asking too much questions; someone who hates you for smoking weed but would have your pipe ready after a long day because she knows it’s a time for you to relax.
Someone like my wife, who was on her knees, at the end of the bed, praying out loud, when she thinks I’m still downstairs. And I can hear her whisper my name and the name of all my brothers, but even thought she will never admit it, she said my name more and more. She wanted me safe, she wanted me alive. She’s holy to me, because I’m sacred to her. I’m the nice guy. I’m…I’m her hero.
So she finishes her prayers and I have to pretend I haven’t been watching her from the door frame after all this time. She flashes a warm smile at me and gets up, getting in bed. “What?” She asks me, since I’m still mesmerized by her good will, and still wondering what amazing thing I did to deserve her.
“Nothing…” That’s what I said.
“God bless you…” That’s what I think.