Racer

He lowers the visor a little too fast till it clicks shut. His eyes mist over and his breath fogs the inside, quick and shallow, quick and shallow.

He doesn’t want to be here. He can’t remember the last time he did but for a long time people have expected it. His team, his sponsors, the island, his ghosts. He carries them all.

He rolls forward. Hands appearing steady but nothing is actually steady, it’s just another mask.

The start line area is a blur of faces he won’t remember in 2 minutes time. Life long friends gone. His stomach is turning cartwheels over and over. He mutters a small, private prayer to no one in particular.

The start marshal steps in. Checks him in 2 seconds and turns away.

He has a kind, old hand. A hand that welcomes him to danger.

The tap comes lightly and apologetic and his World disappears. Not quickly, just… gone.

When he blinks he’s sitting in the van behind the pits. His helmet on his lap, sweat cooling his spine. His hands ache and tremble, a slow uncontrollable shake like someone else’s nerves borrowed for a shade too long. There are two hours missing, stolen from him.

He doesn’t know where he gained time in the race.

Or where he lost it.

Only that he still lives, his acidic breath tasting sharper again.

Reaching for his phone he texts the person he promised to text:

“Back safe”.