Start Marshal

He keeps his spine straight, his hefty steel toe capped boots planted firm. His hands behind his back. Won’t be long now

This is discipline. It’s routine, his routine and the only bloody thing that stop him thinking too much. He learned long ago not to look riders in the eye. That’s too much humanity in there, too much to lose.

There’s betrayal in all this, self-made betrayal but betrayal all the same.

Brain fog rolls in and memories flicker a bit. Shoulders that he tapped that never returned, leathers cut open on cold Manx roads, solemn nods in the pits afterward. The faces blur but the feeling stays. I was the last to touch them.

His nights are full of those taps. Small gestures that are huge waves in the dark.

Focus! This one is rolling forward now, Number 18. “C’mon hands… steady”. He’s young enough to believe he’s unbreakable. I’m old enough to know better.

The marshal forces his own breath to slow. He checks gloves, visor. Everything must be right. If he misses anything, if something goes wrong, it’s his fault. At least that’s what nightmares tell him.

For a short moment the world slows, mist smears in at the edge of his vision. He clenches his jaw until it clears and then hurts.

One more rider.

His hand rises, he taps the shoulder.

Light and final.

With hope, quiet and desperate hope it’s not another touch he’ll remember at 3 a.m.