The small, fragile, almost surreal body flew through the air, exhibiting wild aerobatics as it plunged to the earth. The broken body, devoid of life, rested on that dark road like a discarded rag doll, its flesh bruised and broken, and limbs torn. But its eyes stayed bright, and shone in the twilight. He will never forget such eyes.

The thrill of the chase kept him there, kept him sane. Forever chasing dreams that would never come to fruition. But he chose to remain blissfully ignorant and kept on chasing. The adrenaline, the thrill and the sheer terror of it cured all ills and saved his senses from being dulled by a nine to five office job. The only thing keeping him alive was his own skill.

It had begun when he was just a small child. He was intoxicated by the roar of the engine and the sweet perfume of burning rubber as street machines used his quiet suburban street as their own personal drag strip. The sound, the smell, the sights, all assaulted his senses and changed something within him, and he forever wanted to be just like the men and women who cheated death to tame the beast. One night he got the chance, and never went back. In the end he needed it. The pureness of it all quenched a thirst in him, a deep burning desire to feel pure speed and freedom, delivered all in one rush that left him satisfied and sated. But it didn’t last long, and the need would soon arise yet again to claim him as its own.

It was useless trying to justify street racing, but he could and he did. The cops could never catch him. He would be gone in a matter of seconds, looking for that next deserted stretch of tarmac and his next hit of speed. The absolute stillness of a night shattered by 600 horsepower induced a madness upon people; their passions raging and their hearts pumping, the revs of the 5-litre engine building to a climax then subsiding into a soft growl. It was when the starter dropped his arm that he really came alive, and everything became real. He could see every blade of grass at the side of the road, every stone frozen in the tarmac and every movement the car made as he speed at excess of 200 km/h down a highway, dodging old grandmas off visiting their grandkids and families in their oversized people-movers.

Yet, he was reckless. Never afraid to injure himself, always taking that next step to try and make himself supposedly invincible. In his mind he was a god. Willing to live life as it came and never thinking of other people that may be hurt in the process. He was never afraid, but always living in fear. Fear that at the end of the night, his machine would prove that he was just a simple human, made of flesh and bone, unworthy of the godly powers it could instill, and that he could possess. But once that fear subsided, he was in control, making him perpetually confident of his abilities, and even more reckless.

One night, terrorizing suburbia was his target, and he relished the chance. It took all his skill to avoid the various roundabouts and traffic island that stood between him and the perfect adrenaline rush. Speeding down the canyon of commission houses was likened to an arena where everyone could marvel at his prowess and skill. The letterboxes flew past the car, resembling a mere blur of colour in the otherwise black night. Always staying one step ahead of the beast beneath him, always staying one step ahead of his senses and his reflexes. In the end he was so intune with himself and his car that he didn’t see the young boy, only small, step out onto the road.

His small, fragile, almost surreal body flew through the air, exhibiting wild aerobatics as he plunged to earth. His broken body, devoid of life, rested on that dark road like a discarded rag doll, his flesh bruised and broken, and limbs torn. But his eyes stayed bright, and shone in the twilight. I will never forget such eyes. They were exactly like mine.