Blinding white lights sear my eyes as I blink them open, dry and crusty.
It's not my first time in a hospital room. I lift my head up, surveying the damage. My right arm is bruised and sore from where it took the impact of Jaz's sports bike. My face has thick white bandages as well from where I was introduced harshly to the rough ground.
"Nurse," I call in a hoarse voice. One of the white-clad black-visor workers bumbles over, handing me a paper cup full of water. I down it in one swig and hand it back. "How long?" I rasp.
"Only a day, Ms. West," they drone, and then busy themselves with my IV drip.
"Dammit," I hiss under my breath.
"Language," they tut, and I lie back down. One week to go and you got knocked out, great job Angel. Another nurse waddles into the room, in hand a glowing board.
"You should not run today, Ms. West," they scold, swiping through my body's diagnostics. I don't say anything.
Because we all know what I'm doing anyway.
***
I hold up my arm and pull, stretching out my sore muscles.
"Hey, Angel!" someone calls as I keep staring straight ahead. "I'm gonna catch you, Angel! You can't run from me!" There are a few giggles as the kids rev up their bikes, light the ignition of their car engines. "Hey, long-legs I'm talking to you!" I stretch out my hamstrings, touch my toes, breathe.
One week
The buzzer sounds and our gates lock. I crouch down into the dreaded starting position, eyes straight ahead. Smack talk is exchanged. I'm gonna run you down, beat you up. Breathe. I touch my armband, my lifeline, for luck. The countdown begins but
my heart
has already started running.
YOU ARE READING
Deathrun
AksiYou get five years before they kick you out, five years before you're dead. You're dead either way, really. Assuming you make it out of those first 20 minutes of hell, the world of races awaits you. Races where everyone's betting on their favorite p...
