Racer 404 || (dnf)

17• Mourning Memories

(Dream POV)

2 years later.

I am awoken by my phone ringing. Pounding beside me the small bright rectangle becomes my worse enemy every morning.

I strain my eyes open, they bound back into my head while I fight to keep them from falling closed as the white light from my phone dances around my darkened room.

'Good-morning clay, I suspect you are already awake and dressed?'

I grumble a quiet 'yes' trying to hide my tiredness and the fact that his call was my wake up alarm.

'Wonderful. You have an interview in an hour. Your driver will pick you up outside your hotel and I will see you there.'

He ends the call before I get a chance to answer. I sigh and let the tiredness drift over my head. But a-last, i stand. My broad shadow darkening the pasty white walls as I walk to my suit case that is hidden in the corner of my room. I reach for the clothes that appear at the top of the depth just as my phone brings once again.

Wear a suit.

I swipe up on the message just as another one appears.

It's on the back of your door.

A cold breath of sickness brushes at my neck at the thought of someone coming into my room while I'm asleep to drop off clothes that I am expected to wear that day. Something I don't think I will ever get used to.

I walk out my room hastily, half suspecting someone to be standing behind my door with a hanger drooped over their hand holding my suit.

Opening the door let's in a cold breeze. It bellows past my bare legs and into my room. The suit bangs against my door as I swing it open, almost as if it's knocking to allow itself in. I wish I could turn away.

It's only 10 minutes before my driver comes that I pull on my clothes. 

The rigid edges of the material itch more than it used to as I fit the suit into place over my shoulders. I tug at the shirts collar that seems to be slithering around my neck, squeezing tighter and tighter and pinching my skin like I'm wearing a snake in replacement for a scarf.

I look at myself in the mirror before leaving, I hardly recognise myself behind the flashes of cameras that follow my every move. Sometimes I wish I could go back to racing around tracks with my friends.

The rain plastering my face and the smell of fuel burning my nose. Wonky spray paint covering the car in irreversible pictures of memories that were held late at night as we all rushed to fix up our cars before the next race. Dodgy fix ups and oil stained clothes hung in the void we raced in.

As I step into the elevator I wonder what my life has become, I wonder if I even want this fame that was shoved into my face. I love racing but only back when the only thing anyone cared about was keeping the race going on so we could get more time to feel the air rush up through our helmets and sting our eyes with the iced atmosphere.

The elevator pauses my thoughts as the metallic doors slide their way open. A ghostly presents consumes me as I step out into the empty lobby. The air thick with tension as I walk to the door, alone. My driver waiting for me right outside to door. I'm heavily thankful for this as rain starts to drip from the gloomy dark clouds that hover above. Mirroring my chest that weighs me down as I walk.