Enough

my literature final and short story

Tires skid as he throws the car into turn three – lights shining on the slick surface. Rain pelts down, the track shimmering under the floodlights. Breathing echoes in his helmet, heart pounding in his ears. His hands grip the wheel, a lifeline in the dark. The radio beeps, a familiar sound amidst the roar of the crowd. “Alright, lap time was 1:39.42” His jaw clenches. Not good enough.

“I’m going to push more,” he grits out through the radio, an ugly feeling curling in his gut. He doesn’t wait for the reply – instead, he shifts gears, racing down the track.

The mantra repeats in his head. Push faster, further, sharper. Don’t slow on that corner, stay on the line. Just. Keep. Pushing. The words spin round and round his head, spiralling like his tires through the puddles. He hears the shifting gears, the growl of the car, and the spray of water behind him. Droplets race across his helmet, his car speeds down the track.

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He watches cars speed along the highway below him, leaning against a cool metal railing. The night air is sharp on his skin - calming, familiar, just like home. He catches his breath, in, and out again. A rare moment of peace in his hectic life. He knows the training is designed to tire him, to break him; but truthfully, he’s never felt more alive. Well, except for when he’s in the car. For as long as he can remember, his dreams have been filled with fast cars, reckless adventures, going further than ever before. Hoisting the trophy, watching the crowd cheer, knowing that he pushed himself to the limit. Knowing that he’s the best.

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He needs to be the best. Only 7 seconds between him and P1. 7 seconds. He can do that. Tighter on turn 9, and that’s another few milliseconds less. In the slipstream on the straight, and the distance between them gets smaller and smaller, lights dancing on the road in front.

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Watching the night swallow the city lights, he lies alone in the dark. His eyes track the ceiling fan, spinning endlessly in place. He reaches across the bed absently, trying to ignore the ache lodged deep in his chest. The longing for something – for someone – only seems to get stronger. Every day, he’s surrounded with people who look at him with adoration – screaming praise, eyes filled with awe. People whose jobs, lives, futures, revolve around him. And every day, he comes back to an empty apartment on the top floor of some fancy building – too big to feel home. Despite all the fame, the wealth, he’s completely alone. He tells himself it’s because he’s not handsome enough. Not charming enough. Just not enough. Never enough. A bitter truth on his tongue, admitted only in dark rooms, swallowed up by the silence. Turning to gaze out the window at a restless city, he catches his reflection in the glass, and looks away, unable to meet his own eyes.

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Another turn coming up. He shakes off the fear, instead clinging to the desperation. He needs this. No, he deserves this. And now, it’s time to prove it. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch as he grazes past guardrails, pulling almost even with the car in front. Flying past blurred faces, signs, people screaming. Rain falls heavier now, but that doesn’t matter. Nothing can stop him now.

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“Alright rookie, time to stop.” He watches the road disintegrate in front of him as a familiar voice calls out to him. A small part of him feels relieved, but another, much bigger part pulls at him.

“I almost had it.” There’s a tension in his voice, a fire in his stomach. A fire built on thousands of hours in practice, years of dedication. They don’t see that though. They don’t care.

He stands up, defiant. Flipping his helmet visor up, he glares at the older man – his mentor. The whispers seem to echo around him, walls closing in. Not good enough. That’s all they see him as. Eyes linger on him, voices whisper in the hallways. They look away when he walks past, unable to meet his eyes. He thought his mentor was different. But lately, he never stops challenging him, pointing out his failures. Nagging to him sleep, to eat, to stop punishing himself. And he can’t stand it.

“No point in pushing yourself if you’ve got nothing left to give.” The older man is firm, but his eyes gentle. He doesn’t want gentle. He needs results. It doesn’t matter if he has to do it alone. The ugly feelings he’d been pushing down starts to claw at him. His fists clench a futile attempt to stop the words building up in his throat.

“Believe it or not, you’re not my father. You never will be.” He lashes out, venom in his voice. He doesn’t mean it. But he says it anyway, too tired of faking indifference.

“I’m not trying to be.”

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“Rookie, I’m trying to help you. The best place to overtake is on the straight. You’ll have the advantage, so stop trying to kill yourself on the turns.” He ignores it, his desperation consuming him. Sweat drips down his face, as he grits his teeth, pushing the car impossibly closer – shifting gears and speeding forward. He deserves this, and he’ll get it, or die trying. It doesn’t matter if nobody cares. It doesn’t matter if the whole world is against him. The spray from wheels paints the front wing with delicate drops, gleaming under floodlights. 20 laps to go. A lifetime.

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It feels like a lifetime ago that he first sat in the car. It’s hard to believe this is his first year of racing with the best. His whole life has led up to this point, from karting, to training, moving away from his family, and giving up everything to pursue this dream. In the quiet moments, the voice in his head speaks up. What if this isn’t worth it? What if you’re not good enough? What if, what if, what if. He can’t afford to listen. Instead, he throws himself into training, into the press, into the job, into the car. Anything but himself. His apartment is proof, walls bare and barely furnished. The only sign that he lives there is his posters above the mantle, his own likeness staring back at him – watching, judging.

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Rain pelts his visor as he pulls out to the side, pushing alongside his opponent. He hears the roar of the crowd, of the engines, of his heart beating ever faster. It’s not a clean fight, his opponent dances beside him through turns, twisting and snaking their way towards the finish line.

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The checkered flag is waved, as he crosses the finish line. His first taste of karting leaving him addicted. The flash of the cameras, the attention, the adoration of the audience leaves his heart rushing. His path is set – the fire is lit within him. His fate is tied to the engine, his home in the seat of the car.

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For the first time in a long while, he feels at home. Lights shine like spotlights, illuminating the straight in front of him. No cars in sight as he pulls away, only a sea of people, cheering him on. Further and further, feeling lighter and lighter. Unclenching his jaw, dropping his shoulders, he sails away, worries left behind – only visible in the mirror.

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He stares at his reflection in the mirror, eyes dull looking back at him. The light above flickers, the faucet drip, drip, dripping and his breathing ragged – forming a sad symphony. His head spins, thoughts jumbled and violent. Not enough. Not enough. Not enough. Bile rises in his throat, and hands clench on the sides of the sink, porcelain digging into his palms.

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He can almost imagine the trophy, the weight in his hands as he hoists it above his head. Shoulders sink; his stomach settles. On reflex, his hands grip the wheel, gloves rubbing against raw knuckles.

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Knuckles meet glass, again, and again, and again - shattering the monster staring back at him. Eyes meet eyes meet eyes. What a cruel thing to see reflected back at you. His worst fears magnified, a pretty pattern formed of pain, painted with splatters of crimson. Inhaling sharply between violent sobs and faltering punches, blood dripping from clenched fists. Tears roll down his cheeks, as he stumbles back against the wall, sliding to the floor.

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He takes turn thirteen too tight, tires sliding out from underneath, car spinning and spinning and spinning. In a single moment, he truly is weightless. Light surrounds him like a halo, rain gentle, breeze soft. Sounds fade away, screams into silence. Nothing can reach him here.

As soon as he began to fly, he falls again. Car crumpling against guardrails, metal meeting metal - such a violent encounter. Heat blooms along his side, as fire licks his suit. Warmth where it was numb for so long. Lazily watching the smoke billow up, a cough escapes from the cage of his chest. He realises he can’t move his arms to cover it. He realises that he doesn’t care. Body pinned inside the place he called home, head heavy, thoughts slowing. Finally, he belongs. Not alone anymore, thousands of eyes focused on him. No more doubts echoing through his mind. The only thing he can hear is the crackle of the flame and the ringing in his ears - the pain so far, far, away. Everything, so far away.

His lids begin to droop, eyes tired from restless nights spent staring at the ceiling. Now, he has nothing to do but stare up at the sky, watching helplessly as flames consume him - rain doing nothing to slow the spread. So, he lies silent, spotlights fixed on him. The whole world watching, as he is consumed by the fire set within him all those years ago. He lies limp, as a familiar pair of hands reach in, and pull him out. They cradle him with thousands of words left unsaid. Thoughts fade away, not fast enough to miss the words whispered by his ear.

“You’ve done well, rookie.”

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