сряда, 1 февруари 2012 г.

She Wants Revenge "Must Be The One"

The race has been on for a few weeks now.
I'd laced my foot in lead and slammed it on the gas as hard as I can, keeping it there. Letting it go numb. Never thinking I'd have to stop.
She sits down at the table across form us.
I can see the finish line. A brick wall, barring my way to the second lap. I'm going to break through. I shift gears.
She reaches into her bag.
She takes out an object and places it on the table.
The symbol of "Us".
The other driver pushes me off the road at the sharp turn.
My steering fails, my breaks start leaking, my foot's still firmly placed on the pedal.
I crash into the security wall in a giant ball of flames, smoke, melting tires, and twisted metal.
She wins this race.
But there will be a second one.
Within an hour I'm back behind the wheel.
Another race.
A race I can win.
"I know you still think of her. Stop lying."
"I'm not."
"You want her more than you want me."
"I didn't. But you've made me believe it."
I forfeit that race.
The other driver never stood a chance.
I'm a spitfire. I deserve a better race, a bigger challenge.
THAT race, where I crashed and burned.
I've seen THAT driver at pit-stops on the highway.
We talked about a rematch a couple of times.
We still met from time to time. A hug here, a kiss there. So what if she was with another for a while. I didn't care. Much.
Time passes.
Days pass by like milestones in the countryside.
And we get to our rematch.
I'll be lightning.
This time I'll win.
There She is - a vision of innocence, holding a single white rose she chose for me.
Knowing She's late. Hoping for a second chance.
Too late.
The race is on. Our engines roaring like beasts from the depths of hell.
We're close.
Every time I look at my rear view mirror, She's come closer.
I can see the wall at the finish line.
We're close. So close.
And there's that same sharp turn again.
She catches up to me then.
Only this time I'm on the inside.
And this time I push her off the road.
The rose sits there, on the white bench.
I rise.
I walk away.
I reach for my phone and dial a number.
A short phone call, and the next race is set.
It's going to be wild.
This time I'll break through the finish line.
I'm just a crash test dummy in a prototype "Diablo Rojo".
Pick up the pieces, and put my foot on the pedal.
I'll race on.
I'll break the wall.
I'll have a second lap.