The Ghost in His Mirror
The final race would decide everything: win, and I'd make the national team; lose, and I'd be kicked off the racing team.
Twenty-eight years ago, my father was crippled by the same man. His spine was broken, and he never stood again.
Two hours before the race, I saw him crouching beside my car with my own eyes.
When I went over to check, I found the brake line had been cut and the brake fluid had been mixed with alcohol.
The method was exactly the same.
My father had waited in his wheelchair for twenty-eight years.
I crouched down and stared at the severed brake line for a long time.
Then I stood up, wiped away the fingerprints, and put on my helmet.
I didn't report it.
I didn't change cars.
I didn't tell anyone.
Because I wanted him to watch with his own eyes—
To see how he'd be sent to hell by the "loser" he despised.
The engines roared.
The green light came on.
I released the brake and floored the throttle.
The moment I shot forward, I knew—
This car's brakes wouldn't last past the seventh lap.