Wild Fiction

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Rebecca’s sleep pattern entered REM as the effects of the Largactil waned. She dreamt she was racing a 500CC motorcycle in the Grand Prix. It was the final lap and she was in second place. The leader made a fatal mistake on one of the last corners and went too wide. She leant hard into the curve, cranked open the accelerator, and surged through into pole position. The last corner, a sharp left, came up quickly and she hugged into it and pulled out onto the final straight. She twisted her right wrist hard and the front wheel lifted off the ground as the bike powered ahead. She could see the chequered flag hanging limply over the finishing line. The tarmac stretched ahead under a shimmering silver mirage. Heat waves danced like translucent ghosts and distorted the air above it. Along the sides, motor industry and cigarette advertising held back a melange of reds, blues, yellows, and greens. Their screaming silenced by the roar of the two-stroke engine between her legs. The front wheel touched down with a shudder. Her stomach tightened as she felt the vibration. The bike snaked from side to side in an uncontrollable speed wobble. She was about to go over the handlebars at two hundred miles an hour.
She opened her eyes and woke up panting. Her heart was pounding in her chest and her whole body was trembling but she knew she was alive. She forced herself to relax. Her heartbeat and breathing quickly returned to normal. Eventually, her hands stopped shaking. She pushed herself up onto one elbow before sitting up and looking around. Her head felt groggy and she could only see vague shapes around her. She pushed the heels of her hands into her eye-sockets. The coolness from the clammy sweat on her hands reduced the puffiness that hung below her lower eyelids like baby skin hammocks. She pulled her hands away and blinked. After a few moments, the haze that was blurring everything lifted and the room came into focus.

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