Clutching at straws, that’s what I’m doing now. That’s all I can do. Everything’s going so fucking pear-shaped and I’m left face to face with the bruising reality that yet again I’m going to be second best. Or most probably not even the ignominy of the runners-up prize because of his up-start of a kid brother is very likely to snatch away from me even that sore consolation.

Am I bitter? Yeah, what do you bloody think?

I talk to you but it’s as if we’re a million miles apart, as if you can’t understand what the hell I’m talking about as I slate myself for losing it like that, for my childish reaction. Yeah, I know it was the right decision. Christ I don’t need reminding about god damn safety. It’s just as I clench my fists and fight a cry of pure white anger, you might as well be on a different planet.

You don’t know how I can feel this way. You don’t even know what I feel, can’t possibly.

The fact that he was there, laughing and joking, a satisfied little smile creeping on to his lips as yet again I fail to perform how I know I can. The bastard doesn’t even have to finish, let alone win, to embarrass me yet again.

Not only have I most probably lost the championship with this humiliating defeat, I’m completely aware that I’m this close to losing you.

We still talk, we still act and live as if nothing’s happening but you don’t know me. And a part of me doubts you ever did. For while I was struggling, while you flourished, gaining your accolades and trophies to cover yourself and the team in glory, we worked because I was happy the way things were. I thought my chance would come. My days of rapturous glory in the future, our future.

I thought you would repay me for my loyalty.

The call never came though, did it. And it never was going to. When I became ambitious, when I tried to challenge, asserting myself in the team, my demands for equality fell on deaf ears and you never helped me break those barriers down. I mean, what was it you said before Silverstone? You would race for a win, you wouldn’t relinquish the chance of victory not even to your team mate, your lover who’s supposed to be fighting for this precious championship that means so much to him. Am I wrong to think that you couldn’t care less for my dream of being crowned champion because you sure as hell don’t act like you want me to succeed?

If you hated me, I would understand why you wouldn’t want me to achieve what you already have. Twice. But you don’t. You don’t hate me and it throws me into fucking turmoil. You tell me you love me and then cruelly deny me that crucial support I need so desperately. You’ve never been in this title race so does it really hurt you so much to do something for me for a change?

Or does our relationship only work when you’re the one who’s winning? When you are the team’s main man. When I’m happy to play your side-kick all my life, smoothing your ego with my congratulations and my effort when you stand on top of that rostrum and pick up that winners’ trophy.

Well, I’m sorry but I’m pissed off at being a bit-player in your little team, swamped by an avalanche of lies and half-hearted pleasantries.

You know something? I can lose the title next week, maybe the race after that. Maybe fate will deal me some goddamn luck for a chance and take the bastard out of the next two races, giving me a real shot at victory. But even if it doesn’t, I won’t scream or shout, curse the air or tear myself apart over it. I drove with my soul this year, pouring my heart, my desire, my sweat into this championship and I’ve nothing to be ashamed of. I know when I’ve been beaten and at least it’s by someone who respects me for what I am, for what I want to be. A racer and a competitor and someone who fucking slogs his guts out to try to reach his dream.

I have his respect but strangely it seems I don’t have yours.

It’s says something when you think about it, I mean you haven’t even told me if you are staying with the team for next year.

And you know something else? I really couldn’t give a toss either way.

~The End.