A/N don't own em, yada yada yada.
"Fate is a misconseption, it's only a cover-up for the fact you don't have control over your own life." Anonymous
The black car screeched around a corner, swerving as it darted out of the way of an oncoming lorry, missing a collision by inches. The speedometer had reached it's rightmost limit, somewhere in the range of 125 kilometers an hour, but the car was almost assuredly going faster than that. The tachometer was hovering dangerously close to the red, despite the car already being in fifth gear.
The driver did not care though. He didn't care about the way that the car rocked as it rocketed around the corners. It was of no concern to him. This was his opportunity to live. There were so few opportunities to live now, this was one of them. He cracked the window slightly, the wind was a roar, but it felt good rushing in, whipping his hair back as he half-focused on the road. He didn't need to focus on the road.
It wasn't even that he was a good driver. He rarely drove. The only time he took the ancient coupe out was on nights like this where he needed to prove he was alive, if only to himself. The only times he drove were dark, starless nights where he drove with a sort of reckless abandon through the night, proving to himself and to the world that he was still alive, that death had yet to catch up to him.
He didn't care about the road, he didn't need to. No fatalist needs to care about what is going on around them. They need only put their trust in fate, which he did. He would be protected by fate. If it was not his time to die, he would not die. It was all already foretold, every moment of his life had been predetermined.
He was a fatalist. It was the only way to survive. To stop caring about your actions and their consequences. Believing in fate, in destiny, made life a lot more livable. Guilt was no longer an issue. It made him feel better. It took the blood off of his hands. He didn't care if he was running from his actions, it felt good to know that he had no control over it. The man had to die, that was all. He had been destined, fated to kill. And all he had done was fulfill destiny. That was it. That was his role in life, to do what had been scripted for him.
He was not a murderer. He was supposed to have done that. He was scripted to have done that. It was in the stars. The same way it was in the stars for that lorry to go careening off into a ditch as he drove by. The same way that if he was to meet an end by wrapping the car around a tree, it would be written. But no, he was here, going as fast as the car would allow, and he was still alive. He was still on the road. He was still perfectly fine.
He would continue to be so. He was not a murderer, he was a pawn of destiny. It was easier to be a fatalist and give his life over to an unknown than it was to accept responsibility for his actions. And he liked it that way.
