He was speeding down the road far above the speed limit. He didn't care what was going on around him, nor did he take any notice of the flashing lights behind him.
He lived for the moment and the moment was now. It was just the way he wanted things to be. Right on the razor edge… Hell. It was better than sitting and cutting yourself, wasn't it? But it didn't mean he hadn't done so…
Crimson drops escaped the tough leather jacket, and stained his black jeans. Some scorched on to the hot engine of his recently bought motorbike, while other splattered on the wet asphalt road. His brown hair had grown long, and was flowing freely in the fierce wind. A cigarette was glowing in his mouth, and mingled with the whiskey in his breath.
He didn't care.
A squad car came out next to him calling to him over the megaphone to pull over that instant. He just glanced over at them before flicking them the finger and accelerating even more. He heard the car screech to a halt behind him as he knew they saw the blood stains on his hands, and the cold glare in his eyes. He just laughed a hollow laughter, which didn't reach to become more than a mare couple of low ha's.
It didn't matter. He didn't care.
He would have ridden a broomstick, but it didn't give the same thrill. Besides, you wouldn't have all these people chasing you if you were on a broomstick. He didn't care much about the helmet laws around Europe, nor did he care about the bans and rules of many things in the muggle societies. He liked the smoking, he enjoyed the drinking, and he loved the driving without helmets in high, high speeds.
He didn't care…
Cutting a corner much too closely for the pursuers to dare to endeavour themselves in to the same feat, he grinned for the first time.
Man did he love his bike. Say what ever they can about the practicality of brooms and flying carpets and anything they can come up with, nothing could compare with driving a 1200 cc Harley, close to 300km/ph in the middle of the night.
Nothing could compare with the raw engine power, which was vibrating ferociously beneath him where he was sitting comfortably on the softly upholstered leather seat. Sure a broom gave you a certain amount of freedom, but the freedom you got on the bike was something completely different. It was unimaginable. The vision of the bare roads, free from all other drivers to spoil your fun (well, with the exception of the persistent coppers behind you), and when you realised it was only you, the road, and the roaring bike beneath you… nothing could beat that rush.
They didn't want him to care about that.
It was lulling. It was hypnotising. It was more mesmerizing than anything in the world. It was like a perfect drug, of which you needed more, and more every day. You had to relive it over and over again. He needed it more than he needed the fame and fortune he had. He needed it more than any sex in the world could give him. He needed it so badly every day he couldn't wait until the night. He had to go on to the road…
It was the only thing he cared about.
The crimson liquid kept dripping in a steady pace from his sleeves, giving those who would follow a macabre trail to lead them to an uncertain origin. Even more droplets fell on to the now scorching engine filling the air in his wake with the scent of burnt blood, which was only a step better from the stench of burnt flesh…
It wasn't his concern. He didn't care...
He was about to take a sharp left curve, when the front lights of a late night bus came out.
Freezing up, he forgot to release the accelerator, to pump the ABS-brakes, to fulfil the swing… it was too late anyway. He was keeping too high a speed for the chance of braking up before the road ended.
Then his mind went blank.
He stopped caring.