The city lights blurred, streaking past Leo’s window in an angry, neon smear. His phone, propped precariously on the dashboard, buzzed again with a text from his boss, the words “where are you?” sharp and accusatory even without an exclamation mark. Leo’s jaw was tight, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. He was already late, stuck in the worst kind of Friday evening crawl, and his patience had evaporated hours ago.
“Move it, you ancient relic!” he muttered, slamming his palm against the horn as the car in front of him hesitated for a fraction too long at a green light.
He swerved into the next lane, cutting off a small hatchback with only inches to spare. A blare of horns followed him, but Leo just pressed harder on the accelerator, weaving through the traffic with a reckless abandon born of frustration and a misplaced sense of urgency. The speedometer crept past 80 in a 50 zone, his engine whining in protest.
He dodged a delivery van, a sudden, aggressive move that made the driver lean on his horn, face red with fury. Leo just laughed, a humorless bark that echoed in the confined space of his car. He was in a zone, a distorted reality where the rules of the road felt like suggestions, and every other driver was an obstacle to be bypassed.
Then came the roundabout. It was notorious, always a bottleneck. As Leo approached, already too fast, he saw a gap. A sedan was indicating to exit, and a family saloon, its rear window adorned with cartoon stickers, was waiting to enter. He could make it, he thought, if he just pushed a little harder, squeezed through before the saloon moved.
He didn’t slow. Instead, he accelerated, banking hard into the roundabout. The sedan exited, leaving the space he’d targeted. But the family saloon, thinking the coast was clear, had already begun to creep forward.
Leo’s eyes widened, a sudden, icy jolt of fear replacing his rage. Time seemed to slow. He saw the driver of the saloon, a woman, her face contorted in a silent scream. And in the back, a child’s face, wide-eyed and terrified, briefly illuminated in his headlights.
He slammed on the brakes, the tyres shrieking in a desperate, ear-splitting protest against the asphalt. The car fishtailed wildly. He fought the wheel, his muscles straining, the scent of burning rubber filling the air.
*CRUNCH!*
It wasn’t a head-on collision, but a sickening scrape. His front fender clipped the side of the saloon, tearing through metal with a sound like splintering bone. The saloon jerked violently, but miraculously, it didn’t spin out. It came to an abrupt, shuddering halt, its side mangled, a clear dent outlining where Leo’s speed and recklessness had met its unsuspecting frame.
Silence. A profound, ringing silence, broken only by the ticking of his cooling engine and the rapid thumping of his own heart.
Then, the world exploded into sound. Car horns blared from every direction. Headlights flashed. The woman from the saloon was out of her car, hands shaking, a wail of pure terror escaping her lips as she rushed to the back door, yanking it open to check on her child.
Leo sat frozen, hands still gripping the steering wheel. His breath hitched. He hadn’t seen the child clearly before, just a flash, but now the image burned in his mind: that small, terrified face. He could have killed them. All of them. Just because he was late, because he was angry.
Blue and red lights began to flash in the distance, drawing closer. Someone must have called it in. He watched, numb, as the police car pulled up, an officer stepping out, his face grim under the flashing lights.
“Sir, are you alright?” The officer’s voice was calm, but his eyes were assessing, taking in the damage, the chaos, and Leo’s pale, sweat-slicked face. “Do you know why I’m pulling you over?”
Leo could only nod, a single, silent tear tracking a path down his cheek. The rage was gone, replaced by a cold, sickening wave of shame and the stark, terrifying realization of what he had almost done. The charge, when it came, was simple but devastating: “Causing danger to road users.” But the real consequence, the one that would haunt his nights, was the image of that child’s face, staring into the abyss he had created. His life, and the lives of others, had hung by a thread, and it was his own arrogance that had almost snapped it.