Walking Decal

It's the funny thing about death. The death of someone you love comes with such suffocatingly saturated emotion the loss seems insurmountable; then in a blink of an eye the world continues revolving without having seemed to have skipped a beat. Some people never recover from it; most other people live on – slowly losing their grasp around an intangible memory of a different life now past. As to which is worse, living in constant grief or an unfeeling amnesia, I do not know.
It has been almost a month since <a href="">Livia's death</a>. Eduardo still carries a picture of her in the knapsack he carries around. He carries it not to remember her, but because he always forgets to take the picture out. And when he does remember, some part of him refuses. Taking her picture out of his bag feels almost like killing her all over again.
Just as Señor Rodrigo planned, Eduardo's nickname "The Donkey Boy from Guaiba" was short-lived. The newspaper reporters, like locusts, have moved on to more saleable stories. Eduardo was now just another racecar driver in Rodrigo's stable. He would have to work his way up the ladder like everyone else. The new glamourous life he chose was analogously summed up by his driver's outfit.
Built for its specific purpose, form fitting close to the point of suffocation and with a full-faced helmet that isolated Eduardo from the world, and the world from any show of emotion behind the mask.Señor Rodrigo, being every bit as enterprising as the next millionaire, had all of his driver clad in an all white body suit. Or at least it was all white before the advertisements were put on them. Huge multi-coloured advertisements paid for by dx-ed Retreat (the neighbourhood casino) and Elteeay (makers of automated toll booths) emblazoned his body. Having been born in a poor village he had seen how these companies exploited the common folk. Rather than speaking out against them, Eduardo was now a walking decal for them.
Señor Rodrigo had made it abundantly clear that <a href="">none of his drivers should ever be found speaking badly of their sponsors</a>.
Eduardo swallowed, his throat dry from the prolonged silence. He dug out Livia's picture from his bag. It's edges were dog-earred. He looked across the garage and saw the row of shiny racecars. He could live with this, he thought. Or not.
He didn't know.

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