I've been waiting for you. Sat on my motorbike, in the middle of the road in the pouring rain. It didn't matter if I got hit. It didn't matter if I was seen. I knew you'd come.

A broad figure upon a black motorbike, you come roaring around the corner. You see me, but you don't care. You just ride on past, leaving a spray of water in your wake. Then you're gone, the sound of you speeding up the road and away.

It doesn't take me long to catch up. Soon, I'm level with you and we're racing along, side by side. You've seen me. You take your attention off the road to wonder who I am, what I'm doing.

With a free hand, I tear my helmet off, letting it crash to the concrete below, lost in the darkness. The wind blast hits me like a brick wall. And I stare at you. I know what you look like behind that visor of black. You recognise me, don't you?

I pull down hard on the right handlebar grip, sending the motorbike into the side of yours. The same time, I throw myself at you. A heavy weight of hatred and guilt coming down on you like a ton of bricks.

We go down. The bikes screech against the concrete. Our flesh burns, our bones break. And the speedo reads 150mph.

And my face is the last thing you'll ever see. Just like your face was the last I ever saw.

You're all alone. You lie in the middle of the road, your body broken, your spirit gone, your motorbike torn. Who am I? Your guilt.

The police will come, find you, and you'll be another number to the many motorbike deaths, caused by too fast driving in the rain.

Now you rest in the ground, a grave amongst many others and beside you, I'm a nameless gravestone.

I've been waiting for you.