everything has changed ➺ charles leclerc

twenty-five - angeli

— angeli

THE LAST THING I REMEMBER before falling asleep is wishing Mick good luck on the race, and telling him that I would stay in his driver's room until it finished. The past few weeks had taken a toll on my sleep, leaving me exhausted on race day at Monza. I recall watching the lights go out and managing to keep my eyes open for the first 20 laps, but after that, my memory becomes a blank slate.

In my sleep, I remember coughing violently, my body wracked with the force of it. The acrid stench of smoke filled my senses, invading my system. From there, my memory fades away.

The next fragment of recollection I have is of being in an ambulance. Briefly regaining consciousness, I glimpsed Mick beside me, his face etched with concern, yet a glimmer of relief shining through. We made eye contact, and his smile was filled with both excitement and anxiety. But then, I slipped back into sleep again.

I recall hearing the voices of doctors and nurses, their urgent murmurs as Mick briefed them on my medical history. Amidst the sea of medical jargon, I overheard them instructing Mick to call my mum.

"Why am I here?" I rasp, turning my head to face Mick, who lifted his head at the sound of my voice. It's painful to speak, every word an ache.

"You're awake!" He exclaims with genuine happiness, enfolding me in a warm embrace.

"And you're still in your race suit," I chuckle, wincing at the pain it causes, pointing at his attire.

"It's just so comfy, I didn't want to take it off," he playfully shrugs, eliciting laughter from me.

"Liar," I roll my eyes. "But seriously, why am I here?" I inquire once more, seeking answers.

"Don't tell me it's 2030 now!" I groan in frustration, wincing when the movement triggers discomfort in my throat.

"Does it hurt to speak?" Mick asks, attuned to my pain.

"A little bit," I wince, pointing towards a bottle of water placed nearby. He unscrews the cap and passes it to me. I take a sip, soothing my parched throat, yet wincing again. Even drinking water proves painful.

I gesture towards my phone, which Mick gladly hands over. Opening my notes app, I decide to communicate through typing instead of speaking.

Stop avoiding the question Mickie. why am I here?  

I show him my phone screen with an impatient look. He huffs and reaches for it to start typing, but I snatch it back before he can begin.

r u dumb? u can speak dude im just typing bc it hurts to speak.

I show him the phone again, and this time he chuckles sheepishly. "Right, sorry," he mumbles. I glare at him, growing tired of his lack of answers.

"Right, sorry." He mumbles. I glare at him, tired of him not answering my question.

"There was, uh," he starts nervously. "There was a massive fire in the Ferrari motorhome. The firefighters found you passed out in my driver's room." He continues, fidgeting with the bracelets on my wrist.

"Then they put you on oxygen in the ambulance because you weren't breathing, and we rushed to the hospital." He looks up at me with sadness in his eyes, their blue glossing over. "The doctors and nurses stabilized you, and they told me to call your mum – she's on her way."

I begin typing on my phone again.

is everyone ok?

Mick chuckles slightly. "Yes, Ange. Everyone's okay. They got everyone out in time."