Perfect Disaster-Charles Leclerc

two

CHARLES POV

How much is a work of art worth? Is it really so quantifiable, is the relationship between time and author really so clear that I can tell how much a Caravaggio costs without too much trouble? Then is art the same for everyone? Art is anything that returns an emotion to you, upsets you for better or worse even just the right deep inside you. Even poetry is art, writing is art. To think that I am so important that someone wrote about me, wrote down my merits and flaws. The thought that

someone can really but down on paper everything they tee is a nail in the coffin, you don't have to be Dante and write its ' Tanto gentile quanto onesta pare,' even just my parents and, maybe, slightly I blame them for that: not having left me a way to go, a security, something to expose myself, to explain to me that it is not a fault to want someone to turn your life upside down, that her eyes are the most beautiful landscape to be observed with care, that I can read her love in them but at the same time that I can lose my breath when I have her in front of me and as Dante says 'e par che de

la sua labbia si mova. un spirito soave pien d'amore.

che va dicendo a l'anima: Sospira.' Sighing only after her passing, returning to breathing only after it.

To be aware that wherever went head and heart could come back to her. were to her to be able

to have a fixed point, a safe place and instead everything is overwhelming.

I wish I had a text,a few lines, a poem.,something to tell me that it's okay to want someone else that it's okay to get lost in other people's eyes, that it's not okay the way our story is going, the feeling of being crushed, almost oppressed under its value. Proof of this are these screams as I still try to wake up. I get up quickly and walk by her figure without looking at her, without even hiding my indifference: my love for her is over and exhausted by her constant " where are you going?" attitude. Her French accent is pronounced, full, and her screams have probably woken everyone up. "To practice" I slip into the first things I find comfortable and put the phone next to my ear calling Andrea "usual place?" I hear her calm, assonant voice on the other end of the phone. It's only 6 a.m. and already I've inconvenienced andrea who already knows what's going

on given the time.

" Usual place, sorry but I really need you"

Right. left. right. breath. Racing with Andrea has always been a solution to most things since I've been in Ferrari, since I got older than my age: everyone says I was strong to win a formula two race on the day my father died. I was strong to overcome Jules death, but no one knows how much I

cost, how many moments of silence because I can, I could only talk to Pierre Gasly, my best friend all my life and in everything. No one really knows how bad I was even in not saying it openly that not everything was rosy.

"Rest up Charles,"

I shake my head and increase the speed of the tapirulan. Breathing every few steps, I want to run so fast that all I can think about is my legs moving and nothing else.

"Charles!"

the firm voice of Andrea wakes me up from that endless loop of thoughts that have her, only her, as a peep. All that screaming, control over everything, jealousy of everything, I can't breathe in those houses anymore. I only seem to breathe now after Andrea

saved me from some Inflammation in my muscles. I bend over my legs stopping my running. My Breath are short, fast, i try to exhale as much air as can, have a thousand questions in my head and being in the car, training is the only way but I had never shrunk like this. Maybe yes, just once: after Dad died, I didn't want to think and this was the only way I knew. Andrea's hand rests shyly on my shoulder, squeezes it lightly, and I in response cover it with my own. My breathing is slowly calming down: knowing that Andrea understands me and has understood me and that with him I can simply be Charles, makes me feel at home.

"Where have you been?"

I dropped by my brother's with the intention of stealing a Ferrari suit that they give us in equipment for official events: it doesn't have my size. I've been home for a few thousandths of a second and I'm already facing a third degree I never wanted.

"I've been working out" feel her warm hands on my shoulders that are warmed by my sweatshirt and sweat

"so far? you left at 6 o'clock this morning Charles!"

she tries to turn me toward her but I resist her feeble strength and feel tears against my eyelids but I hold those back too.

"Let's go to this dance."

my voice is firm, cold, detached. I hear her screams becoming less vivid as the door closes and the shower opens and I quickly step into it, I don't care if the water is cold, freezing, hot, scalding, I just want to stick my head under there and stop thinking for a moment. I want to feel good again, and she is no longer my person. She is no longer the girl I love, I want to meet other eyes, to see other colors beyond black and white. I want to go back to living, smiling, loving myself and not seeing myself wrong. and I want to stop having to make excuses all the time.

I thought it could be my last story, I thought it would be me and her. I believe in forever, in marriage, but she is not the right person. After all, I'm just one more person to her, too: I know she betrayed me.

It came as art, I felt something, it moved me now instead they are just bruises on the skin, maybe, they will hurt less outside but inside they burn like a summer sunset.

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another one, i hope you can enjoy it, sorry again for the english.

mico