Petrol in his Veins // Charles Leclerc

16

A month had now passed since Charles had that terrible accident. Just a few days ago, he had exchanged the cold of the hospital for the familiar surroundings of his apartment in Monaco. Nevertheless, it was clear he still had a long road ahead. The thick cast on his right arm and the persistent pain in his ribs were constant reminders of what had happened.

Despite the support from doctors and friends, he often felt powerless and exhausted. It was hard for him to understand why his recovery was progressing so slowly, and it simply frustrated him. Of course, he knew he needed to give himself time, but he was also incredibly impatient. Yet, little by little, his condition seemed to be improving. On the advice of his team doctor, he began working on his physical rehabilitation with Andrea. The focus was initially on physiotherapeutic exercises for his knee and getting his body accustomed to regular movement again.

That morning, after another of those physio sessions, he only then realized how quiet the apartment actually was. A glance at the clock told him that Jolie, who had taken such good care of him in the past weeks and had been working from home, was at an event today. He had encouraged her to return to her regular work and to leave him alone for a few hours. Of course, he was grateful to her, but he didn't want her to neglect her own life for him.

When he opened the refrigerator, Charles hoped to find something edible. The half-used jar of pesto caught his eye. "Guess it's pasta then," he murmured to himself, placing a pot of water on the stove.The phone on the kitchen table blinked incessantly. Journalist inquiries, messages from his PR team, fan messages. 

Since his accident four weeks ago, he had vanished from the public eye, and everyone wanted to know how he was doing. However, he wasn't in the mood to discuss the accident or his recovery. His PR team had informed the media about his medical progress, and that was enough for him.

 He briefly replied to a message from his brother and turned his attention back to the pasta. With only one functioning hand, the simplest everyday tasks became a challenge. When he tried to add the pasta to the boiling water and some of it missed the pot, he cursed loudly. The pain that shot through him as he bent to pick up the fallen pasta didn't make things any better.All of this, combined with his physical limitation and the fact that Max was on track to win the championship, took a toll on Charles' spirits. He felt trapped in his own body and frustrated by his slow progress.In a burst of anger, he hit the door frame but immediately tried to calm himself. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, trying to recall the positive aspects of his recovery. "Step by step, Charles," he whispered softly, attempting to reassure himself and focus on the present moment. 

After painstakingly loading a portion of pasta onto his plate, Charles settled down at the kitchen table. Using a spoon and fork, he tried to cut up the food and eat it. But he wasn't really hungry anymore. His gaze drifted, focusing on an indistinct point in the room, feeling the weight of his emotions.It wasn't just the physical pain that weighed him down. It was the mental pressure he put on himself, the expectations he had, the frustration over his physical limitations, the missed championship title, and the ever-present shadow of the crash that constantly loomed over him. Although he avoided discussing it, the crash was a perpetual ghost in the back of his mind.

The walls he had built to hide his true feelings began to crumble. His shoulders shook, and tears streamed down his cheeks. The sobbing broke the silence of the apartment. Charles had suppressed it for so long, but now he couldn't hold back any longer. He dropped the spoon and buried his face in his hands, the crying intensifying. All the pain, fear, and pressure - everything poured out in this one, overwhelming moment of despair. It was as if a dam had burst, releasing all the pent-up emotion.