Eyes Don't Lie | Charles Leclerc

Part 13 | Bad Habits

September 2022

*Flashback*

The sweet taste of victory had been mine just weeks ago. The rush of crossing the finish line, the roar of the crowd, the team being proud of me, everything had felt right again. After months of struggle, of doubt creeping into my mind like a persistent shadow, I had managed to silence those voices. I was back. I was confident, determined, ready to fight for the championship again.

But Formula 1 is cruel. It takes and takes, no matter how much you give.

The French GP was supposed to be another step forward. I felt good in the car all weekend, the team was behind me, and the race was ours to win. I could feel it in my bones. And when the lights went out, I pushed harder than ever. Every corner, every straight, I was giving it everything. 

Starting from pole was promising, until it wasn't.

It happened so fast. One moment I was in control, and the next, the car snapped out of balance. I tried to save it, but it was too late. The barriers came up too quickly, and before I knew it, I was out. DNF. Another race gone. Another opportunity wasted. Just another stab in the barely healing wound of this season.

As the smoke settled, so did the reality. I sat in the car, staring at the wreckage, my hands trembling. The confidence I had rebuilt was crumbling, and the darkness that had been lurking in the corners of my mind began to creep back in. It was as if the walls of the cockpit were closing in on me, suffocating me, reminding me of every mistake, every failure.

"Not good enough."

By the time I got back to the garage, I was a shell of the driver who had started the race. The team tried to console me, but their words fell on deaf ears. All I could think about was how I had let them down, how I had let myself down. The noise, the disappointment, the frustration, once again it was all too much.

I needed to escape. I needed to feel something other than this crushing weight of failure.

So, I did what I had done before when things got bad. I went out, seeking solace in the bottom of a glass, in the flashing lights of the club. The music was loud, the people were wild, and for a while, I could drown out the thoughts. I could pretend that everything was okay, that I wasn't spiraling out of control.

The drinks kept coming, and I kept drinking. The world around me became a blur of colors and sounds, nothing mattered anymore. Not the race, not the championship, not even who I was. I just wanted to forget, I needed to forget.

And then, at some point in the night, I found myself with a girl on my arm. I didn't even know her name, it didn't matter. She was just there, a distraction, a way to numb the pain. We ended up in my hotel room, and I passed out, the alcohol finally pulling me under.

When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was the pounding in my head, the taste of regret on my tongue. The second thing was the girl, sitting on the edge of the bed, holding her phone up, taking photos of me sleeping. It took a moment for my foggy brain to register what was happening, but when it did, I felt a surge of anger, shame, and panic all at once.

"Delete those," I demanded, my voice rough, barely recognizing it as my own.

She looked at me, startled, then smirked like she had won some sort of prize. "Relax, it's just a few photos. To remember what a good time we had together."

Fuck, I couldn't even remember anything. Did we? No I would remember that, right?

"Delete them," I repeated, more forcefully this time, sitting up, the room spinning under my feet.

She hesitated but eventually complied, deleting the photos. I didn't trust her, not really, but I couldn't deal with it right now. I just needed her gone. Looking at her was a reminder of what I had shamefully resorted to last night.

"Get out," I said, my voice void of any emotion. She rolled her eyes, grabbed her things, and left without another word.

When the door closed behind her, the silence was loud. I was alone, the reality of my situation crashing down on me. I glanced around the room, clothes strewn everywhere, the remnants of a night I didn't want to remember. But what caught my attention was the mirror across the room.

I forced myself to look, and what I saw made my stomach flip. The man staring back at me was a mess. Disheveled hair, bloodshot eyes, the hollow look of someone who had lost his way. I barely recognized myself. This wasn't the Charles who had stood on the top step of the podium. This wasn't the Charles who had once believed he could be champion.

This was a broken man. A man who had let the darkness consume him.... once again.

And in that moment, something inside me snapped. The anger, the frustration, the disappointment, it all came pouring out. I sank to the floor, burying my face in my hands, and for the first time in a long time, I cried. I cried for the races I had lost, for the driver I used to be, for the person I had become. I cried for the friends I had been ignoring, my brothers whose texts remained unread in my phone.

I cried because I didn't know how to fix it. Because I was scared that I never would.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

Author's Note: Okay tissues are a must, my poor Charlie!!! Next chapter is an Aria POV and we get to see how she feels about her newfound developing friendship with Charles ❤️