𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞; oscar piastri

PART FIVE

Word count; 2,132

Tomás

— February 23rd, 2013. Cardenete, Spain.
𝙏𝙚𝙣 𝙮𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙨 𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙧.

The sun was barely past the horizon, a layer of thick frost blanketing the kart track, and subsequently the acres of arid dirt surrounding it. Each limb trembled from the wintry air, small bumps covering my skin from head-to-toe, and I stuffed my hands under my armpits, hoping my blood would find its way back to them before Paco returned; he had disappeared momentarily, into the brick cabin where the track steward stayed, his frame moving behind the dark windows, accentuated by the miniscule dot of a burning cigarette.

Watching him exit the building - the track steward following, though departing in a different direction - I sucked in a breath, still unable to feel my fingers. His gaze stayed on the ground, until he had crossed the space between us, and glanced back at the steward who was completely out of sight.

"He's bringing it out." He said, his Spanish harsh and hoarse, like scraping a fork on a plate.

I didn't answer, whether out of apprehension or the fact that I was so cold. Paco frowned, cigarette hanging between his lips.

"Don't stand like that." He snatched one of my wrists away from my armpit, "It makes you look like a girl."

My heart rattled against my ribcage, hands settling by my sides, only growing whiter under the frostbitten atmosphere. If only we had enough timber, then Paco wouldn't have thrown my gloves into the fire place.

The track steward returned with the kart, the engine bubbling away weakly in the cold. Stepping out of the seat, he shook hands with Paco, lighting up his own smoke. I climbed into the kart, barely able to feel the wheel under my palms.

Pará la mano, pará la mano, pará la mano...

Get a grip, get a grip, get a grip...

I attempted to release the handbrake, though my fingers couldn't press the button, void of blood, of sensation. A cold sweat clogged the back of my neck, hoping Paco wouldn't notice as I tried again. Again and again and again.

Of course he'd notice.

"The fuck..." He muttered, turning his attention away from the steward. "What are you waiting for?"

I held my tongue, totally startled, knowing one wrong move would be detrimental.

"I asked you a question." He blew smoke over my visor.

"My hands are cold..." I mumbled, not wanting him to hear.

"What?"

I cleared my throat, "My hands are cold."

"Your hands are cold?" He echoed, venom in his tone.

I stifled a nod, hoping he'd dismiss it and let me try the handbrake again.

"Get out." He demanded.

Heart sinking to the bottom of my stomach, I obeyed, sensing a fire in my veins, at the back of my tongue - the bitter taste of adrenaline. Meanwhile, the track steward watched, puffing on his burn with no sense of urgency.

"Both of them?" Paco probed, hands on his hips.

I nodded.

"Show me."

Forcing down a hard swallow, I presented my hands, completely torpid. Paco examined each of them, grabbing onto my left wrist and displaying it to the steward with a tight grip.