𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞; oscar piastri

PART TEN

Guess things aren't figured out after all...

Word count; 2,206

Tomás

— March 6th, 2023. Sakhir, Bahrain.

"That can't be right." Owen leaned over the scale, "Step off again."

I swallowed hard, obeying his command. The physiotherapist picked up the balance, flipping open the cover for the batteries, and I folded my arms together, glancing at the white walls around us, filled with posters and different arabic advertisements for healthcare.

"Try now."

Stepping onto the scale, I watched the figures tick up in value, until they came to a gradual stop. Owen frowned, blowing out a breath.

That can't be right.

"Jesus, Taz," He thudded my shoulder, indicating for me to take a seat. "I know you don't like what Jess cooks but I didn't realise it was this bad."

I chuckled, playing to the fact it was just a distaste for my private chef's meals, "I've tried to convince him to use more cayenne pepper but he says it ruins the dish."

Owen rolled his eyes, tapping away on the computer on the desk. "All right, blood pressure."

He opened the drawer nearby, searching for the apparatus, furrowing his brows when it didn't appear.

"Give me a sec." He flung open the door, letting it slam shut behind him.

Palms clammy from sweat, I watched the threshold, waiting for it to open again. When it didn't, I returned to the scale, unable to believe the figure it had showed. Except, it didn't differ, presenting the exact same value as the time before, and the time before that; almost four kilograms below usual, the considered safe weight for a driver, given how many grams flew off during races.

Voices grew closer in the corridor and I shot back to my seat, Owen emerging in a huff. I rolled up my sleeve, and he slid the device around my bicep. We stayed in silence as the machine did its job, not wanting to interrupt the accuracy of it by talking, and soon enough a periodic beep sliced through the air.

"One-fifty, ninety seven." Owen typed in on the computer.

"Is that high?"

He smirked, "Not for you."

I nodded, unable to stop thinking about the value on the scale, now eternalised on official documents to keep track of my health. I tried to blame it on the resistance to a proper diet, to too much training, but deep down I knew why it had changed so much - and I wanted to punch myself for it, for ever returning to the old habit.

Owen finished the rest of his checks, "All right, one last thing."

I observed him reach into the drawer beneath the desk.

"It's obligatory." He held out a leaflet.

Taking it, I squinted at the front; do your heart a favour, quit smoking!

"By who? Curro?" I scoffed, suffing it into my pocket.

"No, for my own peace of mind." He grinned. "See you tomorrow, Taz."

"Thanks." I opened the door, following the hallways to the exit of the clinic.

Outside, the sky had morphed into complete darkness, a stark contrast to when I first entered the building an hour earlier. Naturally, my hand reached for the carton of cigarettes in my pocket, and I placed one between my lips, patting the rest of my pockets for a lighter. Finding the smoking leaflet instead, I crumpled it into a ball, tossing it into a bin nearby so I could continue my search. Except, I released a groan; I'd broken my lighter the day before, a consequence of throwing it on the concrete floor.