𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞; oscar piastri

PART SIXTEEN

Word count; 2,569

Tomás

— May 15th, 2023. Farnborough, England.
𝙏𝙬𝙤 𝙢𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙝𝙨 𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙧.

For the first time in four years, Lamborghini was leading the championship.

More specifically, we were exactly forty points ahead of RedBull, a result of three wins across Saudi Arabia, Azerbaijan and Miami; I was the only driver to have found myself on every podium, given Max's unfortunate fourth finish in Baku, with Liam fighting his way behind me whenever Alonso managed to get out of the way. Grand stands were filled with black and gold, every conference was harrowed by questions of the championship, not just queries about engines or the dubious maneuvers Liam or I pulled off on track. There were still eighteen races left of the season, and yet the whole team was ecstatic, finally getting a taste for what we had fallen short of for the last two years.

Yet, none of it made a difference.

I couldn't pinpoint when the spiral had started, but I'd only fallen deeper into it, like a leaf floating slowly downstream. Everything in my mind had become so loud, and each morning I found myself facing the same ache in my chest, hollow and obsolete, with a struggle to put on the facade that got me into this world in the first place. As a result, I'd drink as much as I could, until the noise silenced, the weight on my shoulders ceased. Then, I'd spend an hour or two chain smoking cigarettes, as if that would prevent the anguish from returning. And finally, barely able to feel a thing, I'd reverse the damage, throwing up until my throat burned from stomach acid. It was a schedule, masked by Grand Prix wins and celebratory nights on the town.

I'd practically predicted it. Not to mention I knew it was wrong.

Wrong can't even describe it. I'd began to avoid my physio appointments, all too familiar with the consequences, and my body was beginning to suffer - whether from the lack of proper recovery, or the poison I was inflicting on it with cheap booze and smokes, I couldn't tell.

But I couldn't stop.

The cycle had started long ago, and I'd always found ways to evade the habit, though it would always return, one way or another. Weeks would pass, months, even, but it would always return.

And this was by far the worst it had gotten.

In place of the noise was nothing. I'd wake up in hotel rooms, with no recollection of the night before, or the days before that, surrounded by people I didn't know. After Miami, where I'd come first, I woke up in a room I didn't recognise, a girl plastered to my side, another guy asleep next to her. No phone, no wallet. I hadn't even bothered to take off my ring. Yet, I couldn't care, consoled by the fact there were used condoms on the floor.

And Curro went ballistic.

He always had when I'd avoid his calls, return to my hotel late in the morning. But this was different. I wouldn't answer my phone for days - mainly because I had lost it that night in Miami (or someone had stolen it, I wasn't sure, like I said, I couldn't remember) - and when he'd find me, I'd be so out of it I could barely hold a conversation. But it didn't matter, right? I'd find enough sobriety to coast through the race weekends, to launch myself onto podiums. It didn't matter. Right?

Approaching the floor-to-ceiling windows of the private terminal, I examined the runway beneath my sunglasses, dark clouds concealing the sky. Though, even that was too bright, and I darted away, confronted by a familiar face entering the lounge.

"You look like shit," I narrated, pulling Lando into a quick embrace.

"Feel like it." He muttered, slumping onto one of the couches, rubbing his forehead with his knuckles. "I think I'm coming down with something."