Paris|| Pierre Gasly

Ten

⬆️ A digital painting by Kelogsloops called "Lionhearted".
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I speed past turn 1, forgetting the fact that I'm not supposed to be inside the circuit. Pierre has let me borrow his Toro Rosso team jacket for now, the hood was up and I had a face mask covering my face from the bridge of my nose to the end of my chin.

We rode whilst the sun was settling down. Colder wisps of air started to come into the track. My hands are cold and I've never loved the feeling of it until now. If freedom was a scene they would show moment.

I stood up from the seat, balancing myself on the two bike pedals and stretch my arms. I laugh out of amusement. The golden streaks of the sun beamed at me which created shadows on the track. Shadows of me and him not giving a care.

"How the hell did you do that?" Pierre asks loudly, still sitting normally on his bike.

I sat down and grasped the handle and started peddling again. I shrugged at him.

"Cocky!" He playfully shouted at me.

We continued and stopped at the starting line. I put down the mask and beamed at him. We sat on the ground, overlooking the sun set. I look at Pierre to see him fiddling with the ground.

He looks so great on the twilight.

I want to punch something to assure myself that this is all real and I am not going to wake up on my bed at home. 

Home

Where? I do not know where that is.

I land my fist on the rough ground rather harshly. It landed diagonally so it slid on the asphalt ground, probably marking its ridges on my knuckles. I wince and I glance on my knuckles. It was starting to bleed.

What is wrong with me?

I cursed at myself silently, but unfortunately, Pierre has heard it.

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And here I am, standing in a queue at some pharmacy buying some bandage wraps and some ointment for my knuckles. I imagine beating myself up for ruining the moment back there in the circuit. Pierre was supposed to be with me right now until his engineer called him for some things to be done. I gave the Toro Rosso jacket back before heading here.

My damaged hand was hidden inside one of the pockets of my jacket. Considering there were a good number of people inside the pharmacy, it was best not to show everyone my raw bleeding hand as some might find it offensive. It was not hygienic to put my hand inside an unwashed jacket but today was not the day I wanted to get shouted at.

The woman behind the counter said something to me in Spanish. I told her I couldn't speak Spanish.

"What have you got there in your pocket?" The woman behind the counter asks again in fluent English, probably thinking I was shoplifting something. She eyed me down as her red lips told me she was gritting her teeth. I roll my eyes and showed my empty— bloody pocket. She looked at it with shock and I gave my credit card.

"Can you hurry up a bit, I'm kind of losing a lot of blood." I smiled. "Thanks."

I paid for the stuff and went out of the pharmacy. I sat down on a bench outside and took my hand out. I look at my hand now full of dried blood— especially on the knuckles. I took out the stuff I bought from the plastic.

I wince as I drag the cotton buds with ointment. I should have bought water to wash the blood out of my hands. I sigh and wrapped the bandage wrap around my knuckles.