The Grudge •||• PA17

•||•

30 August 2022

The synthetic quiet of the hospital room was an aching betrayal. It should have been loud, loud with the shriek of shredded tires, the roar of rain, the thunder of impact. Instead, all I heard was the beeping of monitors tracing a heartbeat that felt too small, too fragile for the damage inside me.

When I finally managed to pry my eyes open, the world swam into a harsh, sterile focus. The light was dull and unforgiving. My neck protested the slightest movement, a dull, pervasive ache that spoke volumes of forced stillness. But the figures around the bed were the only anchors I needed.

Kimi, usually a fortress of emotional calm, was pale and utterly undone, gripping the bedrail like it was the only thing preventing him from floating away. His eyes, usually sharp with competitive fire, were red-rimmed and distant.

Thea, my constant one, sat nearby, her worry visible in the carefully curated stillness of her posture. She was dressed in one of my team hoodies, which I probably stole from Kimi, the colors a stark reminder of the world I'd just been ripped from.

And by the window, a sentinel of silent concern, was Ollie. The guy Kimi and I had met a few months back, a source of easy laughter and shared secrets. Now, he was a block of tense, contained energy, the worry etched into the dark circles beneath his eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept since the yellow flags flew.

"Viviana, thank God," Kimi whispered, the relief making his voice tremble. He confessed that I had been "in and out of it" for nearly two days, slipping close to a mild coma due to the severe concussion.

Thea gently, clinically, listed the inventory of damage: a severe concussion, two cracked ribs, and most critically, a compression fracture in my lower spine, specifically the L1 vertebra¹ .

She repeated the doctor's words: "Stable, but requiring months of painful, methodical healing." My racing suit, the one with my name stitched in bold thread, was gone, replaced with a flimsy, institutional gown.

I was broken. And then, the memory of the race, the water-logged track, the blinding spray, and the final, crushing force of the impact returned. I remembered the author of the destruction.

"Where is he?" I rasped, the question tearing at my throat.

Kimi looked down with anger, unable to meet my eyes. Thea gently squeezed my hand, a silent comfort. It was Ollie who delivered the verdict, his tone ice cold, stripped of all easygoing charm.

"Paul is fine. Unscathed. Walked away like it was a minor crash. Race control called it a racing incident, which is pure, unadulterated bullshit," he stated, his jaw tight.

He paused, letting the bitterness sink in. "Kimi said he sent a brief text to the team principal, saying he was 'sorry for the incident' and would visit when he was 'sure you were up to it.' He's already back home."

Paul Aron. My oldest friend. The one whose hands I had trusted on the wheel of a go-kart since we were teenagers. He hadn't just crashed me, he had abandoned me in the wreck. He chose self-preservation, then silence, and finally, cowardice over accountability. The silence from him was not a mistake, it was a deliberate choice.

"Get him out of my head," I managed to choke out, fighting a sudden, fierce rush of tears.

Ollie immediately responded. He moved with purpose, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking my hand in a warm, steady grip that was utterly unlike Paul's chaotic energy. "Done," he said, pulling my focus away. "We're talking about the Red Bull Ring. You owe me and Kimi a rematch in the sim, and I need you back on your feet so I can finally beat you fair and square. We're getting you through this."