I didn't even hear my dad's on knock because I was busy with alcohol. That's why I was surprised by Dad when he ripped the bottle out of my hand. I completely ignored the pain that emanated from this. I was already too full to really notice it. Laughing, I tried to get the bottle back, which my father prevented.
"Are you abandoned by all good spirits? What's the crap with the alcohol and what does your hand look like?" he shocked lyses the bottle away and put my right hand in his. I had noticed the discoloration and that it was swollen even less. Fascinated I looked at my hand, but in my intoxication, I got it very different. Laughing, I tried to free myself from my father's grip, but he didn't let me go.
"My fingers are so thick and blue" that I was drunk, I think everyone could hear out. As I happily continued to watch my hand, my father quickly took the phone out of his pocket. I didn't even get along with whom Dad was on the phone because of the intoxication. Moreover, I could not have understood him anyway, because he spoke in Italian. It was sometimes really annoying that I couldn't speak the languages of my biological parents. I had often thought about going to a language school for it, but my poor French grades had kept me from doing so.
My father carefully tried to help me on my feet: "We go to the dear doctor in the hospital, he will examine your hand." Like a little kid, I giggled and nodded excitedly. My father just shook his head and muttered something in Italian, which made me giggled even more. The anger I had on him less than two hours ago was completely gone. What was probably better, who knows what else I would have done in my state. It was enough if I had already bumped Lando from me. Even that had made me forget.
Shortly after, my father had lifted me up and carried me to the elevator. In this I sat down on the floor, as my mood was now tilting. At a certain alcohol level, the hilarious toddler faded away and instead I get cocky and just do stupid things. I had reached this point, so I sat in the corner of the elevator with my arms crossed and stared grimly at me.
Once downstairs, my father tried to get me back on my feet, but I refused. That's why he was slowly annoyed and groaning at me. But it had no effect on me in my state. Soberly, I would have sobered and done what my father asked of me but drunk I didn't think about it. Shaking my head, I squeezed myself even more into the corner and tried to make myself small.
In desperation, my father pulled me by the arm, because he wanted to force me to get up: "My goodness is already getting up, it was still easy when you were a child. Come up with you now! » So immediately he cursed again in Italian. I cramped my healthy hand on a bracket as my father pulled me further to the exit of the elevator. He had closed again but had not left.
Terrified, Dad turned to the entrance as the elevator door reopened. Behind them came the drivers and other men who were part of the teams. It probably didn't have to look so good from her perspective, because we saw in a total of eight shocked faces. For them, it must have looked pretty bad, as if my father wanted to beat me up or something. Embarrassed, my father stared at them. I was no longer embarrassed by the intoxication, so I smoldered further in the corner in front of me.
"Good evening, we just wanted to go. Come now Laura gets up already," I shook my head again and remained stubborn. My father was on the verge of despair because the situation was more than unpleasant for him. The men in front of the elevator probably still didn't know how to classify it. They still looked at me and Dad. This slightly roughly detached my hand from the mount in the elevator. Before I could hold on to anything else, he lifted me up and walked to the exit.
Embarrassed, he passed Lando and his friends: "Children." As if the word explained everything, his voice had made me laugh again. Now I think everyone would realize that I had a little too much into. As fast as he could Dad just wanted to leave. If the drivers thought otherwise, he had to take care of his injured and drunk daughter. Luckily, nothing came from the men, so he was quickly out of the hotel with me.
Buckling turned out to be a big challenge. Every time he strapped me on and closed the door, I had strapped myself back. When Dad wanted to get behind the wheel, I was about to get out. He quickly ran back to my side of the car and started strapping me again before quickly running back to his side. He had to take part in the whole thing about eight times. Until the alcohol tired me, and I remained silent. Headaches were already safe for me the next day.
On the way to the hospital I had fallen asleep, so I woke up when someone lifted me up. Carefully I opened my eyes, the alcohol had subsided, but still slightly there. Headaches were also easy to feel, so I closed my eyes moaning. I knew it was going to get worse, but the bright light of the hospital made it unbearable.
"I know you're awake again. We're in the hospital," I had already noticed Dad. I gently opened one eye, then the other. Cracked me up because the lights in the emergency room were too bright. Since it had been dark outside for a long time, the light appeared to be even brighter and brighter than by day.
While my father was registering me, I was sitting on one of these uncomfortable stools. My gaze was fixed on the ground, so the pain was more bearable. I saw for the first time in a somewhat sober stand on my thick, blue hand. Slowly and cautiously, I wanted to move them, but let it be immediately. A hellish pain came from his hand and spread to my shoulders. I had probably been more violent than I had thought.
I briefly looked up when my father came up to me and sat next to me. He gently put an arm and my shoulder and pulled me a little. It was almost midnight, so Dad was probably exhausted. Cuddled to his side, I closed my eyes again, it did well to have the paternal closeness. Such affection had always been a rarity, which is why I particularly enjoyed it. Others my old man might have freed themselves from their father, but I tried to push myself even closer to him.
A doctor's assistant took me first for An X-ray and then to a treatment room. With my legs, I trembled with nervousness and stared at the clock above the door. It had already been half one and the fatigue got worse. I didn't really feel the alcohol anymore and I ignored the headaches as best I could. In the meantime, my behavior was extremely embarrassing. For no real reason, I had sniffed At Lando and given myself the edge. Tomorrow I would have to apologize, because I was extremely sorry for the Englishman.
I couldn't think about it anymore, because a man in a wise coat came inside. He kindly greeted me in Italian, which I replied. After all, I just wanted to be polite and it was the only thing I could say in my father's language. What the doctor probably hadn't noticed and continued to speak cheerfully in Italian and I only understood station. When he finally looked up from the file to me, he saw my overwhelmed face. Like a small child, I would have liked to run outside to my dad, because the doctor had surprised me.
"English? I can't speak Italian, just my father," I stammered in front of me. Such situations were unpleasant to me. Just my name and look like I was speaking Italian or Spanish. I was supposed to have gotten used to it, but it overwhelmed me every time it happened again.
The doctor looked at me apologetically: "Your hand broke during the transition to the fingers. We seemed to spare them now, four to six weeks." His English was difficult to understand and somewhat brittle. He probably didn't need it too often, but I understood the most important. With a nod, I told him that I understood him and agreed. He got up and got everything he needed to plaster.
The doctor's assistant came in and helped the doctor to keep my fingers in a right angle. It hurt at first, but the young doctor's assistant had explained to me how important it was. The fingers were plastered in such a way that the tendon in the fingers would not shorten if the fingers could not move for a month. This explanation had enlightened me, and the pain had quickly passed.
"How did it happen?" the woman asked me as she held up my hand. I looked embarrassed at my hand, which was covered by a white mass. It had been subtly embarrassing to me because it had been really stupid of me.
I then looked embarrassed to the woman next to me: "Was angry with myself, a wall was a good idea for me to react." Laughing, the woman looked at me, and immediately she explained to me that it had happened a few times. I was aware that I wasn't the only one who was so stupid. Hearing it again from the outside, but it did well. Because I still felt stupid because of my slip.
With a white hand, I left the doctor's room and walked towards my father. Exhausted, he had leaned back in the chair and put his head against the wall. It had probably been a long day for him and by the end of his 30s he was probably too old to go through nights. Even though I had very young parents, they couldn't hide the fact that they had gotten older. As a child, I loved having young parents. When they had time for me, we always did great things. I had often spent an entire afternoon on a football field with Dad. Because he had hoped I might become a footballer. Dad had told me several times in the fun that he had hoped that I would become a boy. What He had done.
As I got closer to him, his gaze rose: "And what did the doctor say?". Silently I just held my hand up, it had probably been enough answer. He sighed and pressed a kiss on the approach before paternally put a hand on my shoulder blade. So, he led me to the exit and I just let him do it. His quiet manner and wideness still frightened me. I could already imagine what was going to follow in the car and I wasn't looking forward to it.
Contrary to what I thought, Dad didn't say a word to me on the way home. It was just before one in the morning, so we came home without traffic problems. In front of the hotel, Dad parked his expensive Porsche and went straight to the entrance. I ran to him and stepped into the lobby. Dad briefly greeted the night porter, but then went straight to the elevators. This silence was worse than any sermon he had ever given me.
"We are still talking about your behavior today, after which you accompanied me to the f1 training. Just in time at 8 o'clock in the dining room, did we understand each other?" I nodded silently. I closed the room door with the card and immediately closed it behind me. It was already after one o'clock, so I made myself bed. I quickly scurried under my blanket and closed my eyes.
YOU ARE READING
Where life leads us
FanfictionLaura Russo Lopez has never had it easy in her life. Between three worlds she has been grown up and never had a real home. Her future had always been clearly defined by her parents. To make them pride, Laura did everything. Until she meets Formula 1...
