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It's Abu Dhabi, in the year Twenty-Twenty One, the sky is blue, and Lewis Hamilton has lost the championship battle. It is a fact, and he cannot deny it. It is a fact, and it makes hurt claw it's way into his mind, and rage burn in his veins.
He thinks of the tentative friendship he and Max created, and he thinks about how it will probably be ruined now. He thinks of the way he was robbed of a championship that could've made him the greatest in Formula One history, and he thinks of the way Max's history will forever be tainted by the mistake of a man perhaps too desperate for a change in the sport he loves.
He thinks of the fans, all divided into two, some joyous, some hurting, some raging, some crying, some, all in one.
He thinks about how he has probably lost another friend to a sport he has given, and will keep giving, his blood to. He thinks about how his blood stains the Mercedes garage, and his tears, the trophies he has given his life to. He thinks of how much he has given, and how much he has left to give.
It is an unfair decision, he knows, but it has happened, and he has lost the championship, and there is no one else to blame than himself. Maybe, should he have tried more, worked harder, lost more weight, done anything more than what he had done, he would be the one on the top step of the podium, bathing in champagne, and high on the victory he has slowly ebbed away at himself for.
He thinks of everything this sport has done for him. Momentary joy, is nothing compared to the years of racism and scrutiny he has suffered under. Momentary gain, is nothing compared to the bits and pieces Lewis has had to lose of himself, if it meant earning at least a smile from the public.
Momentary joy, is nothing compared to having nearly causing the death of a friend, that might no longer be a friend, now; Or having a car parked on your head, maybe hoping to sever it from his body, so that the media have the trophy they have been craving for the moment he entered the sport, young and naive.
Lewis thinks of all he could have achieved, has achieved, and has failed to achieve. Looking at all the records he holds, the answer should be obvious to the question on which he has done better. So, why is it that his failures outweigh his could-haves and actual victories by a landslide?
Lewis Hamilton is not God. How can he be God if he can barely stomach the thought of waking up the next day? How could he be God if he cannot even think of himself as a human? The tears sting his eyes, and he shoves them under, holding them hostage so that they cannot escape. Lewis Hamilton is not God, is barely human, and he will not cry in the public eye, granting the vultures the perfect time to attempt to eat away at his rotting corpse.
He thinks of how Max, minutes (hours? how long has it been? He seems to have lost his sense of time, too.) earlier, has let himself do the very thing he has vowed to never do. He thinks of how Max sobbed in the warm embrace of his car, ecstatic at the royalty of being crowned a champion in one of the most gruelling sports. He thinks of how he, himself, had nearly broken down in the cold clutches of his car.
He thinks of Sebastian, and wonders if this is what he felt when he lost a championship after nearly having it secured in his arms, claimed with his name. He thinks of Fernando, of Massa, of Nico. He is not new to losing, to loneliness, to anger, to pain, but it feels as if he is feeling a whole new spectrum of it today. He feels as though new wounds are ripping his skin apart, and old, healed, ones have been cut too deep by remembrance, so they choose to let him think of them more by smearing their blood on everything he holds dear.
He is not new to losing a championship, but it will never not feel as if his heart is being ripped away from his chest, and his mind being dissected for everyone, regardless of where they are, or who they are, to see.
He thinks of Max. He thinks of how he has possibly, no, one hundred percent lost his company. He thinks of Fernando, and what they could have been, not that he would like them to be anything in the first place. He thinks of Sebastian, and what they are. He thinks of Valtteri, and what more they could be. He thinks of Nico, and what they were, could have been, should have been, and would have been, had the circumstances been different.
He thinks of Nico Rosberg in Twenty-Sixteen, in the wake of Abu Dhabi, Twenty-Twenty one. He thinks of cutting words, and harsh moves. He thinks of the parallels the two seasons hold, and he thinks about what more he could have offered.
He thinks of the smell of petrol, and the feel of a car on gravel, as the faint edges of crashes flash through his mind, tainting his vision. He thinks of tear-filled arguments, mind games played like they needed it to survive, and he thinks of desperation.
He thinks of how desperate both he and Nico were. Both, to win the championship, Nico, to retire, and Lewis, to hold together a friendship never meant to survive. He thinks of how he was desperate for a lot of things, but he mostly thinks of how desperate he was to save his crumbling, wilting friendship from finding a grave to bury itself in. He thinks he was as desperate as a dehydrated man would be for water. As a drowning man would be for air. As a malnourished man would be for food. He thinks of it all.
He loathes the cameras shoved in his face, of the fans speculating about everything he could be going through, of the metaphorical surgeon, or perhaps a teacher, is dissecting his body to show medical students how it's done. He thinks of how he is on display. How his every action, every twitch of a muscle, and every thought he thinks is up for everyone to see, and he aches for the privacy of a home that will never be home because he has lost his home.
Lewis has gone through many homes in his life, some more metaphorical than the others. He thinks of the literal homes he's had. His motorhome, his family home, his apartment in Monaco, his house in Los Angeles, a hidden house he purchased and renovated in case he needed to hide from the eyes and ears on him twenty-four seven.
He thinks of his family, of Roscoe, of Formula One, though he would like to think that he doesn't count that one anymore, of Sebastian, of McLaren, of Mercedes, of Jenson, of Nico.
He thinks of how Nico had been his home for so long, that after Twenty-Sixteen, he did not know what to do without him. He felt stripped bare without the comfort of at least knowing he had someone. He thinks of muffled sobs, soft whispers of the hopes of his soul hopefully being taken away to lay in rest before he does it himself, and tears cascading down his face. He was not a pretty face at that time, and he will be the first to admit so.
He thinks of Nico, giving everything he had until he had no more to give, that he started chipping away at his body, mind, and heart, to give to a sport that reveled in his pain, and found joy in it too. He thinks of hearing Nico break down in places where he thought he was alone, letting the mask slip, and felt himself ache to comfort a friend he no longer had because despite what he acts like, or says, Nico Rosberg will forever be his best friend. Nico will forever have a hold on his heart, and he would have it no other way.
Despite that, Nico (and by extension, himself,) should have known that they would never be alone. Not when their burning ashes of a ruined friendship was being put on display for others to gloat at.
He thinks, no, he knows for a fact, that Nico has heard him cry, too, but they will never talk about it. Just like he has lost the championship this year, it is a fact that Lewis and Nico do not talk.
He does not know how he survived the day, with all the pitying glances, and words shot at him, with the unfamiliar, unwanted hands encasing his body and attempting their tries on a comforting gesture. He thinks of the radio silence Max has opted to give him, and he thinks of the one he returns.
He thinks of how now he aches for a home that has been lost to time, more than ever. He aches for Nico to come to him because Nico is the only one who knows how to actually, properly comfort him. No one will ever come close to Nico. He thinks of how Sebastian tries his best, but it is futile when the problem is not just losing a hard battle fought for a championship, but only the beginning of an avalanche, and the tip of the iceberg.
He thinks that had he been standing on the second step in Twenty-Sixteen, he would have been able to find more things to cut himself on the broken glass that his thoughts are. Still, Twenty-Sixteen has caused him more pain than this year ever will.
It is humorous, though, that he loses everything he wants, craves, needs, at Abu Dhabi. The circuit is like a blade that keeps cutting, never rusting. Lewis likes to think that his blood is a spectacle that the press would love to take a picture of, and frame it, as his blood drips down, cascading like a beautiful waterfall.
Lewis has bled over many circuits, but never like he does at Abu Dhabi.
He thinks of all of this as he operates on muscle memory, and auto pilot as he goes through the seemingly never ending day.
Alongside the earlier stated facts, it is also a fact that Lewis Hamilton did not fall asleep the night of the race, instead choosing to settle for some less than ideal coping methods to deal with the fact that he has lost, yet again.
Lewis Hamilton is not God, is barely human, even to himself, and can barely find it within himself to continue living, and he is a failure. So long as he continues to breathe, he will always be one.