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Oscar is trying his best. Every morning he wakes up, brushes his teeth, goes for a run, then has a shower. This has been the same since he was a child and will continue to be the same until he can no longer stand on his own. To anyone else it seems like a routine - a way to ensure a good start to the day - but to Oscar it's the only way to convince himself that he's not as disgusting as he feels. The sensation of bugs crawling under his skin from the first moment he is conscious to the moment he falls back asleep won't disappear if he doesn't scrub at it like someone with a dish sponge meticulously trying to get rid of the particularly stubborn stains they let linger on their favourite dish. To say that Oscar enjoyed this routine would be a lie. Honestly, to say that Oscar enjoyed anything at all would be lying too. No matter what he does, how hard he tries to convince himself that he's normal it never works. Maybe that was the point of it all.
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Race days are the only time he differs from this schedule, mostly because he never falls asleep the night before them anyway. No matter how many times Artturi lectures him about the importance of being well rested Oscar just can never manage to do so on those lonely Saturdays. There was a time (he can't remember when, it's covered in a dark fog that reminds him faintly of motor oil and laughter, the sort that only occurs when around your family) that sleeping was the thing he looked forward to. Some may of even called it his favourite hobby. Now though, Oscar dreads those fateful nights. The sharp sounds of tools clanging, tyres squealing, crowds screaming and angry yet indistinguishable chatter bounce around in the echo chamber that is his mind. Once so full of potential and knowledge, it was now a breeding ground for the thoughts that he scares even himself with sometimes. Oscar knows he shouldn't feel like this. What reason does he have? So instead he gets up, gets ready and goes about his day, like any normal person would. Everything is fine. It has to be.
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The beginning of the end is at the Chinese GP, 2025. A pole position converted to a flawless win is basically the best thing an F1 driver could ask for in a race weekend, and that was exactly what Oscar did. Celebrations bled into the early hours of Monday, the team ecstatic after a 1-2 for him and Lando. Despite being surrounded by people from all over, cheering his name, saying how proud they are, Oscar still felt nothing. He dragged himself back to his hotel room completely sober and found himself staring at his rooms wall for an unknown amount of hours, but it was enough time for his legs to go numb from standing for so long. Perhaps this was the moment he made the decision that changed everything, perhaps not. He'd like to say that he remembered but that wouldn't be the truth, and the one thing Oscar still prided himself on was being honest.
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At 3.05 am on Monday the 24th of March, Oscar Piastri swallowed a handful of sleeping pills and chased them down with half a bottle of vodka.
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His funeral was beautiful.