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Summary
There isn’t an easy way to go about describing it, is the thing. How it happened, Oscar isn’t clear on the particulars of it all.
This he knows: he’d been stumbling down the hallway after his fight with Lando, barely keeping himself upright with a hand on the wall. Until, he’d fallen right through it. There exists a concrete dichotomy, and then there doesn’t. The wall swallows him, is the only way to describe it. Some membrane opens up, and he stumbles into the sulfuric fluorescence of another world altogether.
In the centre of the room sits a mound of wrangled cars, Mclaren orange, Ferrari red, Mercedes teal, every other team on the grid, maybe, that almost skims the ceiling, like a massive pile-up on the track.
Amongst the wreckage, he thinks he sees the wreckage of Belgium, 2021. Lando, shunting into the barriers, dragging up sparks, flinging debris across the asphalt.
The crumpled orange carcass of the car watches him now. Something within peers at him, the watery flash of hazel.
OR
an ode to liminal spaces and desire