Redeemed (Dirty Air 4)

“Santiago, fuck! Brace!” James yells out something else, but I can’t hear him over the blood pounding in my ears.

Everything blurs as the car propels across the gravel at over two-hundred miles an hour. My car speeds toward the protective barrier without slowing. The front right wing of my car smashes into the tires lining a concrete blockade. Rubber tires fly, doing little to shield my race car from the drastic impact.

My teeth snap together and my body jostles from the hit. Blinding hot pain shoots up my right leg. My heart races in my chest, and short, ragged breaths escape my lungs. Every part of my body aches. I blink back tears as my hands shake against the steering wheel.

“Santiago, are you okay? The safety team is on their w

ay!” James calls out. The tremble in his voice gives away his fear.

Fuck. The world spins on its axis as I gaze at the damage. My front bumper resembles a mangled metal ball, with the right side taking the most damage. Smoke billows from behind me, clouding my vision.

I lift from my seat. A sharp pain shoots through my body, forcing me to bite down on my tongue. “Need a medic. Now.” My words come out as a moan.

James curses into the mic. “Can you get out of your car and get behind the safety barrier?”

Safety barrier? What a joke, seeing as it did a shit job of keeping me protected.

I attempt to remove my harness, but another rush of pain elicits a groan from me. “No. Fuck. I can’t get up.” I attempt to wiggle my toes, but my right one stays numb. “I can’t move! Ay, Dios. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Negative thoughts fuel the rush of panic building inside of me. Why can’t I move? Why can’t I get out of this fucking car? Stand up! Do something!

Everything I try to do is met with a sharp stab of pain. My vision blurs and acid crawls up my throat.

“Santi! The safety patrol is almost here.” My sister’s voice booms as she rushes up to the broken barrier. A metal fence rises above the barricade and keeps us apart. Her crazed brown eyes latch onto mine as she frantically grips the chain links.

“Maya. No te preocupes!” I try to calm her worries as I remove the steering wheel from my dashboard and throw it on the front wing. The move jostles my body again, sending another shattering pain up the right side of my body.

“They’ll get you out! Stop moving!” Maya’s voice rises as she calls out for any medic to help.

“I couldn’t get up even if I wanted to.” My body grows hot as sweat trickles down my face. Everything around me slows as I try to comprehend the pain in my leg. Is this what shock feels like?

Adrenaline escapes me like a deflating balloon. My vision darkens as I attempt to remain conscious. Maya tugs on her brown hair, trying to catch my attention, but I don’t respond. Processing her words takes effort, and my body wants to give out.

The safety team rushes onto the scene. They ask rapid-fire questions that add to my growing unease. I struggle to explain my situation, and they work on getting me out.

Maya comes up to my side and clutches onto my hand. “It’ll be all right. The ambulance is on its way now.” Tears escape her eyes.

“It hurts so fucking bad. I think I might pass out.”

“Quédate conmigo.”

I can’t stop the panicky sensation building inside of me as the medics pull me out of my car.

“Maya,” I croak.

Someone forces her to let go of my hand as they move me onto a spinal board.

“It’ll be okay. They’ll take good care of you!” she cries over the yelling crew and blaring sirens.

The lights of the ambulance flash around me. I don’t want to give into the darkness, but the mind-numbing ache in my leg has other plans. It steals away my consciousness and my dream of winning another Championship along with it.

The smell of antiseptic hits me first. My nose twitches at the mix of alcohol and pine needles, and my eyes burn as the bright ceiling lights come into focus.

It takes me a few moments to register my surroundings. Beeping machines match the accelerating beat of my heart. An IV needle pricks my hand, attached to bags of fluids.

I blink, forcing my eyes to adjust. My foggy brain doesn’t want to comprehend why I’m in a hospital bed.

“Ay Dios, ya estas despierto.” My mom gets up from a chair across from me and pulls my hand into hers. Her brown hair is thrown up in a messy bun, and the wrinkles in her clothes match the ones etched into her face.