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estebanbicon · 1 month ago

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The F1 driver who takes every opening he sees

A mechanic’s son, Esteban Ocon took an unlikely path to an F1 driver’s seat. Now he’s fighting to keep it.

MONTE CARLO, Monaco — The mechanic’s son walks past women in bright dresses and men in fine suits, many of them sipping champagne. He breathes in the salty air of the Mediterranean, its shoreline neither rocks nor sand but dozens of mega-yachts.

The Monaco Grand Prix, held each May, is the global peak of sports opulence, less street race than picture postcard from high society: A-listers and royals toasting the good life in the richest place on Earth. Several Formula One drivers live here, their plain-sight hideaway amid a Netflix-fueled fascination with their sport. Among them are Max Verstappen and Lewis Hamilton — champions, multimillionaires and household names in a sport Hamilton has called a “billionaire boys club.”

Esteban Ocon, though, is not of this world. When Ocon was a karting wunderkind, other drivers would sneer at him and scoff, whispering that the only child of a dumpster-diving mechanic doesn’t belong. That the Frenchman, now 28, will forever be a [wanderer] playing dress-up in a place such as Monaco. Even after eight years on the grid, he remains an outsider.

Then again, an impressive finish here would change minds. It might even change Ocon’s, convincing him it’s possible to be born into one end of the economic spectrum and, with enough talent and moxie, reach the other.

He changes out of his jeans and into an Alpine race suit. He stretches the muscles on his thin frame and climbs into a $15 million super machine. The green flag drops. Ocon accelerates, 0 to 100 mph in 2½ seconds, trying to position himself and his team for an early chance at points. Over the years, he has proved himself as a skilled and fearless driver, aggressive sometimes to the point of recklessness.

With Monaco’s narrow streets and hairpin turns, passing is dangerous. Three-time world champion Nelson Piquet once compared it to riding a bicycle in your living room. And trying to pass a teammate? It simply isn’t done.

Before the race, in fact, Alpine instructed its drivers to avoid each other. Whoever is ahead after the first lap should stay there; the driver behind him is to protect his blind side.

Midway through the first lap, the cars are clustered. Pierre Gasly, Alpine’s other driver, is immediately in front of Ocon. On the eighth turn, just before the circuit’s famed tunnel, Gasly eases off the accelerator. Ocon sees his teammate drift left, allowing space between Gasly and the wall, creating an opening.

FIVE HUNDRED MILES NORTH, there’s a small French village built into the lush countryside. People in Évreux raise chickens, recycle batteries, mow their own grass. And the locals tell of a man north of town who could bring back the dead, so long as the corpse had four wheels.

One of those locals, Marc Guillouet, still remembers the sound of Laurent Ocon’s air compressor bellowing at all hours as Ocon performed reconstructive surgery on another broken-down used car that had been towed through his gate. Then, hours later, another sound: the engine humming back to life.

“The way he refurbished it,” Guillouet says, “it was like new.”

Laurent was a self-taught mechanic who built his shop onto the back of the Ocons’ home, a single-car garage jutting out in yellow stucco. It was in the house’s rear, but it acted as the family’s entrance. Before school some mornings, young Esteban would see his father, grease up to his elbows, still trying to solve the previous night’s puzzle. When Esteban returned in the afternoon, he would watch Dad beamas he turned the key, listened and … there it was, that beautiful music.

“We live for that,” Esteban says now. “He wants to win, like me.”

Laurent’s passion was reviving machines. His son’s was maneuvering them. Esteban says he was 4 the first time he got behind the wheel of a go-kart, gliding around the track at an amusement park, through cones and around other karts as if it were second nature. His friend who came along drove straight into the wall.

Esteban kept driving, testing himself in bigger, faster, more complex machines. The families of some other 8-year-olds hired engineers, barked into radios and traveled with professional mechanics. But Laurent and wife Sabrina had no money for that. If Esteban’s carburetor failed or his torsion bar broke, it was Laurent who mounted a new one. Then they would return to Évreux from Ambourville or Rouen, often with Esteban cradling another trophy.

“We tried to protect Esteban from pressure as much as possible,” Laurent says, answering questions emailed by The Washington Post. “But unfortunately, the only solution is to perform.”

After one of Esteban’s races, a representative from a management company approached. The boy had the talent to make racing his career, the man said, but it wouldn’t be easy. Or cheap.

Thousands of European kids grow up dreaming of the Formula One life, waiting to pilot a rocket at circuits such as Monza and Silverstone and Monaco. Most never make it, and even those who only come close do so after millions have been spent on equipment, travel and engineering.

The families of many drivers commit hundreds of thousands before their child becomes a teenager, largely to get noticed by top feeder programs and driver academies. Among the hopefuls are the kids of billionaires and oligarchs, able to bankroll the pursuit of a nine-figure dream. A few even pay their way onto the F1 grid, with cash-strapped teams agreeing because it transfers the financial responsibility.

Most, though, spend years working their way up.

“Even if you are talented,” Esteban says, “if you don’t have the right people, you don’t manage.”

But all he had were his parents.

“If he really wants to do it,” Esteban remembers hearing Laurent say years ago, “we’ll give him everything we can.”

LAURENT AND SABRINA SOLD THEIR HOUSE and the family business, leaving behind anything that didn’t fit in a 21-foot motor home. They stuffed Esteban’s mini-kart into the rear of a van, surrounded it with tools and Esteban’s toys, then hitched the motor home to the van’s rear.

“Prepping,” Esteban’s parents told him, “for the rest of your life.”

With Évreux in the rearview, home now was a parking lot in Lyon or a roadside in Le Mans. Ten-year-old Esteban had his bicycle and the family border collie to keep him company. Sabrina outfitted the motor home with a fake fireplace and told friends it was their mobile chateau. Le Palais des Ocons had a living room and shared sleeping quarters, with views that were a mountain some days, a vineyard others.

Sabrina and Laurent convinced their son that each day was an adventure, each morning a chance for Esteban to open the door so he and their dog, Viper, could breathe in a dramatic new backdrop. He and Laurent sometimes went on long bicycle rides, where they talked about engines, racing, the future. Then the convoy headed to a nearby track, where the soft-spoken Esteban slid on a helmet, climbed into his kart and transformed into an assassin. There wasn’t an opening he wouldn’t hit, a pass he wouldn’t attempt, a throat he wouldn’t cut. Esteban wanted to win races, yes, but victory was about more than bragging rights.

In his 9-year-old mind, he says, it was the only way to repay his parents.

“I had weight on my shoulders very early,” he says. “There was never a Plan B in my head.”

In 2006, Esteban, then 10, won the regional mini-kart championship, which qualified him for a spot in the French Cup’s “Minime” division. He reached the final heat, and he and another young star, Charles Leclerc, angled for positioning on the last lap. Esteban went inside, trying to overtake Leclerc, and their tires touched. Leclerc spun out and hit the wall; Esteban recovered but finished outside the top five. The two boys spent the rest of the day crying.

The family returned to Évreux each winter, staying with family so Esteban could attend a few months of school before the new season. Otherwise, they kept moving, rarely in the same place for more than a few days.

Esteban won the French Cup in 2007, the “Cadet” title a year later, the junior championship in 2010. With every promotion came longer trips and more expensive gear. An entry-level “baby” kart costs about $3,000, not including registration fees and fuel, and a used mini-kart engine and chassis can be twice that.

By 2011, with a promotion to Winning Series Karting, the chateau was crossing borders so Esteban could race in Spain, Italy and Portugal. Entry fees alone were upward of $5,000 per race, with fuel and spare parts pushing the cost higher. All youth sports have their own unique cultures, and in this one, there is an established taboo: Kids don’t talk about their parents’ wealth.

But chatter happens anyway. Jos Verstappen, father of 14-year-old Max, used to drive in Formula One and spent $1 million bankrolling his son’s career. Leclerc grew up among the yachts and Ferraris of Monaco, and Lance Stroll’s dad, Lawrence, was a fashion billionaire.

Esteban’s folks?

Homeless, the other boys murmured. Sometimes, they said, they even saw his dad lurking near the circuit, waiting to pull other drivers’ used tires out of the trash.

IN 2014, OCON, THEN 18, won nine races and finished in the top three in 21 of 33 races to claim Europe’s Formula Three championship. But it was 17-year-old Verstappen, who had finished third, who was promoted seven months later and became the youngest driver ever to appear on the F1 grid.

“My dad always said it’s not going to be easy,” Ocon says now. “I didn’t really know what my future would be.”

He spent the 2015 season with Mercedes and Lotus — discussed alongside Verstappen, George Russell and Gasly as the sport’s next generation of starsbut still toiling in its minor leagues.

The next season, another young driver, Indonesia’s Rio Haryanto, won a spot with Manor Racing, a fledgling F1 team from Britain. F1 teams today operate under an annual maximum budget. Back then, though,the annual cost for a two-car team could reach nearly $200 million per year. Some teams have lucrative sponsorship agreements and investments from engine manufacturers, but others rely only on prize money and the potential share of a year-end financial pie that is distributed to the teams that finish in the top 10 in points.

Haryanto started the first 12 races that year before Manor dropped him — and not just because he never finished better than 15th. It was because Haryanto, initially backed by a $16.65 million investment from an Indonesian oil and gas company, ran out of money.

Manor’s own survival depended on performance, so in August 2016, it contacted the most talented driver available and told 19-year-old Esteban to get to Belgium. A management company had agreed to underwrite Ocon’s career, so with the motor home now retired, the family traveled by plane.

“A lot of emotions and relief,” Laurent recalls. “The culmination of 16 years.”

FOUR MONTHS AFTER ESTEBAN’S F1 DEBUT, with the sport itself at a crossroads, Manor Racing announced it was broke.

It was January 2017, and this was the first of several dominos to tumble.

The next was that Force India, a well-funded team and a new contender, offered Esteban a multiyear contract after its No. 2 driver, Nico Hülkenberg, defected for Renault. With an elite car, Esteban finished seventh in Russia, fifth in Barcelona, sixth in Montreal — valuable points for his team and proof he belonged.

Then, in Azerbaijan, Ocon saw an opening. He tried to pass Sergio Perez, his Force India teammate, before their wheels touched. A moment later, he went for it again, contacting Perez’s car and damaging both vehicles.

“What did Esteban do, guys?” Perez said on his headset radio. He later called Ocon’s behavior “unacceptable.”

Three races later, Ocon again collided with Perez in Hungary, and a week later in Belgium, Ocon tried to pass his teammate on the inside. The cars made contact, Perez’s front wing flew off, and the veteran driver’s anger exploded.

“Honestly, what the f--- is this guy doing?” Perez said. “F---ing idiot.”

High drama — which, considering the sport’s new ownership, was undoubtably welcome.

Long owned by a European private equity fund, Formula One had recently been purchased by Liberty Media, an American entertainment titan that parlayed its ownership of struggling assets, from satellite radio to the Discovery Channel and QVC, into ownership of the Atlanta Braves. It wasalready planning the all-access Netflix docuseries that would debut in 2019 — less than a year before the pandemic. When the sports calendar ground to a halt, “Drive to Survive” became a massive hit that sent each team’s value soaring.

Sponsors and investors were fighting for a piece of a sports gold rush. Not everyone could keep up, though. Force India’s owner, Vijay Mallya, defaulted on more than $1 billion in loans after his airline failed, before numerous banks accused him of fraud. (Mallya has called these accusations “rubbish” but, after fleeing India for England, is still considered a fugitive.) He sold his team to a group of investors led by Canadian billionaire Lawrence Stroll, who had made his fortune on the threads of Tommy Hilfiger and Michael Kors. And who happened to have a son, Lance, who drove, if not very well, for Williams Mercedes.

Just like that, it was Ocon being bumped, his dream blown to pieces by his own team. When the 2019 season started, he was out of a job. He blamed “politics.”

He joined Mercedes as a reserve driver, and during race weekends, he says, he would climb into a racing simulator and go through scenario after scenario until 4 a.m. On no sleep, he would go to the airport and travel to wherever F1 was because that’s also where Ocon could meet with potential investors, sponsors and engineers. Then, a week later, he would do it all again.

“I didn’t care because I said, ‘Let’s give it a full go,’ show the people how hungry I am,” he says. Failure, he told himself, would mean that his parents’ sacrifices had been in vain.

“I didn’t do all that just to sit on the side,” he continues. “Teams saw how much I was willing to give, how much I was willing to suffer. I wanted to show everyone that I’m willing to go further than anyone else. No sleep for three straight days, simulator day and night, I’m going to do it. And, yes, I’ve lost four kilos in that year and got sick seven or eight times, and the reality is, yes, I’ve suffered and it was tough. And I don’t want to be suffering forever.”

In late summer 2019, with the first season of “Drive to Survive” being filmed, Ocon’s phone rang. Renault was parting ways with Hülkenberg. The French team wanted the kid from Évreux to come home.

“A crazy moment,” Ocon says. “This was it. The tough times are over now.”

LAST YEAR IN MONACO, something happened that was highly disruptive: Ocon finished third. It was his third appearance on the podium and his best result since he won the Hungarian Grand Prix in 2021. In one of Europe’s nightclub capitals, the 27-year-old celebrated. Hard.

Fatigued, dehydrated and emotionally drained, Ocon again got sick. He was nonetheless due back on the grid in Barcelona four days later. He finished eighth in each of his next two races, then 14th, then didn’t finish the two after that.

Nobody weeps for the motorsports rock star, but a life spent in constant motion does take a toll. A year after signing with Renault, which rebranded as Alpine, Ocon was reportedly paid $5 million per year. He put Laurent and Sabrina on the payroll of “Team Esteban,” he says, assigning his mother administrative tasks and his father responsibilities such as renovating Esteban’s house. He could also hire a performance coach to keep his body and mind sharp — or as sharp as possible in a sport whose schedule features two dozen stops around the globe.

Now, years after Laurent and Sabrina tried shielding their son from many of racing’s pressures, it is Tom Clark’s job to act as Ocon’s conscience. To tell him it’s okay to sleep in on weekends, to grab a nap after practice, to avoid media and fans because more interactions mean more exposure to pathogens.To urge him to eat more lean protein and complex carbohydrates, stay ahead of time zones by wearing sunglasses to simulate darkness, use a light therapy lamp or glasses that emit a bright glow above the eyes. To encourage him to take it easy sometimes, especially when it comes to challenging teammates, and maybe to even think about gearing things down a tad.

“Let’s really just put a bubble around you,” Clark says he tells Ocon.

The problem is this is in conflict with the instincts that got Ocon here. Without deprivation and exhaustion, would he have ever left Évreux? If not for aggressive racing and a ruthless competitive drive, could he have even reached the grid? Especially when it comes to challenging teammates, can’t he gear things down a tad?

ON THE FIRST LAP at this year’s Monaco Grand Prix, there’s Gasly in 10th place. Ocon is 11th. Points are awarded to only the top-10 finishers.

The Alpine drivers have known each other since childhood, their hometowns just 20 minutes apart, friends scratching and clawing for better footing. When they were 12, both were in the same championship race. Gasly overtook Ocon on the last lap to win. “I kicked his ass,” Gasly told the Netflix documentary crew, “and he didn’t like it.”

Not long after, the French racing federation had an opening at its sports academy in Le Mans, a kind of Hogwarts for kid racers. It was Gasly who got the invitation, not the mechanic’s son. The friendship crumbled, just one more thing Ocon left behind as he boarded the motor home once more, looking to win races, yes, but also in search of acceptance.

“But look where I am now,” he says. “That has helped me to get through a lot of steps in my life. That’s what made me so competitive, I guess, from so early on.”

Ocon and Gasly hadcollided in 2023, too, in Australia, with both cars taking race-ending damage. After that, tension between the teammates boiled over when Gasly accused Alpine of coddling Ocon. Before Monaco, the team told the pair to cool it.

And they did, for all of 40 seconds. Now, seeing that narrow opening, Ocon goes for it.

His rear tire connects with Gasly’s front wheel once, then a second time, sending a bitter cloud of burned rubber into the sea air. Ocon’s car goes airborne before turning sideways, and though it lands on its wheels, the impact causes catastrophic damage.

“What did he do?” Gasly says into his radio.

Pieces of carbon fiber fly off Ocon’s car. The tire is punctured, the gearbox fried, the suspension arm broken.

“That’s it, guys,” Ocon tells his team. His Grand Prix is finished.

Needing repairs that will cost tens of thousands and with Ocon’s car due in Montreal in 10 days, Bruno Famin, Alpine’s team principal, publicly admonishes Ocon and vows “consequences.” F1’s governing body, the Federation Internationale de l’Automobile, penalizes Ocon after ruling he initiated the collision.

A week after Monaco, Alpine announces that, in 2025, it will replace one of its drivers. Neither had gotten a podium, and only Ocon had won a point for Alpine. But the team chooses to keep Gasly, meaning Ocon again will be set adrift, the [wanderer] seemingly destined to forever roam.

A FEW MONTHS AGO, Esteban and Laurent went for a long bike ride. The old man still lives near Évreux, operating a shop his son bought him. He still likes to work on cars and make music, albeit as more hobby than job, andprefers to traverse the countryside on an e-bike.

Even against his dad, Esteban can’t help himself.

“I still pull away,” he says.

First, though,during a quieter moment on a recent ride, Laurent told his son a story.

There was once another boy with talent and ambition, the story went, hoping to someday become a professional cyclist. He was as skilled as anyone, but the other kids had access to training and coaches that this boy’sfamily couldn’t afford. So lying in bed one night when he was 16, he succumbed to these economic realities and abandoned his dream, diverting his attention and passion into becoming a mechanic.

So, he went on, when that boy became a man and a husband and a dad, he and his wife agreed to do everything possible to position their son for success. To tell him about possibility, not limitation, and raise him in an environment that would eliminate regret.

“He had never told that story,” Esteban says. “That moment, basically, when he was lying on the bed like that, probably changed my life. They clearly gave more than what they could, and without them I wouldn’t be here.”

Esteban says he occasionally fantasizes about what it would be like to stay in one place: to stop moving, inhale, feel settled. Maybe someday, he says, but not just yet. In July, after Ocon was two months adrift, Kevin Magnussen announced he would be leaving Haas.

Haas, as it happens, is run by Ayao Komatsu, a former F1 engineer who had met and encouraged Esteban when he was just a teenager. A decade later, Komatsu came through. Haas offered Ocon not only a seat for 2025 but acceptance for all the things he is and is not.

“Esteban, he needs an environment that he knows the team is behind him, supporting him, listening to him,” Komatsu says. “No politics. I believe we can provide that.”

But what about the suggestion that Ocon doesn’t play well with others? That you can never take the Évreux fully out of the kid?

“If I was worried about that,” Komatsu says, “I wouldn’t sign him.”

After their bikeride, Laurent and Esteban turned around but kept talking over the wind. Farmland and hills blurred past, same as they did years ago, and a favorite memory of Esteban’s sprung to mind. It was morning, and the 12-year-old awoke in the motor home again with no idea where he was. So he opened the door to see blue sky, the slopes of great mountains, the shoreline of the Mediterranean.

Laurent had parked the van and motor home in Monaco, where yachts are moored and the best drivers live. Esteban remembers the feeling of that moment, the possibility, and his dad stepped out and said there was nothing to stop his son from racing here someday. Whatever came next would be determined by Esteban.

“There was no guarantee,” Esteban recalls his dad saying. But the boy had a chance to prove he belonged. Picturing the momentyears later, he inhaled, kept pedaling and let Laurent catch up as the two of them headed home.

#used a site to remove the paywall #so here is the whole article for those interested! <3 #esteban ocon #f1 #btw the things i put in brackets is bc the author used the g slur and while i get the implication #of este always being on the move in the caravan and now as adult as well #i still think it is a bit in poor taste #also be aware that this author has zero wheel knowledge bc he mentions incidents that were simply not este's fault #and feed into the dumb bad teammate narrative

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narrans · 24 days ago

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A Small and Tall Collection | Chapter Eight | What To Do

Chapter Eight | What To Do

Rey was never really a light sleeper, but the recent sickness had thrown his whole schedule off. Every little sound woke up something in his brain, especially in the dead of night. His bedsheets felt weird, like they were too loose and trying to tie him up while he slept, and his pajamas made his skin crawl. Food didn’t quite have the same taste, which Soren said was because of his sinus stuff.

Also, more annoyingly, he’d been waking up in the middle of the night for a drink of water or to go to the bathroom.

Rey wasn’t the only one. Dorian had also been getting up too, but he didn’t like admitting it for whatever reason. Maybe he was just trying to seem tougher? Rey didn’t really care one way or the other.

What did concern him was what was on his bedside table right here, right now.

The only reason he’d rolled over was because he was feeling a bit overheated, followed soon after by the sound of someone throwing up. He had called out to his brother, but when he received no answer Rey’s concern increased.

“Dorian? Are you getting si-… what the?” Rey had cracked open his eyes to check on his brother when, quite distinctly, he saw something on his bedside table doubled over and making sounds. The hair on his arm started standing on end and he knew something was different about what he was seeing. He wasn’t sure what, but some curious part of him drew him in and, instantly, he was awake.

He pushed himself up and reached over toward the light, watching eagerly as the figure stumbled and fumbled their way off to the side by the tissue box, tap it a few times, and then vanish between the box and the light. He couldn’t wait for another moment.

The young boy wasn’t unfamiliar with this level of excitement. Every invention that didn’t immediately fall apart made him absolutely giddy and curious about what he could do next. It was the same kind of excitement he was feeling now.

“Wha-? Rey? What’s your problem? Turn off the light,” mumbled Dorian. It was obvious he was still fast asleep and annoyed with him, but Rey didn’t care. He needed his brother’s help and needed to know what was on their bedside table.

“Dorian, something’s on the table. I just saw it. It’s behind the tissue box,” Rey hissed. Once again, he saw the shadow move. They needed to act quickly if they were going to see what this thing was.

“You were probably just dreaming,” his brother grumbled.

“No! I wasn’t. I thought you were getting sick and saw something dart around the lamp by the tissue box. Come on. Help me look real quick,” said Rey. The youngest managed to catch his brother’s eyes and, in that moment, Dorian seemed to see that Rey was serious and not just messing around. He rolled his eyes and mumbled some kind of agreement, but Rey didn’t really care. He was already pushing himself up out from under the covers and preparing to reach for the lamp.

He reached over and flicked the light on.

Rey wasn’t sure what he saw, but what he did know was that something was leaving a shadow right behind the lamp. As he slid out from under the covers, Rey never tore his eyes away from the spot where he saw the shadow.

And then he saw it.

Her.

At least, he thought it was a her based on her facial features.

She was small, and pale, and she looked absolutely exhausted. It was absolutely fascinating, seeing something that looked so human and yet be so small. Rey gazed into her blue-gray eyes for what felt like an hour before she coughed and wretched, getting sick all over the bedside table. Rey could also see evidence that she got sick by his old medicine cup too, but he decided to worry about that later.

“Woah… did you hear that?” asked Dorian. Rey subconsciously nodded as he slowly inched his way forward and to the side to look at the small figure again.

“Dorian, you’ve got to see this,” breathed Rey. Rey had moved cautiously, as if one of his experiments would topple at the slightest tremor of the ground. The last thing he wanted to do was startle the figure. Dorian, on the other hand, hadn’t seen or noticed the anomalies and flopped out of his bed as if he was going to be late for pancakes.

“Wha-… woah…”

Dorian spotted her too, and immediately he understood why Rey was acting the way he was. From where he was standing beside his bed, he could see better over the tissue box and spotted the small figure that was too small, too real, to be just a toy or some weird invention of Rey’s. Without words, both boys advanced at a snail’s pace in hopes to keep the thing on the table.

Dorian watched as it fell to its knees, absent mindedly tapping at its sides as if it were searching for something that wasn’t there. It looked scared, if that was possible for something so small to have facial expressions like that.

He and Rey exchanged a quick glance before Rey reached out and grabbed the lamp while Dorian pulled the tissue box aside, revealing the small figure immediately behind. Fascination flooded the boys’ minds as they watched the figure.

She was wearing what looked like clothes, layers of them. Some kind of light tan shirt and brown pants with what looked like a green cloak or poncho over her shoulders. There was something that looked like a lightbulb on one side of her hip and a bag slung over the other shoulder. Features gaunt and hollow, she didn’t look like she was doing or feeling well in the slightest. How she looked reminded Rey of how he and his brother looked for the past few days – sick.

“Rey? That’s not… one of yours… is it?” asked Dorian, barely whispering.

“No… no way,” Rey muttered, watching how the blue-gray eyes flicked back and forth between him and his brother.

“Then what is it?” Dorian hissed back.

“I… I don’t know, but… I think it’s a she, and I don’t think she’s feeling well,” Rey muttered back. He cleared the tension in his throat with a few light coughs as he directed his words at the small figure. “Hey, are you okay?”

“You think it, or ‘she’, can understand us?” Dorian asked.

“I don’t know,” Rey stated. “But she’s looking from me to you, so she can at least hear us.” Rey watched as the figure’s shoulders began to shake, vibrating as her chest heaved rapidly. In and out, she was obviously hyperventilating. Rey, if he held his breath, could almost hear her small gasps.

“This isn’t a dream, right? I mean, she’s real.” Dorian’s hand was already in motion before Rey registered his question. Everything moved so fast.

Ashlynn, who was listening to the boys talk back and forth about whether or not she could understand or if she was real, was starting to feel lightheaded again. The corners of her vision were blurring. She wanted to vomit again, but nothing was left to give. Every sense she possessed was deteriorating rapidly, and now she was backed into a corner.

She was trying to recite the Borrower rules in her head when a massive amount of movement caught her attention. Her eyes snapped up to see the older of the two, Dorian, reaching his hand out toward her.

Fingers were extended.

Palm easily eclipsing her body.

Ashlynn felt her instincts take over her aching body as she forced herself to her feet and threw herself backward away from the child’s grasp. Sadly, she overestimated the force she would need. She jumped up and back so violently that her back actually hit the wall beside the bedside table.

She’d managed to get away, yes; but there was something she didn’t account for – the gap.

Between the bedside table and the wall, there was a gap about an inch wide, which was just enough for her to slip through. For a brief moment, Ashlynn’s body was perfectly posed against the wall and the table before her center of gravity shifted again and she began to plumet into the shadows.

A scream was lodged somewhere in Ashlynn’s throat as she began to slip, but it didn’t stay there for long. As her body fell, an immense shadow fell over her and pressure surrounded her right arm. She heard a distinct popping sound from her shoulder, as if she were cracking her knuckles but on a much larger, louder scale and the scream that was trapped erupted out of her. Her body hung limp momentarily before her body began lifting from her throbbing arm.

She didn’t want to look, but impulse overrode her and she glanced up only to see her arm was being pinched between the fingers of the one called Dorian. He was lifting her by her throbbing arm, and there was nothing she could do. Those immense fleshy columns and their vice like grip around her aching appendage would not release her, no matter how she struggled; not that she had the strength to.

The Borrower swallowed the cries of pain she wanted to release and replaced them with choked whimpers and groans. She closed her eyes tight and averted her gaze from her arm. She wasn’t sure if she was about to have it ripped from her body or if it was about to be broken into tiny pieces. Whatever the case, she didn’t want to see it. She didn’t want to look at the human child’s face as he examined her now fully exposed body.

There would be no escape now.

The words of the youngest boy sounded muffled and distant, but Ashlynn was still able to make them out in some form.

“Dorian! What are you doing?! You’ll hurt her!” Rey’s harsh whisper was followed by a scuffling. Rey had watched as the little figure had backed up and had started to fall from the bedside table to the floor. Dorian was faster and had managed to grab her arm, but the scream that followed told Rey that Dorian had either grabbed too hard or that she didn’t like being touched.

Whatever the case, Dorian had managed to keep her from falling at the cost of injuring her, so he was grateful for that much at least. Rey saw how the figure looked away from where her arm was being grabbed and felt his heart ache for her.

She was terrified beyond words, and he and Dorian were causing it.

“Dorian, you’re hurting her. Don’t pinch her arm like that,” Rey urged. Dorian grunted frustratingly and held out the partially limp figure.

“Well, then you hold her,” Dorian hissed back. Rey didn’t have time to object as Dorian lowered the tiny woman into his hands. Rey cupped his hands and prayed she didn’t do anything rash like try to run or jump out of his hands. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to be able to do either as she crumpled into a ball in his hands and pulled her arm toward her torso.

The sensation was a novel one. The life was so small, but so much like his own. Rey had held his friends’ pets before like hamsters and guinea pigs. He’d even pet a few fish before.

This was something entirely different.

In the dim lamplight, he was able to see more of her features now that she was so much closer to him. He could make out her fingers and the way her hair fell across her sweat chilled cheek. He could see her fingernails and how they grasped at the fabric of her clothes.

It hit Rey all at once that she wasn’t just some creature – she was a living being. Practically human except for her size.

Rey glanced up at his brother just in time to see him dumping out the contents of a drawer from their bedside table, the pieces and parts scattering while others stacked and lumped together. That’s what they got for shoving their random knick-knacks into the thing in the first place. Rey also saw Dorian was getting together what looked like a set of bundled socks, some of the crackers, and a lid of water.

“Dorian, what’re you doing?” asked the kid.

“What do you think? Setting up an area for her until we figure out what to do with her,” replied Dorian. Immediately, Ashlynn turned her fear filled eyes onto Rey and then to his brother. She attempted to squirm, but weakness overtook her. Not even adrenaline could force her body to flee now. Rey noticed this and felt a pang in his heart.

She seemed so scared. So helpless.

“Dorian I… I don’t like the sound of that,” stated Rey.

“Well, what else are we going to do with her?” Dorian asked harshly.

“I… I don’t know. Let her go? I mean… I don’t know… It just doesn’t feel right keeping her in a drawer,” mumbled Rey. He noticed the eager gleam in the small woman’s features as she looked up into his eyes for only a moment. It took everything the boy had to tear his gaze from the figure to his brother. “I just… I don’t know. I think we need to wake up Soren. You know? Get his help?”

“You saw Soren and how tired he was. We went to bed early and everything. He’s tired. You’re tired. I’m tired. She looks tired. It’s just for the night,” rebutted Dorian. “You want to wake up Soren when he’s feeling sick and tired?”

Rey chewed on his bottom lip in confliction before mumbling, “No.”

“And, do you see her? She looks sick too. She might’ve been the one to get us sick for all we know. Remember what Soren said about keeping the mice in the walls as pets?” pointed out Dorian.

Rude! You little germy twerps are the reason I’m sick! Ashlynn thought as her heart raced faster and faster. That lightheaded feeling consumed her again. I can’t. I can’t let them take me. I can’t break the rules, but I can’t let them keep me. I’m going to be a pet. They’re going to get me a cage and I’m going to be a pet! This is bad. This is really really really really bad! Curses! I should’ve just stayed in the walls! Why did I think medicine was going to help? That’s a human thing.

“Yeah, but…”

“Good, then it’s settled,” interrupted Dorian. “She’ll be safe in here for the night and then Soren will know what to do with her. Now, put her down in there, let’s get some sleep, and we’ll get Soren in here first thing tomorrow. Besides, he can’t do anything if he’s just as sick and tired as the rest of us.”

Rey looked down at the little figure again, the same pang hitting him again, before relenting to his brother’s idea. He walked over to the bedside table carefully and lowered his hands into the hard wood box.

Ashlynn seized the opportunity to get off of the child’s hands as fast as possible, scrambling to get off and instantly regretting her quickness of movement as her body screamed in agony, especially her arm. Whatever that boy did made her fingers tingly and numb. Already, there were bruises forming on her arm in the shape of finger pads.

She stumbled backward and pressed her spine against the hard wood directly behind her and stared up from the shadows at the faces of the two boys.

Please don’t close the drawer. Please don’t close the drawer. I can maybe get out if you don’t close the drawer. Please. Just let me go. Ashlynn’s silent thoughts went unanswered as the older boy reached out and pressed his hand against the edge. She wanted to cry out and beg them to stop, but instinct stopped her once again as she was sealed in darkness, barely the width of her hand open at the top of the container.

Ashlynn choked on a sob that rose up in her throat. Sliding down the back of her wooden prison, she curled in on herself. Her body shook like a leaf in a hurricane, but she had no tears or energy left to maintain her fear. She listened as the two boys talked for a little while longer in hushed words before the bedside light finally flicked out, leaving her in complete darkness.

No. It’s over. It’s all over. I’m caught. I’ve been seen and now I’m caught. I don’t even have my weapons to protect me. Their dad is going to put me in a cage and I’ll live off of pellets and goodness knows what else until the end of my days. Poking. Prodding.

Ashlynn shivered as she thought about the boy’s hands holding her. The warmth. The tiny flexes each finger or muscle made as he adjusted to her weight. It was a living nightmare, but what was worse was the thought that it would be all she ever knew from here on out.

Exhaustion dragged her eyelids further and further down. It wasn’t even a matter of sleep now. Between the pain and chills and sickness and the fate she knew she would have to endure, it took everything she had left in her to drag her way over to the bundled socks and lied down. For just a moment, she wanted to enjoy the simple comfort of her hip lamp, but even that was a disappointment as the lamp flickered on and off.

Even the battery is failing me. Truly the last thing to go wrong.

Ashlynn recited the Borrower rules in her head, mainly the three that truly mattered.

Don’t be seen. Don’t get caught. Don’t talk to the humans.

Well… if this is how I end, I can at least follow the last rule. Then again… is it worth it? Maybe if I talk to those boys, then they’ll let me go. The one seemed to think so.

Oh… who am I kidding? Who am I trying to convince? Myself? I’m not making it out of here. This is my life now.

Ashlynn felt a single tear drip down her cheek as, finally, the last life of her hip lamp battery drained. Lying there in complete darkness, Ashlynn curled into the top of the stiff sock and let her exhaustion overtake her.

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Continue

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A Tall and Small Collection | Original Story

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