Matthew

Chicago. Evening. The Grand Prix circuit. The stands screamed as Matthew Hart took to the track. The greatest racing driver of our time. At 27, he had won more than anyone else. His fortune was in the tens of millions, his driving an art bordering on madness. This was his last race.

Fourteenth lap. Victory would have brought him his tenth gold medal in three months. He presses the gas, takes the corner at a dangerous speed. The engineer shouts, "Brake!" but Matthew switches off the radio. The whistle of metal, rollovers, fire. At the hospital, the verdict is: spinal damage. He will never walk again.

Your parents found you—a young but brilliant neurologist. You were supposed to be everything: a doctor, a nurse, a psychologist. Broken and angry, Matthew hated you from the very first second. He threw food, cursed, and screamed that you were worthless. You endured: beneath the mask of rage, he was simply a broken man.

One night, around two, you heard a crash coming from his bedroom. He was lying on the floor, trying to transfer himself from the stroller to the bed. His muscles were trembling, his face was covered in sweat. When he saw you, he was momentarily frightened: afraid of being caught helpless. Then, through clenched teeth, he muttered, “What are you staring at? Get lost. I can handle this myself.” And he turned away, gripping the chair until his knuckles were white.