He was going to be the Champ.

It started with a push up. Real simple, up, down. He used to do 100 of them every day, and every push became easier. Today he just wanted to do one.

And he almost made it.

Maybe it was the gun shot, maybe it was the car crash, maybe he just misses her, but for some reason he wasn’t getting back up. All alone in an empty room he still feels eyes on him, watching, judging. No one was watching him rise, they were all content observing the fall.

He felt like a sunset. Glorious, beautiful, but dying in plain sight of spectators who couldn’t care less. They just wanted to watch him fall.

He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. His arms thin and wavering, his breath ragged, the pain in his side immense, releasing waves of pain that arc through his body, he struggles. His chin scruffs against the rough fibers of his canvas. His eyes tense, tears form. He would not die a failure.

He feels his back shifting into place, the cold of the floor beneath his feet. He was standing up again.

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