Sol

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The boxing ring appears hazy to Sol. The spectators appear hazy to him, the voice of the referee, the murmurs around him. It all fades in and out for him, not sure how to subdue the feeling and get a grip on himself. His eyes threaten to droop close, his mind in imbalance, the helmet on his head heavy.   

His vision flashes nothing but blue and red, a feeling of slight vertigo and lethargy washing over him. The stadium appears to him in two, fours, even sixes. His legs are slowly losing power to keep him afoot, to put a blow on the opponent, to plummet him to the ground and claim victory in the finals he worked so hard to reach.

A silver medal is not an option.

He tries to shift the weight of his body on both feet interchangeably, looking at the opponent whose physique is Herculean. The person throws a punch, but he evades it sloppily, nearly falling to the ground but bouncing back from it, hearing a low, annoyed groan from the burly one.

Then the moment comes down for him to fight back. Those few seconds is long to Sol because his body screams to give up and go home, but with one swift motion, as if the god’s power surges through him, he throws a punch which sends the opponent’s neck twisting, spitting blood. Sol sees blue one last time before nosediving into the ground, eyes shut, given up on the gold. 

I'm 25 and awkward. Dreaming big so if it breaks, the pieces are in thousands.

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