fed to the rules and I hit the ground running {Ronnie DP}

It was the atmosphere that pushed him over the finishing line. The positive hymns of his own name, circulating the stadium and lifting him off his toes. There was never a moment where he looked back; his eyes fixed on the possibility of swiping up a decoration, something that he had never had in his possession before. A small reminder of success, something to look back to in the future, a reminder of those moments. As soon as his foot hit that line, there was a gust of passion that he relished in for days afterwards. Mentions of his name in the streets, the obvious jealously of his brother who was missing out but on occasion he did get mistaken for Ronnie.

He carried it with him onto the train, the medal; a token of the life that gets left behind seems to be a popular asset of most tributes and well, he was all for joining in with the mainstream trends and a gold medal seemed original enough.

But now it is gone, left into the trust of a boy he hardly knows. He hoped it would return home, fill in the missing slice on the mantelpiece where his two others sit honoured. Atlas a boy he hardly knows, and yet he relied on him so much to survive and now he is going to rely on him in death.

Impaired by a twelve year old girl, that injury was the first stage of his downfall. If not for his lameness, this would have been a triumph but here he is, begging for breath. He wasted the last ounce of energy on pushing Atlas; a boy he trusts will survive. Could he call it a sacrificial act? You should have saved yourself. The voice so quick on outputting its opinion.

There was a reason for stepping onto that train, a duty with a strategy but even before this moment, it was botched and everything just turned to survival. Living out the days in the arena alongside Atlas but death flourishes in everything.

”The moment was never a surprise, death conquers all. Even the journey there, wasn’t a surprise but I wish it wasn’t so early on.”The words of his brother, the moment his cousin died those three years ago, engulf his mind as his hands grip onto his chest. His heart, an organ he rarely cares for along with every other piece of meat that exists within his skeletal frame. Years spent abusing his body with substances have concluded to this day. His stamina only existed for a moment, but the exploitation overtook it.

A sensation of pressure swarms his torso, forcing him to end his attempts of at least trying to escape the horde of bugs. His hand moves to his head, as he rests its weight on it. Even in the short moment of contact, the palm of his hands begins to flood with sweat; this isn’t like anything he has felt before. ”Reggie help.” He can plea as hard as he wants but there is a far divide from him and his twin behind the television screen.

The swarm isn’t far from crossing the finishing line, his figure, the winning post for the winged insects.

His legs surrender first, the injury that began this fall of failure finally being the fatal hit; his knee can no longer withhold his heavy frame. A human’s instinct is to catch themselves with their hands once they fall but his head takes the force of the impact.

Two words ”I volunteer,” this moment was inevitable. Even with credits of success to his name, Ronnie Cheyne has always been painted with failure. The inevitable has happened, his family so easily forecast this moment.

Ronnie Cheyne lived to die and now he is butterfly fodder.