I laid in my cell. Depressed and growing in pain. The fight was today but I didn't want to go.
Soon the lady and the sidemen would come in and rush me to the fate of the hands of their presented Goliath.
I hoped they'd understand. I pray they would revive my hope.
I wanted to get over her. I knew I should by now. It's been almost two months since her passing and I know she'd want me to fight for my freedom.
But I just can't. I knew it wasn't the best idea and that bothers me. So I'll lay here and wait for my trial of destiny. I'll stay here, awake, waiting for my hands to break and my mental state to be slain once more. The heartbreak to deteriorate my attitude farther.
But always awake.
Always alone.
Always graveling beneath the shadow of my headaches and endless thoughts. Always apart. And always alert.
The light pierced my cell. The loud creeping footsteps of the miniature lady and her callous exterior. The slamming of the metallic doors and shadows larger galloping behind the smaller version.
She told me to get up. But I couldn't today was the fight... and I still wasn't ready.