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His clothes cling to his sweat-covered body, and his legs struggle to not collapse on the hard steel floor. Music blares in all directions, the audience’s cheers picking up in volume, almost jeering over it fully.
With the final line screamed out in the headpiece, silence stretches over him before erupting in an even louder chorus of applauding screams. Till’s neck cramps when he turns in quivering terror, facing the blinding lights of the scoreboard.
The four letters spell a fate worse than winning or losing could ever bring upon him.
In absence of affection we will take anything and call it love.
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Bookmark Notes:
Лучшее