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Steve "KingSlayer" Davids · (02-21-2014)

It is key to note that this a story from the perspective of Stewart (A side character in recent roleplays.) and is a story being told by Stewart to Steve.

The referee looked at me, the wrinkles on my face were as clear as day. I looked up at him and looked at my son, Dennis who was bloody and beaten. The backstreet boxing match continued but Dennis shook his head. His bold head was soaked with sweat and his face was bruised and gory. We never give in, I told myself. My son has never lost a match, he can still win this. I am sure of it.

I shook my head at the random referee, obviously not qualified, who allowed the match to continue when Dennis reached his feet. Dennis swung, desperately but to no avail. The stronger, quicker man ducked it and then smashed Dennis in the jaw and then once more but this time in the temple. Dennis dropped to the floor and his eyes closed immediately. There was blood all over the ring now and my son was cold within moments. I slid into the ring out of desperation, the referee raised the other man's arm but that didn't matter. The eight men who were watching the fight were not sure how to react.

A crystal tear trickled onto my cheek and for some reason I knew. I knew what had happened, it only took seconds to work it out. The shot to the temple replayed in my head over and over again as I watched the blow that killed my son. It was an ongoing repeat that I could not end.

Then, a blur. The ambulance was here within moments apparently but I cannot for the life of me seem to remember. All I do remember is the punch that my son's opponent threw. I do not remember his name or his face. He is merely a murky shadow that killed my son. Yet how could I blame a man who simply did what all men would do? Win. He won. At what cost though? That was no one's fault but my own.

Within moments we were at the hospital and I sat at my son's side, the heart monitor constantly going up and down was enough to drive most men insane. I held my son's hand loosely in my clutch and looked directly at his eyes without blinking for what felt like an eternity but was actually only hours. I knew that a miracle would never happen, I was told as much by the doctor who is also nothing other than a blurred memory. The men that I swore never to forget were now nothing other than figures of smoke; time leeches at memory.

It was as if he was shackled from his usual monstrous self. My son was a warrior and I had never seen him lost at any kind of fight, any at all. The rarity in that is beyond belief you know. He always seemed to be a natural champion to me.

The machine then stopped making it's torturous yet life saving 'beeps' and I looked down at my son's hand and began to weep. Loss is something that we can all universally say is natural to cry at, especially loss of a loved one like Dennis. In my eyes the devilish young man was always nothing other than perfect and I know how cliché that sounds but it is true. Everyone loves to say how young he was, and how he's in a better place.

Of course, that's not really true though is it?

How could it be?

How is eternal sleep better than this hell we live in. It's not. This world is full of tragedy but it is better than being motionless. Everyone knows that. Perhaps, if I was a faithful man I may be able to believe differently but again that's just useless hope. And I knew that he was young, did everyone feel it appropriate to remind me at every turn and at every word?

More blurred days followed the sorrowful day at the hospital. The death struck a lot of the family. Dennis was a loved boy and he had grown into a brilliant young man. Even much of that day is now another leached memory other than my words that will be engraved into my heart until the day I die. I spoke softly and tearfully whilst people stared and judged upon me as they always judged. They glared and stared and heard and stirred. It was always the reaction of those that were pierced by the words to tear up.

“Dennis died doing what he loved. Right or wrong he loved it. He never gave in and he didn't want to be told his limits. That was the thing about that strong young man did not care for limits. He did not care to be told that he couldn't win or that he couldn't achieve something. A wild bore who couldn't be tamed was how he was often described though I am not sure he ever liked that description. He was so much more than that. A son of talent. A friend to many. A sibling to two.”

I looked at my other son at this point. James hadn't forgiven me for allowing the match to continue though. He did not cry, he merely stared fiercely up at me with all of the hate in the world. There was nothing that I could do or say that would ever make up for my actions that day and I knew it. Who am I to try and claim that what happened was okay? That it wasn't anyone's fault but my own. I could not do that. I turned and looked up, a brave smile on my face. The people were now stood in the grand church hall out of respect to me. I didn't want their pity or their respect, I just wanted them to know. Know that Dennis was not like other people. Then, I suppose we all believe that about our own children. My daughter looked up at me, tears streaming down her face. She had forgiven me almost instantly as she always had even for the damnedest of things.

“He was not like other people and those who enjoyed his company will know that. They will know that he was a man who meant every word he said. I'm so sorry I failed you my son. You trusted me and I failed you. I'm sorry.”

That's where my memory is blurred once more. Days on end are hazed and weeks and months are fogged. There are days that all of us remember.

Do you know what my son's last words were? They were words of faith, and words that I never much appreciated. That is until the day of his death came. Before the fight he said the same tragic but holy words I think he truly believed. He said:

“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.”

Words are just words at the end of the day, but why is it that I always see the cruellest connotations.

That was then, and this is now. I preach this story to you Steve because I think it is something that you deserved to hear.

The Psycho Sensation looked up from his comfortable seat, a tear was gleaming in the light.

You know, I don't remember much of my life any more. Much of it is purposely suppressed, rightfully I suppose. Here I stand though, 68 years of age and as bold as an ox. At least in my head that is of course. I remember the day I met you though Steve, I remember that day like it was yesterday. I am glad I met you because since I met you I stopped replaying the torturous moments of those days. The moment that the final hit connected with my son's temple. The moment the sketchy squealing sound ended on the life machine. The moment I muttered those words: 'I failed you.' The words that I never want to say or hear again.

Now I can do what I failed to do the first time. I can help someone deserving succeed and succeed we shall Steve, succeed we shall.

There's one last thing. You know that day we met, we sat in that grand hall and you made a twat of yourself sitting in that throne?

Steve nodded, smiling at the comment but he still had a tear in his eye.

That hall was where I read those words about my son. That was where my son's funeral was. I sat in that exact seat every Sunday for the last four years of my life before I met you. Some people go to church on Sundays but that's where I would go. I would sit there and I would look at the place where I tried to make up for my mistakes and ways. My son still won't speak to me Steve, and I love him more than words can explain. I have to call my daughter to check he's okay and to find out he's still alive. This life doesn't get any easier the longer you're in it you know.

This world no matter what anyone ever tells you, really is the only hell you will ever find.

I suffered every day but alas; no more. No more.

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