Black Casm

The cold locker room echoed with a steady drip—each one falling like a cruel imitation of the boy's tears. He stared at his coach in silence, the flickering fluorescent light casting long shadows across the tiles. His dream stagnated as God looked down on his subject and couldn't help but cry. To him, it was a tragedy. But to the world he was just another crushed dream. What was he supposed to do if his dream couldn't become reality? Let it go? Start over? Live a regular life? No, he couldn't. Because that's death.