If eyes are windows to the soul, Gabriel’s glazed, distant stare, as he regained his consciousness, were a looking-glass into his future.
Win, lose, or draw, fighters dispose of something, some part of the self that never returns.
There, as Gabriel awakened, only time would shed light on his journey along the sport’s unforgiving path, but, for now, he required serious medical attention.
Prompted from the Weekend Writing Prompt #142 at: https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/2020/02/01/weekend-writing-prompt-142-looking-glass/.
