Simon’s slouched over in his seat as the bell rings through the school, and he jumps to life. He stands up straight, collecting his items and shoveling them into the void of his backpack. He’s in the same uniform as everyone else, with an appropriately-sized black bag, just like everyone else. He’s even wearing the same white ankle socks. As Simon slings his backpack over his shoulder, he lets out a quiet, contained sigh. He hates this school. No, maybe just this in general. As he goes to leave the classroom, slipping between the rows of tables while his eyes sweep the board – still scribbled with notes on some, mundane history. 

“Yo, Simon!” and suddenly, Simon stops, his eyes rolling into the back of his skull. Metaphorically. 

“Dallas, what’s… going on?” His words come out awkward, like an unbalanced tower ready to tip over at any second. 

The last thing Simon wants, especially today, is to have to entertain whatever Dallas has to say. It’s just exhausting. All he does is show off his pristine, unique life. Vacations to Madagascar, sports trips to Canada…

“Duuuuyuude, you’ll never believe it!” Dallas doesn’t seem to catch onto Simon’s hesitation, but that’s to be expected. 

Simon hesitates, looking at Dallas real hard, and a “Believe what?” comes out before he can really question if he wants to know. 

“I’m going to Dallas for spring break!” 

“...Texas?”

“Uh, yeah. Duh. Dallas in Dallas!” And with that, Dallas breaks into a braying laugh. If nothing else, it’s obvious it isn’t forced. 

“That’s pretty funny,” Simon finally says, his hands squeezing the straps of his backpack. His eyes loll as he looks around. He’s sooo tired of this. He’s never even been out of state before – let alone one on the other side of the country. Simon moseys around as Dallas babbles, and he eventually slips away from him when Dallas decides it’s time to get home. By then, Simon’s bitter. Seriously. If he had to describe his life in a word, it’d be windowshopping. He walks around, then looks, then feels up the glass – the thin line of whatever that’s keeping him from the beauty on the other side – then shakes his head in a quiet ‘no’ and walks off. Everyone around him gets the luxury of a queen, and he gets the quiet of a knight. Not quite a peasant – Simon would never take what he has for granted – but a knight. Windowshopping, right? 

But that’ll all change this break. While Dallas enjoys Texas, he’ll be making a name for himself. A new one. He’ll be the admiree, not the admirer.

 Friday, this Friday, his debut fight. At 16 he’s old enough to fight, and he’s spent about a year working with this gym that’s only about a 10 minute walk from his place. It’s convenient, and a real big help. Then it’ll be no more suburbia, or whatever you’d label his neighborhood. In a few months – years, he should probably be realistic – he’ll be the next big thing. He’ll work the graveshift, dig the dead sport out of its grave, show everyone what Lazarus looks like. That’s all. 

As he slides the door open with a twist of its knob, Simon slips his shoes off at the landing and slickly moves upstairs. His room is bare empty. It’s clean, but it’s nothing more than a white void. His bed is tucked into a corner, bureau hidden in his closet. His nightstand’s got nothing more than a fan and a few bottles on it. The only clue to who lives here is the American flag flown off his nightstand. But even that’s small, careful not to draw too much attention. He falls flat onto his bed, not even bothering to slip under the thick blanket. He can’t help but feel a sense of life from this, like someone gave him new breath. 

Simon fidgets in his bed for a bit, unable to take his mind off what’ll be his night. He jumps out of bed, checks himself in a dinky mirror strung on his closet's wall, then opens said closet. Slipping out of his uniform, Simon tosses all of them into his laundry basket and shuts his bureau’s drawer. Well, he tries, the thing struggles to slide back into place and steals what had to have been way too long from Simon’s afternoon just to go back in. He kinda figured boxing would’ve fixed that, honestly, but maybe the fame will. Simon just couldn’t picture someone like Dallas struggling with a lousy drawer. 

The day goes by quickly, and uneventfully as well. Simon goes through the motions: he goes back into the living room, plays with his dog, watches some show, has supper with his parents, watches more of that same show, and then slips right back into bed. Of course, the next few days will be much the same as today. It’s a cruel living, one with nothing to complain about yet everything to resent. Even school doesn’t help, with the scheduled classes all bleeding into one another. By Thursday, Simon feels like a dog on a leash. By Friday, he feels like a bear. Free, and finally given a chance to show who he is. 

When he gets home from school, Simon takes a long look at himself in that same mirror. It doesn’t serve him too well; probably because the mirror looks like it came out of a funhouse, but it does the job. He flexes, poses, and insults himself – all done on himself, by himself. Once Simon’s gotten tired of nitpicking, he jumps out of his uniform and runs out the house. The gym’s 10 minutes from his house, which cuts in half when Simon really gets going. 

When Simon gets to his gym, there’s about an hour or so before the fight. He hasn’t eaten all day, and he’s been careful not to exhaust himself on anything. Still, Simon can feel his heart jumping out of his chest. He’s spent hours fantasizing about this, and now it’s here.

“It took you long enough. What the hell were you doing anyway?” His coach, Foley, had a strong voice. The type you can’t miss.

“Sorry, sorry. I was just running late from school,” Simon would manage to say. Honestly, he just spent too long mapping out everything he’d do. 

“Yeah? Well, it ain’t a good look for you.” 

“I know, it won’t happen next time Coach I promise-” 

“If there’ll be a next time.”

Huh? What does that even mean?

“What d’you mean?” Simon’d say, his voice just a bit squeaker than it usually is.

“Don’t get caught up on it,” Foley dismissively said, only to continue in a far-more commanding tone- “Get to shadow boxing! Or, skip rope, or something – just go and warm yourself up!”

“Uh, yeah, I’ll get to it...?” Simon’d say, already walking away. 

He can tell his lungs tightened a bit from that. If? If what? His coach can’t even have a crumb of faith in him now? Well, Simon has nothing to worry about anyway. He’ll win this match with ease. This is his opponent's debut fight, too. They’ll be on even playing ground, save for who wants it more – which, of course, has to be Simon. Simon stretches, savoring the feeling of his legs unlocking, his arms clicking into place. Then, he skips rope for 10 or so minutes – nothing particularly difficult, just something to get his body ready to move. By the time he’s done for that, it’s about time for them to go to the actual stadium. 

Well, stadium might not be the right word. It’s not anything big, or even grand, but everyone starts somewhere. There’ll be about 20 people or so watching, but it means so much more than just what they’ll see. It’ll be Simon’s self-made reincarnation, done through blood sweat and tears. He’ll come out a man, a real man, and’ll remember it until the day he dies. 

Simon and his team – Coach, and a few other guys from the gym – hop out of the truck and make their way into the building. Simon suddenly has even less of a stomach for talking, and he never even liked to in the first place. His lungs are tight, but not like they were before. It’s like he’s on a roller coaster, like he’s readying himself for a sudden plummet into an even more sudden loopity loop. Maybe he didn’t think this through. That’s what’s flashing through Simon’s mind as he shadow boxes in his breakroom, mere minutes away from the first fight. 

Even with that idea drifting around, a much louder part of Simon is completely confident in his ability. But still, a part of him feels naked almost. He’s in nothing but his shorts – almost completely blue, save for a thick strip of red running down each side, along with red frills at the end of them. In bold, grandstanding letters, it says “MERRIDEW”, his surname. His shoes are that same blue, going right along with his shorts. Simon huffs, his lip sucking in on itself and his body tensing a little. He’s antsy now, and wants nothing more than to just get this over with. As his coach ties the gloves onto his wrist, Simon stares at them tightening. There’s nothing to do but win, but, what if he doesn’t? What if this whole thing’s just a bust? Unfortunately, Simon can’t give that much thought – because the announcer’s already starting to call him up, and so he looks to his coach – who’s been silent this whole time – and gives him a weak nod. Then, he walks through the door.

The lights are blinding by the time Simon comes out, and the walk to the ring feels like a walk on the moon. He’s completely isolated, completely alone. Simon’s never felt anything like it before, this crippling loneliness that’s hung onto his back now. When he makes it to the ring, sliding between the thick strings and skipping around, Simon feels renewed. People clap for him, and he feels seen in a way he never has before. Even now, already, before the fight’s even started, Simon knows he’s made the right choice. There’s no debate, not with how he feels now. 

“Aaaaaand as for our other fighter tonight, let’s hear it for Aiden McCarthy!” The announcer's voice rings through the building, especially with his microphone.

Aiden comes skipping through the hallway, ecstatically jumping into the ring and running around, hooting as he looks to the crowd. The crowd goes just as hard for him as they did for Simon, making it clear neither’s really won them over yet. When he settles down, the two stand in the middle of the ring while the announcer introduces the referee. As Simon stares down Aiden, the referee comes over to stand between the two.

“Alright boys, now let’s have a clean fight tonight. You both already know the rules. Touch hands and get back in your corners.” 

With that, the two touch gloves and shuffle back into the corners as the bell rings to head the first round. Simon advances towards Aiden, and the two immediately clash. Simon’s fast, but Aiden’s got a clear grasp on defense – slipping and parrying most of Simon’s attempts to knock him. With a swift hook from the left, Aiden slides out of Simon’s onslaught and follows it up with a few lighter punches. Simon scoffs, balancing himself and pivoting to face Aiden once more. He mixes it up, hitting Aiden with shots from the head then right to the body, catching him off guard a few times. Right now, it’s clear that Simon’s leading the match. As the first round ends, both fighters are still pretty well off. 

Simon slushes some water around the inside of his mouth, gargling it before swallowing as he breathes harder than he ever has before. Then, the bell rings again. The two immediately go back at it, but this time Aiden lands a clean, straight uppercut right to Simon’s jaw. He bites down on his tongue so hard it swells, almost coming straight off as blood squirts out of his mouth. He groans, throwing weak jabs back at Aiden as he tries to steady himself. His head’s ringing, his brain bouncing off the walls inside his skull. Simon crawls his way through most of the round, getting in decent hits before slipping a hard straight square into Aiden’s jaw. As the bell rings once more, Simon sits back down in his corner with a huff. He’s completely out of it now, barely even thinking. It’s all going by so, so fast. 

The bell rings to head off the final round and Simon goes hard, as hard as he can. Even if he can’t think, he can want – and he wants nothing more than to come out of this a winner. Come out of this with something to brag about. He hits Aiden repeatedly, never stopping or letting up his assault. The crowd’s going wild, the dozen or so people all as engaged as they could be. All of them, in the moment. As the clock ticks down, Simon tires out more and more, his punches slowing and arms slipping down as Aiden pushes back against him. With the two against the ropes, the bell rings abruptly and suddenly. The fighters go back to their corners now, with the announcer slipping back into the ring. 

Simon feels better than he could imagine. He’s high, high on this attention and new idea of himself. After swigging some water down that his coach offered, he manages to choke a few words out of himself.

“What’dyou think…? I think, honestly, I think I really did something. I think I won, coach,” He’s exhausted, clearly. One eye’s swollen shut and his jaw’s noticeably tweaked, blood leaking from his lips to paint his fair skin. 

“Well kid, I don’t think you're wrong. Let’s just wait and see what the ref says, alright?” 

Of course, he’s still hesitant to believe Simon. Whatever, he’ll learn eventually. 

“Yeah, yeah…”

Simon limps back to the middle of the ring, standing to the side of the ref. Aiden, just as beat as Simon, stands exasperated on the other. The crowd goes silent, waiting. 

“After discussing with the announcer, we’ve both decided on who’s won…” The announcer’s voice trails off, both hands now clasped with one of both fighters hands. Simon’s eyes squeeze shut, his head falling down in a silent prayer. 

“SIIIIIIIIIIIIMOOOOOOON MERRIDEW!” and with that, the announcer throws Simon’s hand in the air. Simon’s eyes shoot open, his bloodied mouth opening in a silent scream. He’s done it, he’s finally taken that first step to fame. He isn’t just some guy, he’s something else now. No one else he knows can say they’ve done this. None of them. 

After the fight, Simon had made some small talk with Aiden before slipping away. After showering, Simon sits on the bench of his room, holding his head in his hands. They had to cut his eyelid off with how bad it swelled up. Whatever, right? Simon’s convinced himself that he’s fine, now. That his head feeling like it’s swinging is fine because he won. He’ll just have to get used to it. Thanks to this hurt, he’s something important. Something different now.