Prologue
Tears streamed down his face, though none would have noticed behind the jaguar mask. Lights were everywhere filling the stadium with what seemed to be more than a hundred different hues, rebounding off of a hundred more surfaces making the sight almost blinding. But for all revealing light, leaving no dark crevice in the roaring dome unlit it seemed that he was the only one shrouded in shadow, the only one wearing a cloak of grief and sorrow. It was beginning to grow warmer, sweat started to collect on the top of his brow, he could feel it there starting to irritate and tempt him to itch, it was then that he realised why, the majority of the different colored lights had focused in on him. The roar of the crowd had not even passed through his ears or maybe it had, he was just too deep in thought to recognize the deafening sound, "King! King!" they chanted.
He never was fond of the spotlight, the cheers, the reward. It had been all about being the best, the rush of adrenaline when facing an opponent physically stronger than oneself, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, the sickening thud that came from another's head connecting with a fist or knee. The spotlight, the cheers, the reward, they had been his brothers motivation and they loved him for it. But no more. No more would his brother feed off of his well desired and well deserved recognition and popularity. No more.
The first footstep down the walkway seemed to take an eternity. This was all his doing he thought to himself, his brother would still be alive if not for him and his carelessness and sense of pride. His brother would be in his place walking down the ramp with the yellow jaguar mask on top his head, basking in the symphony of screams and whistles and the onslaught of flashes from the media. And he would be where his brother was, fastened to a fold out chair, the black jaguar mask hanging limp in his hands, dried blood covering his face from the number of cuts inflicted from blows with brass knuckles, iron bar and bare fist. He would be there, beaten to death and none but his brother and Julia would have known it was him.
His foot finally hit the ramp, shortly followed by the opposite. The sweat beaded down the face, mixing in with already present tears that had done all but ceased to slide down his cheeks and into his mouth, it tasted salty, it tasted like regret.