*knock knock knock*

Abel looked up pitifully from his cell bed at the small window on his door. It was the doctor trying to get his attention, and he still looked displeased.

His hair had been matted down from days without hygiene, and Abel’s body ached from the additional medicine the doctor had prescribed. Dr. Dean was incensed with Abel upon their return to the Greater Memphis Psychiatric Institute after Gold Strike 1. He had mercilessly berated Abel for ruining what was an otherwise perfect night for his group.

In the days after, it hadn’t gotten any better. The orderlies were rougher than normal in handling him; he hadn’t yet been allowed to shower, and the doctor continued to refuse his free recreation time.

I don’t deserve this… Abel thought to himself. Or do I?…

“Abel,” said Dr. Dean, whose voice was muffled behind the thick glass. “It’s time we had a chat. Now that you’ve had a few days to think about your… performance, what do you think you should have done differently?”

“I… I don’t know,” Abel sadly replied. His mind was still mush from the cocktail of medicine the doctor had been giving him.

“Your opponent kicked out of your finisher move too easily,” Dr. Dean flatly stated. “Next time, you must do more damage before you attempt to end the match. It’s that simple, young man.”

Abel laid quiet on his cell bed within the padded room. A little dab of drool escaped the corner of his mouth while the doctor continued.

“I do not yet know when your next match is, but the orderlies will make sure you’re ready.”

The doctor’s face disappeared from the small door window, and Abel went back to his state miserable solitude.