Chapter 5

Most people want to believe that given the opportunity, they could make something truly great of themselves.

That's why there are so many fairytales about going to another world, reincarnating or what have you. And sadder still, so much more people gobble them up, dreaming of a day where they too could have such a chance.

But as one of Disneys most popular song "A dream is a wish your heart makes" teaches us.

Dreaming is for when you're asleep, quite literally in the second line.

And reality could be quite a bitch.

This was something Gabriel thought he had learned thoroughly...

But here he was stepping out of his room in the dead of the night.

Having pried open his room door as slowly as possible, slipping his tiny fingers to hold down the latch bolt as soon as it was free, making sure it's wonky spring didn't send a crisp twang echoing to his mothers room.

With one step he traversed the perilous, violin-chordesque chasm that was their hallway, the floor board protesting in a drawn out squeak as he drew out the transfer of weight from his back to front foot for as long as he could.

The bottom of his thighs had their own misgivings about the activity, their current length and flexibility didn't quite measure up to the split he was trying to accomplish, and they were making it known loud and clear.

It took awhile, but the squeaking finally stopped and in one go he landed in front of their bathroom door. Finally he could sigh in relief as he took a confident step on the ceramic tiles.

But the moment his back foot left the ground to meet his right, he closed his eyes in instantneous regret.. He'd forgotten that their floor boards creaked both ways, remembering only the moment he'd stepped off, but by then it was too late.

One shrill note echoed through their home.

Okay, maybe it wasn't really that loud.

But at this time of night, with his tension, it sounded like someone dropped a bomb in their living room to him.

His breathing stopped and the thumps of his heart beat grew so much louder for a few seconds. Slowly he opened his eyes and peeking at the door of Maria Marcellus's room from the corner of them, listening intently for even the slightest of movements.

After the longest fifteen seconds of his life, he finally let out a breath and entered.

He flicked the light switch, closing his eyes as he did so, listening for that momentary buzz before the lights blink to life. It's slight hum filled his ears and under it's occasionally flickering shine he pulled up his shirt.

What was reflected was a pitiful body, skin nearly molding itself to the bone. As if simply looking sickly wasn't enough, it was now decorated with purple and yellow blotches.

With a sigh he touches one of them, wincing at the first graze.

Thinking back to the start of that day, he probably should have weaned his body into the early morning routine.

Though his mind was self aware at five am, the rest of his body wasn't.

It was like his spirit was disconnected from his body, every command he told it passed along like bad cell rececption, making it a chore to even keeping his head from lolling. Several splashes of cold water later and he barely got his eyelids halfway open.

That being the case, it was needless to say that attempting the exercises he had planned out for this was alot more troublesome than he anticipated and his body's willingness wasn't even the biggest hurdle he had to face.

While he couldn't be considered unhealthy by any standards, there was little he could do with his flimsy frame that wouldn't leave him in a drenched, heaving mess on the floor.

More to the point.. There was little he could do. Period.

Not thirty minutes after he had been able to repossess his body from the grips of drowsiness, did he lose it to exhaustion.

With his hands a shoulder's width apart on the ground, in tandem with his legs holding up his whole body, he held the push up position perfectly.

Not that there was much more he could do. His arms screamed to be released of this tension but even the thought of lowering himself to the next position sent his arm trembling as if plucking the strings of a guitar.

Like the rest of his body, his own sweat was working against him. The first of the salty drops invading his eyes, stinging and blurring his vision as he tried to perservere.

The rest tickled his chin, gathering until it was a marble sized droplet before splashing into a puddle beneath him, taking away any traction his fingers needed to keep his body aloft.

Finally without even having the chance to execute a single push-up, his elbows buckled and he crashed into a puddle of his own perspiration.

By this point he was already been beaten by his own body.

And it was only 6 a.m.