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body div#devskin0 hr { }

  The reflection isn’t his.

    The boy staring back at him is too rough – too broken. His eyes are cold, and his lips are thinned out. He doesn’t hold an ounce of life. Not even a trace between the glass and the dust-covered spandex. The innocence in the reflection was snuffed out; beaten, bruised and left in a warehouse to die. He wonders if he will ever live up to the reflection or if – like the second son – his arc would be in vain.

    It’s a moment of doubt. A moment of realization that no matter what he does, he could never take the reflection’s place. He could never be what the second son was – never chosen for the job. He stole it; he walked right up to it and took it without a single regard to who held the mantle before him. He should feel guilty, but there’s no remorse growing inside him.

    Deep down, he knows he isn’t welcomed.

    Every time he prances from rooftop to rooftop, he knows his mentor silently wishes it wasn’t him. That somehow – someway his son had come back from the dead. He should feel guilty for being a symbol of false hope. He should be apologizing at his feet, begging for forgiveness for the pain he has caused.

    Instead, he stares at the reflection and he wonders if he is fit to wear the symbol. He knows the answer. He knows he is nothing but a replacement for something that cannot be replaced. A person that cannot be remade. A son that cannot be mourned.

    “I’m sorry, Jason.”

    Then the reflection is his own.

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

  The reflection isn’t his.

    The boy staring back at him is too rough – too broken. His eyes are cold, and his lips are thinned out. He doesn’t hold an ounce of life. Not even a trace between the glass and the dust-covered spandex. The innocence in the reflection was snuffed out; beaten, bruised and left in a warehouse to die. He wonders if he will ever live up to the reflection or if – like the second son – his arc would be in vain.

    It’s a moment of doubt. A moment of realization that no matter what he does, he could never take the reflection’s place. He could never be what the second son was – never chosen for the job. He stole it; he walked right up to it and took it without a single regard to who held the mantle before him. He should feel guilty, but there’s no remorse growing inside him.

    Deep down, he knows he isn’t welcomed.

    Every time he prances from rooftop to rooftop, he knows his mentor silently wishes it wasn’t him. That somehow – someway his son had come back from the dead. He should feel guilty for being a symbol of false hope. He should be apologizing at his feet, begging for forgiveness for the pain he has caused.

    Instead, he stares at the reflection and he wonders if he is fit to wear the symbol. He knows the answer. He knows he is nothing but a replacement for something that cannot be replaced. A person that cannot be remade. A son that cannot be mourned.

    “I’m sorry, Jason.”

    Then the reflection is his own.