“Because I will not have my children crawl through life like insects.”
“We don’t want to crawl,” Butch said carefully.
“You don’t want at all,” Vladim snapped. “I want for you.”
High school brought scholarships, recruiters, and headlines.
Local Siblings Rewrite Record Books
Woerter Dynasty Rising
Vladim cut out every article and pinned them to the walls. He slept less. His eyes gleamed feverishly. The metal case multiplied into three. He increased the dosages.
“You can endure it,” he insisted when Helen vomited after practice.
Butch began injecting himself to avoid his father’s steady hands. At night, they met in the narrow space between their bedrooms, backs against opposite walls.
“Do you ever think about leaving?” Helen whispered once.
“And go where?”
“Anywhere.”
Butch thought of the barbell in the frost. The needle. The word pathetic.
“He’d find us,” he said.
Helen nodded. She knew it was true. Yet something had shifted. They no longer trained because they feared being called worthless. They trained because winning felt like silence.
On the field, in the gym, on the track—there was no voice but their own breathing. Victory became a kind of revenge.
The collapse came without warning. Vladim was fifty-two when his heart gave out.
He was in the garage, adjusting a homemade centrifuge he used for his concoctions. Butch found him sprawled across the concrete floor, one hand clutching his chest. For a moment, Butch thought he was pretending.
“Get up,” he said. Vladim’s eyes fluttered open. They were unfocused, almost childlike.
“Superior,” he whispered.
Then he was still.
Helen stood in the doorway, her hands covered in chalk from the gym. Neither of them cried.
The funeral was sparsely attended. Coaches came. A few curious neighbors. The metal cases were locked in the basement. In the days that followed, the house felt larger. Quieter. The air seemed to move differently.
Helen stood at the kitchen counter where the injections had begun.
“He’s gone,” she said. Butch leaned against the sink.
“Yeah.”
She waited for relief. It did not come. Instead, there was a hollow space, like the silence after a gunshot.
“What do we do now?” she asked. Butch looked at the walls lined with clippings.
“We keep going.”
“For us?” He hesitated.