The Wrestler

He had been a wrestler once. He'd fought men as strong as horses and savage as wolverines
and he had won. He had never lacked courage then.

The last five years had left the man an unrecognizable emaciated shell. Always stooping, he no longer ever stood his six feet and four inches. He'd been hungry and thinning for five years. Alone in his misery. He hadn't seen anyone in years probably. He didn't know. He didn't know if there were still people around.

He'd spotted the house a day earlier and had decided to wait. Finally, the prospect of food got to him.
He circled the house three times to examine it from every angle. Having seen nothing, he decided it was worth approaching. He slowly crept up to the front door eyeing it down the barrel of his rifle. It was worn and ajar. He carefully brought the end of the barrel against the door and pushed it open. A long wail came from it. The wrestler, terrified, walked into the unlit vestibule. He spotted boots and exchanged them for his own. At least there's that he thought.

He leaned against the small portion of wall beside the door frame that led into the house. He held his breath until he was ready to explore. He heard the faintest of effluviums.

He swiftly turned and walked backwards, his finger on the trigger until he reached the front door. He turned again and ran as fast as his atrophied legs would take him into the woods. When his legs buckled, he began to cry where he lay dying.