Begin with an extreme and see what happens

Closing his eyes, lying there in a nearly-meditative state on the sweaty bench, Mark’s sense of hearing seemed to sharpen. The clamor of various bars and weights being lifted and dropped, grunts and expelled breaths from strained bodies, and the squeak of sneakers all ascended to the forefront of his mind, and he couldn’t help but smile and feel at home. 

Mark inhaled three long, slow breaths, engaged his pectoralis muscles, took one more last breath, then poured all of his will into launching that damn barbell, loaded to a total of 150 pounds. He smoothly smashed out 10 repetitions, satisfied in knowing he could have cranked out at least two or three more. 

Thrilled, Mark jumped squarely off the bench, sweaty hair whipping his face, and nonchalantly tossed more plates onto the bar: 200 pounds it now weighed, and he’d need just a single rep only to surge past his previous PR (personal record) of 190 pounds. 

Laying back down, Mark repeated his ritual, preparing for this last feat of strength, which was of especial significance. As he gripped his hands around the bar, the thoughts of Richard he’d been suppressing for the past year flooded back to him, and his arms fell to his side. He reset his grip, and despite stinging eyes and heaving chest, the bar did not move. 

—

That had been two days ago: the one-year anniversary of his brother’s passing. Now, Mark despaired in his bed reminiscing about his brother and shuffled through the polaroids Rich loved to take. His gym bag sat empty below his nightstand. As he was beating himself up for skipping the gym and failing to raise those 200 pounds, he felt shame rising and purpling his cheeks. He hated himself for letting these trivialities distract him from fully appreciating the memories of his brother. 

He thought back to when Rich had first convinced him, after their entire adolescence of his urging, to train at the gym together. Mark let a fleeting chuckle escape recalling all his excuses: he didn’t want to, or he enjoyed cardio more. He had even cited the locker room smell of the gym as, he had thought at the time, his most compelling argument. The chuckle turned into a cringing self-loathing, for he knew  that all these lousy excuses were masking the real reason: he was afraid. He was afraid of failure and afraid of the judgement of dozens of eyes laughing at his frail body. Rich’s ghost appeared in Mark’s mind’s eye, but Mark physically batted it away. “I know,” said the smallest bit of Mark’s brain willing to engage with the message. 

To his surprise, and embarrassment upon realizing how misguided his misgivings had been, Mark had loved their first session together. He remembered walking in the doors, looking up at his brother, who seemed to swell to a mountain of a man as soon as they entered the building. Rich commanded the room, hailing all the locals in greeting and receiving several head nods and high fives in return. Rich had shown him around the gym, pointing out the various machines and their exercises, but they circled back to two: even Rich hadn’t been able to resist the allure of the bench press and squat rack. Rich jumped onto an open bench and graciously hauled 200 pounds as if it were nothing. “Your turn.” He’d said, and Mark’s eyes went wide. 

On the drive home, Mark was a changed man. In an elixir of endorphins, he felt the thrill of adrenaline and confidence swirling in his blood. Rich was hollering, hyping and dapping him up. That shared moment of pure brotherly love and adoration was the last thing Mark remembered before headlights blinded him.

Mark swam in darkness, a syrupy ocean pulling him ever downward. When he finally surfaced, a realization more debilitating than any car crash instantly hit him: he had woken up an only child. The warm presence, the connection he had always felt to his twin brother Rich, was gone.