005: Yearning [uprising]
Sept 10, 2016 12:42:48 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Sept 10, 2016 12:42:48 GMT -5
[OOC: continuation of this one, if you care.]
LOCATION: somewhere between Paris and Brussels
DATE/TIME: June 7, 2004 || 05:07AM LOCAL TIME
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
Five hours had passed in the blink of an eye. Mikhail had endured her endless chatter all through the cab ride to the train station. He'd seemed genuinely interested while she talked about how this trip overseas had fallen so short of her expectations of glory that she was torn between laughing and crying. When she'd taken his hand on a rare impulse, asking him to come with her to Brussels, to use the ticket that was still on hold for Angel Lynn, she'd been shocked that he'd agreed. The longer she spent in his company, the more she felt like they were the oldest of friends.
"Timing," she sighed softly, "it's the worst. You know, really, I wasn't supposed to be here. They offered this to Robby first," pausing, she realized he had no idea who that was, quick to correct any misconception, "my brother. In a perfect world, he'd be the one on this train right now, probably making everyone laugh. Probably winning over the crowds and maybe it wouldn't be so hard for someone like him. I know you must think I'm just the worst sort of ingrate, talking about how rough I have it but it's just..." she fell silent, wondering what he would think of her if she told him the truth. "I took his spot," her voice came out small, her gaze wandering to the view as it crept past the window. "Exactly two months ago, he took his own life. Don't say anything, okay? Just let me finish before you judge me for the terrible person I am."
She could feel his warmth even though he'd left a respectable distance between them. The seats made sure of that little buffer and she wished they had their own compartment in the worst sort of way. A meltdown felt imminent – she'd been bottling everything up for the last two months, existing only from one wrestling match to the next and the preparation that came between.
"I was on a plane before they'd even finalized arrangements. I'm sure my mother will never forgive me for that one – she's still not spoken to me since, called me selfish, if you can believe that. But really? The whole thing with a funeral? That's not for the dead. They're gone. They're not there in that container of ashes, some soul stuck in little bitty particles or in that silk-lined expensive box – so what's the point? No. The service is for everyone else. For people to compete, cry and say all these nice things about the deceased and I..." Kitty's voice faltered, a hint of a bitter laugh there as she shook her head, her eyes still on the window even though it was still too dark to see much. "I would have been confrontational. I know that. They would have been up there talking about how much they'd lost, how big of a void he'd left in their lives and I..." she swallowed hard, the bitterness in her mouth now and not just her voice. It tasted cold and flat, metallic. "I thought I knew him best, Mik. I did. So what could I have said to them that would have explained my ignorance? I should have known." She finally bit her lip, silencing herself.
She watched him in the ghostly reflection, superimposed over the darkness beyond that window. Something about Mikhail Petrov was unbelievably comforting. Her throat was dry, her jaw aching as she sat there in silence for the first time in hours, wondering what he must think of her to have kept up this gigantic running diatribe since that cab stand down the street from the community center she'd wrestled in. He'd made a sweet, completely gentlemanly gesture and she'd completely glommed onto him like some desperate leech in return. Would he have approached her if she'd been with a group and not so pathetically alone? Maybe he would have. But would she have latched on like this?
Shaking her head, she roused herself from that reverie, turning to look at the man. "Sorry. I'm not usually this..." she lifted her hand from her lap, making a fluttering gesture before toying with her hair, "I'm not usually this much of a damsel in distress. It's just..."
He gave her a small smile, his voice soft and rich as he spoke something to her in Russian first, and then with deft grace his hand rose to capture the hand that was toying with her hair for a moment. At her look he attempted to translate what he had said into English in a way that would make sense, a line forming between his brows of concentration before his smile showed he felt he had what he needed, though there was a hint of something in his eyes that spoke of other things entirely. "It is not for the Chevalier, to decide what his service to the Queen is to be." A pause as he moved in such a way to try to capture her gaze with his. "Do you understand? When someone truly needs, there is an answer. Sometimes, we can be lucky enough to give or receive such."
The words were even more beautiful in English than they'd sounded in Russian and she felt tears prickling again, those same ones that had been banished by his arrival in her life only hours before. "I understand," her voice came out so small that she immediately broke eye contact, looking down at her lap.
"Good." Mikhail relaxed back in his seat a bit, clearly in no hurry to be anywhere but with her. "Kait." He paused, a slight shake of his head. "Kaitlynn. There is never a need, to look away from me. How you choose, to deal with how you feel? There is no wrong way. They say that we Russians are stoic, and we do not understand grief, but I think they simply do not know, that we have been grief for so long, that we embrace joy in ways they do not understand." He took a breath, then leaned forward again, his elbows resting on his knees as he watched her. "Never let another, tell you how you feel. That is for you to decide. Not society. Not someone who does not see your heart."
Another rueful laugh left her lips as she sat up straighter, letting her head fall back against the headrest. "I'm not sure I even have a heart anymore. Too much hurt, too much of everything lately and I'm just overflowing, desensitized, maybe? Either way..." she paused, that sick, ugly flavor back in her mouth, making her want to keep talking until it went away for good. "I didn't know how bad he was. I knew he was depressed. He'd always had highs and lows but a part of me wonders. Maybe I didn't want to know. Maybe that's what my mom is talking about. Maybe that's what she sees. That ugly, evil part of me that really didn't care how much Robby was hurting as long as it didn't spill over onto my doorstep. Is that..." her eyes sought his, brilliant jade green, swimming with tears, "is that cold? Is that callous of me? He cried wolf so many times. I lost so much sleep over him, calls at all hours, talking him down off so many ledges over the most insignificant things."
"That is not cold." There was an almost gentleness to his tone, he sat up just enough to reach out one hand and draw the arch of his finger under one of those beautiful eyes, letting it rest at her temple. It was an oddly familiar gesture as if somehow he felt it would make her focus on him. "There is nothing evil, nothing ugly in protecting yourself. Kait, are you hearing me? It is good to give, to those you love. Help those that need it when you can. But it is never acceptable to destroy yourself in the process. You are precious, and unique. Never feel guilty, that you wish to live."
"Funny you should say that," she closed her eyes for a second, holding her breath because the pressure of that fingertip against her skin was making her feel warm. "Because when I walked out that door tonight I didn't. I guess maybe I was looking for a sign." Her eyes opened, a hint of a smile on her lips. "You being here tonight of all the nights on this damned tour you could have is just..." she faltered, "good timing, I suppose."
He was silent for a moment, just taking her in. How she looked, the smallest details from how the light gleamed off her hair, the way her finger would twist a lock of it. "My Kait." Another pause, as he moved his finger from her temple to the point of her chin, making her look at him. "For once then, I was exactly where I would have wished to be. Take my word for this, but I would not like to think about a world where you are not out there in it somewhere. Remember this, please."
She felt a completely irrational flare of defiance, unable to keep the words from passing her lips because he was almost too good to be true, like this was all still part of some dream. "I don't understand why that would matter to you. You hardly know me, Mikhail."
There was the slightest of twitches to the corners of his mouth, almost as if he were pleased at her flare of temper, that show of fire. "It matters, Kaitlynn. Look me in the eyes. Tell me then, right then, that you should not matter to me." He paused a heartbeat, two. "If you can."
She met his gaze levelly, unable to tear herself away from what she saw reflected. They seemed darker now, more mysterious and she wondered if they changed colors or she just hadn't really looked before. Licking her lips, she swallowed hard. "I'm not important," she said, a distinct lack of conviction in the words, "Robby was the one with all the charisma. He had the power to make people feel. I'm – I can't do that."
One side this time, that twitch and then he smiled gently. "My Kait, yes you can. For here I am, right in front of you. Do you truly not see yourself as you are? Forget the..." Here he paused, clearly attempting to think of the right word and that confident gaze of his showed a very small flicker of that. "Forget the expectations of others. Forget the idea that you must have a false modesty, Kait." Another pause. "Kaitlynn, the only chains that bind you, are the ones you allow. This sounds so easy, correct? But we know it is not. Only you, have the key to those chains. You..." He reached again with that hand, the tip of his finger almost hovering near her collarbone. "...simply have to decide to turn it."
She stared at him for a few seconds, lips parted as she tried in vain to think of some kind of reply. How was he so good at saying exactly the right thing every time he opened his mouth? How was he so impossibly handsome? "Mik," his name came out shortened again, trembling there before she leaned towards him, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder as her lips pressed against his.
If he was surprised by this it didn't show, but his hand moved from hovering to slide into her hair briefly as he kissed her back. His lips were warm against hers, and he was in no hurry to break that touch, as if he felt she needed a thorough kissing right then. When he drew back his eyes drifted open lazily and he seemed far more relaxed than the pounding of his heart would actually indicate. "Tell me now, Kait." He meant what he'd said before, and was still curious if she could do it, especially after that.
"I," she was almost breathless, unable to look away from that bottomless gaze, "I can't."
Mikhail gave her a much fuller, much warmer smile that made his eyes almost sparkle. "This is a good thing, then. A place, to start."
kittymacblog.wordpress.net posting
September 9, 2016
current mood:
current song: Yearning – The Trews
I LIKE TO THINK THAT HELL IS JUST this extended, completely insufferable moment of time, invariably spent waiting for the other shoe to drop. It will. It always does. If you're lucky, you can feel it coming. Maybe the cold of that shadow hanging over you, or that whistle as it flies through the air – get really lucky and maybe you can avoid it altogether. Be proactive rather than reactive, I suppose. They prefer that. You know who I mean. There's no escaping them, after all. They're everywhere – they being the infamous, faceless peanut gallery. They like to point fingers and this far into my career I'm loath to give those idiots any further ammunition.
Tonight, I'm hating Mexico more than I hated that little windowless room that became a prison for nearly two years. Someone comes at me now with one of those 'woe is me' stories, and I've got no patience – speshul snowflakes aren't rare or unique or even remotely beautiful.
"You can't run from your past. You'll end up running in circles. Until you fall back down to the same hole you were trying to escape from, only the hole's grown deeper." – Max Payne
And I just quoted a video game.
Someone alert the media. I've become another pop-culture-spewing hipster. I should don that green apron and start calling myself a coffee artist in my off hours. That's how it goes, isn't it? The start of the slippery slope, the slide off into oblivion and next it won't be Mexico. I'll be back to community centers and legion halls in cities I can barely find on a map. Honor Wrestling made it abundantly clear to me: Ace Andews (a man I've beaten more than once in my career) is a legend. Blair Kivisto is a legend (I beat her too once upon a time). A woman named Elena DeDraca is a legend (I'd never heard of her before about ten months ago).
I'm nothing.
So this opportunity against Chris Mosh? Well it smacks a little false. It feels like padding. It feels like I'm being set up as a fall gal – don't get me wrong, though. I'm overjoyed at the recognition. Perhaps Paul Knight is the man I have him pegged as. I'm kind enough to give people a little bit of rope. They can use it to hang themselves if they wish but it's not a requirement. Right now, I'm riding a wave. See, I beat someone important. Even if he is this overworked and underpaid pencil pusher, the fact remains that he's been in Uprising far longer than me. He had the resources, the wherewithal to put me in my place.
He failed.
I'm not going to use his name ever again. He's lost that privilege in my books.
I'm going to take a page from my ex, the man who finished training me – the Dark Horse himself – Jackson. Reinhardt from here on out – just the last name. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't just a little impressed at how easy that was. The silence was rather deafening, definitely underwhelming when one is expecting to be torn to shreds. I don't think I have to tell you how much I'd have liked that. Alas, here we are.
Unfulfilled. Disappointed.
And staring at the prospect of facing my worst nightmare. A party boy. Some smarmy little shit frat boy – I'm sure he's heard that before, a million times over. I have no desire to be a retread. To repeat past failures. And if I'm being honest? I have no interest in the Village Bicycle Championship either.
Sure, sure. You've heard that before, I'm sure. So, let's not go there. You refrain from the comments about my genitalia and I won't say a peep about your pukka shell necklace. I don't want to bore you to tears or lapse into some knockoff of Hunter S. Thompson or Chuck Palahniuk. Wait. Are they still cool?
So out of touch it's not even funny.
I won't cry about how things went so damned south – no locale pun intended there – so damned quickly. I was on top in Sin City. I won the Queen of Sin. You know what's funny? I'm going to be the very last one because they're circling the drain. That final show will never happen. I beat the best of the best of the women in this industry (actually, funny story: they were all garbage).
Let's just say I'm a realist. I'm not crazy enough to overlook you. Nope. Not after the shit that's gone down the last few months. I never wanted to leave. I did because I had to – I was forced to. But that's okay. I left the places in ruins – not that I'm trying to play at being some sort of cancer that taints every promotion I work for. I don't buy into that shit. I'm not into politics. I'm not the one practicing the corporate dick-sucking backstage. I know. It's fucking mind-blowing, right?
The ring is a cruel mistress. The longer I stuck around, the weaker I get. And now I'm stuck in this rut, igniting my self-hatred like I'm doing my best Jackson impression. He's retired. Have to fill that void, right? That's what I do. I'm a usurper. I took Sabra's Queen of Sin moniker. I took Robby's roster spot in WCWF. This weekend I'm going to take away Chris Mosh's only claim to fame and then I'm sure the bough will break and baby will come crashing down. I'll end up pounding salt. Pounding pavement, tossed out on my ass again. NLW is on a break between seasons and this other company OWF was ready to stick the fork in and call the place done.
My safe spaces are dwindling and my tiara got lost in the shuffle. Damn. All I have now are broken dreams of supremacy stabbed with failure.
Oh, hello. I'm a sarcastic bitch. Pleased to meet you.
Let me draw you a pretty picture and I'll use all the colours just for you. In wrestling, we're all part of some statistical group. My brother, he was one of the 'gone too soons'. There was no accident. He didn't crash and burn in the ring. He didn't fall or botch a landing or anything like that. No, see, that would have been something I could handle. That would have been easy to lay the blame on someone else, on a faulty harness, on someone in management being dumb enough to let it happen in the first place. No. He wasn't even working when it happened. WCWF had released him from his probationary contract and he went home to get better. That's what he told me, what he told everyone. He was sick and he needed to get well.
WCWF wanted to keep me on. They sent me to their Europe branch to start this fledgling women's division. I wanted my big moment, the moment we'd both worked so hard for and I was perfectly happy to use the void he'd created as a stepping stone.
And that leads to my song this week, to my lesson. Reinvention, I suppose. Seizing the moment and fuck all the dreams because there's no sleeping allowed. Not here. Not when you've got this idiotic 24/7 anywhere rules surrounding it. I don't want it, Chris. I'll still take it. For now, I'm going to close my eyes. I'm going to let them rest and I'm going to take something for this damned headache.
The hour is late, it's almost dawn, without an end, we can't go on,
As dark as it seems, soon you will see the day's sun,
Perchance to dream, there is the rub,
Permanent sleep, nice dreams will come,
Try to have faith to carry you on as you run...
There's always a moment in your life you wish you could do over, isn't there? There's always something – there's always that yearning. Yearning, and hurting... learning. Ugh. I'm sick of lessons.
=^,,^=
LOCATION: somewhere between Paris and Brussels
DATE/TIME: June 7, 2004 || 05:07AM LOCAL TIME
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
Five hours had passed in the blink of an eye. Mikhail had endured her endless chatter all through the cab ride to the train station. He'd seemed genuinely interested while she talked about how this trip overseas had fallen so short of her expectations of glory that she was torn between laughing and crying. When she'd taken his hand on a rare impulse, asking him to come with her to Brussels, to use the ticket that was still on hold for Angel Lynn, she'd been shocked that he'd agreed. The longer she spent in his company, the more she felt like they were the oldest of friends.
"Timing," she sighed softly, "it's the worst. You know, really, I wasn't supposed to be here. They offered this to Robby first," pausing, she realized he had no idea who that was, quick to correct any misconception, "my brother. In a perfect world, he'd be the one on this train right now, probably making everyone laugh. Probably winning over the crowds and maybe it wouldn't be so hard for someone like him. I know you must think I'm just the worst sort of ingrate, talking about how rough I have it but it's just..." she fell silent, wondering what he would think of her if she told him the truth. "I took his spot," her voice came out small, her gaze wandering to the view as it crept past the window. "Exactly two months ago, he took his own life. Don't say anything, okay? Just let me finish before you judge me for the terrible person I am."
She could feel his warmth even though he'd left a respectable distance between them. The seats made sure of that little buffer and she wished they had their own compartment in the worst sort of way. A meltdown felt imminent – she'd been bottling everything up for the last two months, existing only from one wrestling match to the next and the preparation that came between.
"I was on a plane before they'd even finalized arrangements. I'm sure my mother will never forgive me for that one – she's still not spoken to me since, called me selfish, if you can believe that. But really? The whole thing with a funeral? That's not for the dead. They're gone. They're not there in that container of ashes, some soul stuck in little bitty particles or in that silk-lined expensive box – so what's the point? No. The service is for everyone else. For people to compete, cry and say all these nice things about the deceased and I..." Kitty's voice faltered, a hint of a bitter laugh there as she shook her head, her eyes still on the window even though it was still too dark to see much. "I would have been confrontational. I know that. They would have been up there talking about how much they'd lost, how big of a void he'd left in their lives and I..." she swallowed hard, the bitterness in her mouth now and not just her voice. It tasted cold and flat, metallic. "I thought I knew him best, Mik. I did. So what could I have said to them that would have explained my ignorance? I should have known." She finally bit her lip, silencing herself.
She watched him in the ghostly reflection, superimposed over the darkness beyond that window. Something about Mikhail Petrov was unbelievably comforting. Her throat was dry, her jaw aching as she sat there in silence for the first time in hours, wondering what he must think of her to have kept up this gigantic running diatribe since that cab stand down the street from the community center she'd wrestled in. He'd made a sweet, completely gentlemanly gesture and she'd completely glommed onto him like some desperate leech in return. Would he have approached her if she'd been with a group and not so pathetically alone? Maybe he would have. But would she have latched on like this?
Shaking her head, she roused herself from that reverie, turning to look at the man. "Sorry. I'm not usually this..." she lifted her hand from her lap, making a fluttering gesture before toying with her hair, "I'm not usually this much of a damsel in distress. It's just..."
He gave her a small smile, his voice soft and rich as he spoke something to her in Russian first, and then with deft grace his hand rose to capture the hand that was toying with her hair for a moment. At her look he attempted to translate what he had said into English in a way that would make sense, a line forming between his brows of concentration before his smile showed he felt he had what he needed, though there was a hint of something in his eyes that spoke of other things entirely. "It is not for the Chevalier, to decide what his service to the Queen is to be." A pause as he moved in such a way to try to capture her gaze with his. "Do you understand? When someone truly needs, there is an answer. Sometimes, we can be lucky enough to give or receive such."
The words were even more beautiful in English than they'd sounded in Russian and she felt tears prickling again, those same ones that had been banished by his arrival in her life only hours before. "I understand," her voice came out so small that she immediately broke eye contact, looking down at her lap.
"Good." Mikhail relaxed back in his seat a bit, clearly in no hurry to be anywhere but with her. "Kait." He paused, a slight shake of his head. "Kaitlynn. There is never a need, to look away from me. How you choose, to deal with how you feel? There is no wrong way. They say that we Russians are stoic, and we do not understand grief, but I think they simply do not know, that we have been grief for so long, that we embrace joy in ways they do not understand." He took a breath, then leaned forward again, his elbows resting on his knees as he watched her. "Never let another, tell you how you feel. That is for you to decide. Not society. Not someone who does not see your heart."
Another rueful laugh left her lips as she sat up straighter, letting her head fall back against the headrest. "I'm not sure I even have a heart anymore. Too much hurt, too much of everything lately and I'm just overflowing, desensitized, maybe? Either way..." she paused, that sick, ugly flavor back in her mouth, making her want to keep talking until it went away for good. "I didn't know how bad he was. I knew he was depressed. He'd always had highs and lows but a part of me wonders. Maybe I didn't want to know. Maybe that's what my mom is talking about. Maybe that's what she sees. That ugly, evil part of me that really didn't care how much Robby was hurting as long as it didn't spill over onto my doorstep. Is that..." her eyes sought his, brilliant jade green, swimming with tears, "is that cold? Is that callous of me? He cried wolf so many times. I lost so much sleep over him, calls at all hours, talking him down off so many ledges over the most insignificant things."
"That is not cold." There was an almost gentleness to his tone, he sat up just enough to reach out one hand and draw the arch of his finger under one of those beautiful eyes, letting it rest at her temple. It was an oddly familiar gesture as if somehow he felt it would make her focus on him. "There is nothing evil, nothing ugly in protecting yourself. Kait, are you hearing me? It is good to give, to those you love. Help those that need it when you can. But it is never acceptable to destroy yourself in the process. You are precious, and unique. Never feel guilty, that you wish to live."
"Funny you should say that," she closed her eyes for a second, holding her breath because the pressure of that fingertip against her skin was making her feel warm. "Because when I walked out that door tonight I didn't. I guess maybe I was looking for a sign." Her eyes opened, a hint of a smile on her lips. "You being here tonight of all the nights on this damned tour you could have is just..." she faltered, "good timing, I suppose."
He was silent for a moment, just taking her in. How she looked, the smallest details from how the light gleamed off her hair, the way her finger would twist a lock of it. "My Kait." Another pause, as he moved his finger from her temple to the point of her chin, making her look at him. "For once then, I was exactly where I would have wished to be. Take my word for this, but I would not like to think about a world where you are not out there in it somewhere. Remember this, please."
She felt a completely irrational flare of defiance, unable to keep the words from passing her lips because he was almost too good to be true, like this was all still part of some dream. "I don't understand why that would matter to you. You hardly know me, Mikhail."
There was the slightest of twitches to the corners of his mouth, almost as if he were pleased at her flare of temper, that show of fire. "It matters, Kaitlynn. Look me in the eyes. Tell me then, right then, that you should not matter to me." He paused a heartbeat, two. "If you can."
She met his gaze levelly, unable to tear herself away from what she saw reflected. They seemed darker now, more mysterious and she wondered if they changed colors or she just hadn't really looked before. Licking her lips, she swallowed hard. "I'm not important," she said, a distinct lack of conviction in the words, "Robby was the one with all the charisma. He had the power to make people feel. I'm – I can't do that."
One side this time, that twitch and then he smiled gently. "My Kait, yes you can. For here I am, right in front of you. Do you truly not see yourself as you are? Forget the..." Here he paused, clearly attempting to think of the right word and that confident gaze of his showed a very small flicker of that. "Forget the expectations of others. Forget the idea that you must have a false modesty, Kait." Another pause. "Kaitlynn, the only chains that bind you, are the ones you allow. This sounds so easy, correct? But we know it is not. Only you, have the key to those chains. You..." He reached again with that hand, the tip of his finger almost hovering near her collarbone. "...simply have to decide to turn it."
She stared at him for a few seconds, lips parted as she tried in vain to think of some kind of reply. How was he so good at saying exactly the right thing every time he opened his mouth? How was he so impossibly handsome? "Mik," his name came out shortened again, trembling there before she leaned towards him, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder as her lips pressed against his.
If he was surprised by this it didn't show, but his hand moved from hovering to slide into her hair briefly as he kissed her back. His lips were warm against hers, and he was in no hurry to break that touch, as if he felt she needed a thorough kissing right then. When he drew back his eyes drifted open lazily and he seemed far more relaxed than the pounding of his heart would actually indicate. "Tell me now, Kait." He meant what he'd said before, and was still curious if she could do it, especially after that.
"I," she was almost breathless, unable to look away from that bottomless gaze, "I can't."
Mikhail gave her a much fuller, much warmer smile that made his eyes almost sparkle. "This is a good thing, then. A place, to start."
kittymacblog.wordpress.net posting
September 9, 2016
current mood:
current song: Yearning – The Trews
I LIKE TO THINK THAT HELL IS JUST this extended, completely insufferable moment of time, invariably spent waiting for the other shoe to drop. It will. It always does. If you're lucky, you can feel it coming. Maybe the cold of that shadow hanging over you, or that whistle as it flies through the air – get really lucky and maybe you can avoid it altogether. Be proactive rather than reactive, I suppose. They prefer that. You know who I mean. There's no escaping them, after all. They're everywhere – they being the infamous, faceless peanut gallery. They like to point fingers and this far into my career I'm loath to give those idiots any further ammunition.
Tonight, I'm hating Mexico more than I hated that little windowless room that became a prison for nearly two years. Someone comes at me now with one of those 'woe is me' stories, and I've got no patience – speshul snowflakes aren't rare or unique or even remotely beautiful.
"You can't run from your past. You'll end up running in circles. Until you fall back down to the same hole you were trying to escape from, only the hole's grown deeper." – Max Payne
And I just quoted a video game.
Someone alert the media. I've become another pop-culture-spewing hipster. I should don that green apron and start calling myself a coffee artist in my off hours. That's how it goes, isn't it? The start of the slippery slope, the slide off into oblivion and next it won't be Mexico. I'll be back to community centers and legion halls in cities I can barely find on a map. Honor Wrestling made it abundantly clear to me: Ace Andews (a man I've beaten more than once in my career) is a legend. Blair Kivisto is a legend (I beat her too once upon a time). A woman named Elena DeDraca is a legend (I'd never heard of her before about ten months ago).
I'm nothing.
So this opportunity against Chris Mosh? Well it smacks a little false. It feels like padding. It feels like I'm being set up as a fall gal – don't get me wrong, though. I'm overjoyed at the recognition. Perhaps Paul Knight is the man I have him pegged as. I'm kind enough to give people a little bit of rope. They can use it to hang themselves if they wish but it's not a requirement. Right now, I'm riding a wave. See, I beat someone important. Even if he is this overworked and underpaid pencil pusher, the fact remains that he's been in Uprising far longer than me. He had the resources, the wherewithal to put me in my place.
He failed.
I'm not going to use his name ever again. He's lost that privilege in my books.
I'm going to take a page from my ex, the man who finished training me – the Dark Horse himself – Jackson. Reinhardt from here on out – just the last name. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't just a little impressed at how easy that was. The silence was rather deafening, definitely underwhelming when one is expecting to be torn to shreds. I don't think I have to tell you how much I'd have liked that. Alas, here we are.
Unfulfilled. Disappointed.
And staring at the prospect of facing my worst nightmare. A party boy. Some smarmy little shit frat boy – I'm sure he's heard that before, a million times over. I have no desire to be a retread. To repeat past failures. And if I'm being honest? I have no interest in the Village Bicycle Championship either.
Sure, sure. You've heard that before, I'm sure. So, let's not go there. You refrain from the comments about my genitalia and I won't say a peep about your pukka shell necklace. I don't want to bore you to tears or lapse into some knockoff of Hunter S. Thompson or Chuck Palahniuk. Wait. Are they still cool?
So out of touch it's not even funny.
I won't cry about how things went so damned south – no locale pun intended there – so damned quickly. I was on top in Sin City. I won the Queen of Sin. You know what's funny? I'm going to be the very last one because they're circling the drain. That final show will never happen. I beat the best of the best of the women in this industry (actually, funny story: they were all garbage).
Let's just say I'm a realist. I'm not crazy enough to overlook you. Nope. Not after the shit that's gone down the last few months. I never wanted to leave. I did because I had to – I was forced to. But that's okay. I left the places in ruins – not that I'm trying to play at being some sort of cancer that taints every promotion I work for. I don't buy into that shit. I'm not into politics. I'm not the one practicing the corporate dick-sucking backstage. I know. It's fucking mind-blowing, right?
The ring is a cruel mistress. The longer I stuck around, the weaker I get. And now I'm stuck in this rut, igniting my self-hatred like I'm doing my best Jackson impression. He's retired. Have to fill that void, right? That's what I do. I'm a usurper. I took Sabra's Queen of Sin moniker. I took Robby's roster spot in WCWF. This weekend I'm going to take away Chris Mosh's only claim to fame and then I'm sure the bough will break and baby will come crashing down. I'll end up pounding salt. Pounding pavement, tossed out on my ass again. NLW is on a break between seasons and this other company OWF was ready to stick the fork in and call the place done.
My safe spaces are dwindling and my tiara got lost in the shuffle. Damn. All I have now are broken dreams of supremacy stabbed with failure.
Oh, hello. I'm a sarcastic bitch. Pleased to meet you.
Let me draw you a pretty picture and I'll use all the colours just for you. In wrestling, we're all part of some statistical group. My brother, he was one of the 'gone too soons'. There was no accident. He didn't crash and burn in the ring. He didn't fall or botch a landing or anything like that. No, see, that would have been something I could handle. That would have been easy to lay the blame on someone else, on a faulty harness, on someone in management being dumb enough to let it happen in the first place. No. He wasn't even working when it happened. WCWF had released him from his probationary contract and he went home to get better. That's what he told me, what he told everyone. He was sick and he needed to get well.
WCWF wanted to keep me on. They sent me to their Europe branch to start this fledgling women's division. I wanted my big moment, the moment we'd both worked so hard for and I was perfectly happy to use the void he'd created as a stepping stone.
And that leads to my song this week, to my lesson. Reinvention, I suppose. Seizing the moment and fuck all the dreams because there's no sleeping allowed. Not here. Not when you've got this idiotic 24/7 anywhere rules surrounding it. I don't want it, Chris. I'll still take it. For now, I'm going to close my eyes. I'm going to let them rest and I'm going to take something for this damned headache.
The hour is late, it's almost dawn, without an end, we can't go on,
As dark as it seems, soon you will see the day's sun,
Perchance to dream, there is the rub,
Permanent sleep, nice dreams will come,
Try to have faith to carry you on as you run...
There's always a moment in your life you wish you could do over, isn't there? There's always something – there's always that yearning. Yearning, and hurting... learning. Ugh. I'm sick of lessons.
=^,,^=
