The Grand Delusion [MWA #3]

The lights were low, mostly because both lamps were on the floor, flickering pitifully behind their tumbled shades. Similarly, the television set was on its side, lending a strange, shifting blue hue to the scene. The room reeked of sweat, stale tobacco, and the astringent odor of spilled alcohol. Broken glass covered the carpeting, sparkling like diamonds on a jeweler's table. Amid the wreckage sat a forlorn figure, huddled and hunched over, arms wrapped around his knees in a half-assed attempt to control the tremors that wracked his body.

The only sound in the room was the pounding bass coming from the adjacent room, and the relentless sound of white noise coming from the television set. His head was pounding, in perfect harmony with the heavy metal bass line from next door, but he didn't notice. His body ached, his ribs cracked in at least one place from the brutal pummeling at the hands of Duke. But the empty ache in his heart out shadowed that feeling, ten to one. He'd been alone with his grief for more than 24 hours, the first time since he'd seen his brother Shawn's dead body on that sheet covered gurney. Truth be told, he was coming apart at the seams, and his loss to Duke, which had been the catalyst for this meltdown, had somehow been forgotten along the wayside. The tears had long since dried up, leaving shiny trails along his ruddy cheeks.

He was mourning his brother now; it seemed that his effective escape plan had only been a temporary fix. While he had something to focus on, it was easy to forget, and perhaps, more in his nature to do so. It came hand in hand with his ability to drown himself in a bottle. Almost the same idea, immersing himself in training, in sparring, in practicing his timing, and moves all for naught. Perhaps that was a blessing in disguise; he knew he didn't have it in him to be the holder of the biggest belt. Besides, Shawn had failed, was it so difficult to think that he was any different? Shawn had had loads of natural talent, whereas his little big brother Larry just knew how to fall, an ability that seemed to have eluded him at Revenge.

So abject was his misery that he didn't hear the pounding on the door, or if he did, it didn't faze him in the least.

His head hung low, almost as though he lacked the strength in his neck to do anything else. Nearly true, as the weight of his guilt pressed down hard on his shoulders. His jaw was clenched tight, a muscle flexing as he ground his teeth absently. Dark circles carved hollows beneath his baleful gaze, making his eyes appear sunken. A few days worth of stubble covered his face, and his hair was unkempt and tangled, hanging lankly over his face in greasy clumps, the hair of a madman.

The pounding continued, accompanied now by a muffled voice.

"Larry! Little buddy? HEY! Are you in there?!" Brad Jackson's voice, unmistakable.

He grunted softly, and slowly swiveled his head, that colorless, dead glare fixing itself upon the door; it shuddered with the impact as his visitor slammed into it. He recognized the voice, but found that he really didn't care. He was content to sit here, wallowing in misery. Let them break down the doors, let the place burn down, he didn't care and he wouldn't move. He felt like burying his face in his hands, and weeping, but he had no tears left to cry.

The blood flowed in his veins, evidence of a life he no longer deserved. He was a murderer. He was Cain. The pain was exquisite, bringing a numbness that he found soothing. The glass was shiny, smooth and cold in his hand- how long had he been holding it? Time no longer held meaning for him, nothing else mattered. Darkness and death were what he wanted- or rather, what he rightly deserved.

An empty ache consumed him, as the door exploded inward, rebounding with the wall hard enough for the doorknob to puncture the flimsy drywall.

Brad Jackson stood in the doorway, breathing heavily around the cigarette in his mouth, squinting through the smoke and blinking as he took in the demolished room. "Sweet Jesus, what happened in here? Did INXS spend the night here with you, Larry?" The jocular tone died on his lips, the smile fading as Jackson moved closer, seeing more of the wreckage.

Nothing came from Gowan by way of response. Not even the flicker of an eyelash. He sat there, upon the floor, amid the wreckage, turning a sliver of broken glass over and over in his hands. In the sketchy light, it was impossible to see the blood that also coated his hands, trickling sluggishly from a myriad of cuts and gashes. Brad took one hesitant step, then another, his feet crunching on the broken glass strewn around the room. He could barely see Gowan, where he was hunched in the corner, hidden among the shadows; only the play of light from the television set, winking off the piece of glass gave him away.

"Hey man, we were supposed to drive to Denver... what gives?" Jackson was out of action, recovering from knee surgery, working as a road agent. They'd been carpooling for weeks to save money. "Larry? Hey little buddy... are you-"

A sound, impossibly loud in the strange stillness cut off his words. A laugh? A sob? Impossible to tell. He reached for the light switch beside the door, and that was when Gowan visibly tensed, his voice coming from beneath that tangle of greasy streaked hair, muffled and hoarse.

"No. I'm not going to Denver. I'm not going anywhere." His voice was flat, strange and hollow. "Tell you what, just take my keys, take the Toyota, and go. Why can't you people just leave me alone?"

Jackson squinted in the gloom, trying in vain to see Gowan better. But still he hesitated as an icy finger of dread trailed down his spine. Something was certainly not right, and the stench of alcohol seemed to grow stronger, making him feel woozy as he stood in the glow from the hallway, looking across the blue tinted room. He felt as though he was underwater, oddly disoriented. "Larry, what the fuck...?"

Gowan shifted positions, bringing his head up, and that blue light sparked in his pale eyes, making them gleam strangely. "Go, ok? Just go."

The tone was filled with equal measures of weariness, and bitterness, and they cut through Jackson like a hot blade. He knew Larry wasn't taking Shawn's death well, but- he winced, and then spoke again, sounding nothing like the Brad Jackson Gowan knew, and hated. He held out one hand, beseechingly, and his voice was full of soft rebuke. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Larry. You're the closest thing I have to a friend in this world... I can't just walk-"

The reply was cold, utterly devoid of emotion, the voice faltering slightly. "I hate you." The words were toneless, like the voice of a robot. "I have no friends. You're... free to walk away... just go, please?"

Jackson shook his head, his expression showing something utterly foreign- hurt. He took another step, his feet squishing on the sodden carpet. He looked down, expecting to see the Wild Turkey he could smell in the room, instead seeing a dark stain there. Horror began to creep in, replacing the dread that was gnawing at his insides as he knelt, not even noticing the stiffness in his joints. He brought one finger to the stain, and touched it, bringing the finger back up to eye level. Crimson. Blood. His eyes had adjusted to the wavering glow, and as such, he could see the dark and grisly trail that lead to where Gowan rested, huddled against the wall.

His voice was low, filled with the horror he felt, "oh God, Larry... what have you done?" Suicide watch was nothing new to him, and neither were destructive tendencies, but it was different when the impulses weren't his own.

There was no reply from Gowan, except that odd sound again. It seemed like a strangled sob, but again, Brad wasn't sure. He stood in one fluid motion, adrenaline surging through his veins as he approached Gowan. Larry's head rolled back weakly, hitting the wall with a dull thud as he looked at Brad imploringly.

"No. Don't look at me... go away," he said thickly, one hand held up in placation as Brad stopped in front of him. Blood trailed down his bare arm in tendrils and whorls, almost beautiful in its ghastly way. It was still trickling sluggishly from gashes along his wrists, and from gouges along his forearms.

Brad turned away, averting his eyes, suddenly squeamish, his stomach flopping painfully as he took in the carnage that Gowan had wrought on himself. He felt partially, if not wholly responsible. He held back the urge to cry, and instead placed his hands beneath Gowan's armpits, pulling the smaller man to his feet. Gowan seemed to weigh nothing, as though he had already departed this realm, leaving nothing but an empty wrapping behind. Brad carried him effortlessly to the bed, pausing only to right the lamp on the table before tearing off the shade in an attempt to better see the damage. The blood covered Gowan's hands, arms and his chest as well. Deep, jagged cuts, obviously inflicted by the blood-encrusted shard of bottle he still held in his hand. The top of the faded jeans he wore were darkened nearly black with dried blood.

Gowan moaned piteously, and then his eyes rolled back in his head before fluttering closed. Brad muttered a string of curses and picked Gowan up again; striding out into the hallway, holding him gently, in a gesture that was completely against his nature. He whispered as he walked, his voice filled with vehemence, his eyes filling with hot tears. One single tear fell from his eye, tracing a track down his cheek, spattering on Gowan's waxen, pale forehead as he spoke. "Hang on, goddamn it! I'm gonna get you to a doctor, Larry. DON'T YOU DARE DIE ON ME, YOU STUPID BASTARD!! Don't you fucking well DARE!!"

His taillights faded into the darkness, the squeal of his tires, and the cloud of dust taking longer to dissipate, nearly as long as the feeling of utter wrongness that filled room 13.

---

White walls, almost blindingly white- hotels showers had always been the best in his estimation. Clouds of pleasant steam filled the bathroom as he subjected himself to the spray that was one step below flesh peeling. It felt good to have the hot needles of water drilling down on his back, his aching muscles. He'd spent almost six hours at the health club down the block, subjecting himself to a rigorous workout, sparring with opponents of various sizes and skill levels. He'd beaten them all before moving on to the weights, then the treadmills and finally the Olympic size swimming pool. He'd always loved swimming, the silence- the freedom of gliding through that cool water. He supposed on an elemental level it was like being reborn, emerging from that embrace of fluid, blessedly alive. Refreshed.

He knew now what he was, and it wasn't pleasant. Confused and alone. Lost in the middle of a reality that he wasn't even remotely prepared for. A title shot? He felt terrified, on the verge of some spectacular meltdown.

That was the crux of the matter. But that wasn't all, he felt hollow and used up like a candy wrapper, crumpled on the floor of an arena, just detritus left over after the crowds had come and gone. He recognized the feeling, and knew, if left alone, it would blossom and become the depression that had plagued him all his life. Loneliness.

He let the water wash over him, the heat fading as the hot water tanks were depleted. He knew, the rest of them would scoff at this revelation. Lonely in the middle of a crowd? Who can say that with any sort of veracity? Nobody, really. You're in a crowd of people, there's got to be someone there you can relate with.

Not Larry Gowan. He could claim to have sole ownership on loneliness. He pushed his hair out of his eyes, looking down at the faded scars on his chest. Some might call those occupational hazards, but there was more to both than that. He didn't talk about the pain. Nobody else knew what he'd done so many years ago. He was so careful in public now. Always smiling. Always happy. Always laughing and joking and making sure to connect with the fans and his peers. Sighing, he turned his face to the water, letting the cooling spray remove the sweat, the grime and the hot tears that stung his eyes. He braced his hands on the wall, letting his head fall, his eyes drifted closed.

He longed for some peace, for a drink, really anything to turn off his mind and to stop the flood of memories. Shawn. His father. Nate Duke. Robby Mac. So much death, so much blood on his hands, and in his life. How much was a man expected to take without cracking? How many times could Fate smack him down, and expect him to pop back up with a smile on his face, awaiting that next blow? When would it end?

Of their own accord, his hands went to the taps, turning off the water as he picked up the towel draped over the low marble wall. He wrapped this around his waist before stepping away from the shower, his movements automatic.

His breathing was steady, his gaze slightly unfocused as he stepped up to the mirror. He met his eyes in the glass as he leaned forward, flattening his palms against the cool surface. With the soothing contact, his mind seemed to clear, focusing on one image. Jackson. It was easy to blame it all on that one man, in fact, it made the prospect of the match so much easier to stomach. He could pretend CJ Osborne was Brad Jackson, pretend this was the WCWF World Title, and it was day 283 of that insanely long reign. He could tap into that ancient anger easily enough. 

"Take the bastard down a peg," he said with a snarl, his lip curling. The venom in his voice startled him, making him flinch. For a moment, a split second, he'd sounded just like Jackson. He felt sick at the expletive, even though it was mild, immediately looking around to make sure he hadn't been overheard. Of course he hadn't. He was alone. He didn't have to travel with a companion now. He was a big enough draw in a big enough company that they were booking his rooms for him, covering the costs. He'd finally made it in the world.  

The eyes in his reflection were odd, not the clear faded denim he remembered. They seemed flat. Silver. His face seemed to have taken on a harder edge and a muscle jumped in his jaw as he clenched his teeth.

"I can do this," he nodded to himself, "easy-peasy lemon-squeezy."

So this is what he'd become after all those years. A man who had been broken too many times to count, his shoulders bore the slump of defeat. His bare chest and arms bore the wounds, reminders of his guilt. His blood had stained countless arenas from Mexico, to Japan, to the US of A… and had stained one carpet at a fleabag motel, on a night he preferred to forget.

That is what he was. A failure. A fraud. A loser. A jobber... at life.

"I am not," he snapped, looking around sharply as though he'd heard something.

He deserved nothing. The world didn't owe him a thing, but that wouldn't stop him from taking what he wanted, the one thing they'd never, ever given him: respect.