Don't Call It A Comeback

FLASHBACK-- NYC || 07-05-11

Hospitals were traditionally where people went to be saved, but the doctors can only patch you up, put you back together, like Humpty Dumpty. They can't undo the damage. They can't prevent the fall that brought you here, just like they can't fill in the hole yawning at your heels.

The television set on the stand above the bed was tuned to a hockey game. Thankfully the sound was off, or he may have been inclined to leave the bed, and tear the infernal contraption from the wall and dash it to pieces. He'd been awake for an hour, drifting in and out of consciousness and lucidity, mostly thanks to the cocktail of anti-depressants they were pumping into him. Nice following the anesthetic. Not that he remembered the latter. His mind was a fuzzy void, something almost euphoric.

He could smell alcohol and not the kind he wanted to drink- the medicinal kind, coupled with that disgusting odor of disinfectant and Pine Sol. A hospital. His eyes flew open, and he tried to sit up, making a low sound in his throat as pain shot through his nerve endings. He lay alone in the room, immobile and watching with dilated, bloodshot eyes the second hand speeding across the face of the enormous clock. Minutes were stolen as the idle contemplation consumed him.

He blinked, reaching up to rub his gummy eyes and finding that he was unable to bring his arm up that far. Soft restraints bound his wrists to the bedrails, driving his bad mood one more notch towards the red. He pulled against the strap, ignoring the pain in his bandaged wrist, ignoring the blood that began to seep through the white gauze. He would have kept at it for hours, at least, if not for the voice that spoke from the shadows.

"They're for your own good, you know," the voice remarked, in a tone of soft rebuke. "Please, Mr. Jackson, stop before you tear the sutures."

Sutures? What?! The words were familiar, but they didn't register in context as he blinked in stupefaction, looking down with detachment as a nurse moved into his field of vision, unbuckling the straps, and unraveling the soiled gauze. He had no clue where he was, let alone what had happened to bring him here.

He shook his head, confused. His neck hurt the most, burning and aching. He held out one arm, and then the other, looking down as horror dawned upon him in dizzying waves. Cuts. Hundreds of them, jagged and ragged gashes, stitched up with heavy black thread. The nurse tsked softly, taking his hand in one of hers, unrolling a length of fresh gauze, which she wrapped around his arm with care. She taped this with equal efficiency as Jackson simply gaped at the damage, his mind a complete blank.

The reasonable voice continued from the shadows, as though explaining to a child. "We had to restrain you, Mr. Jackson. You were trying to fight us off, surprising considering the blood you lost." The voice paused, as through the speaker was considering something before continuing. "Sorry about the drugs, too. We had to sedate you."

"With... what?" His voice sounded distorted, twisted and wrong somehow.

"Haloperidol. You should be coming out of it shortly. Anti-psychotic."

Jackson squinted into the gloom, wishing his eyes would adjust as he tried to blink away the cloudiness. "Where-" that was the only word he got out before he began to cough. Although it hurt his throat like swallowing broken glass, he was grateful for the attack as it brought tears to his eyes that finally cleared his vision.

"Water," he whispered. The man in the shadows complied, stepping forward with a heavy pitcher in his hand. He poured a plastic glass and pushed it into Jackson's outstretched hand, complete with bendy straw. All the comforts of home. Jackson hesitated, looking the man over in his unmistakable hospital garb. Blood spattered his blue scrubs, and his hair was still hidden beneath a blue cap. A surgeon, likely.

Feeling nauseous, Jackson sipped the water slowly, relishing the coolness as it soothed his throat. After a moment he spoke again, this time choosing his words carefully. "Who are you and where the fu-..." for some reason he censored himself, his voice faltering slightly, "where am I?"

The doctor chuckled as he pulled a chair closer to the bed. "Age old questions, aren't they? Who am I? Why am I here?" He executed a mock bow, his smile sincere. "Doctor Jerome at your service. Microsurgery resident. You're at Mount Sinai. In New York."

His mouth was dry as he groped for the reasoning behind this hospitalization. There was nothing there but a giant black hole. He could barely remember his name. "Ah, so, you're the guy who put Humpty Dumpty together again?" A self-deprecating smile appeared on Jackson's lips. The doctor opened his mouth to reply, but Jackson cut him off with bitterness in his voice as one single thing swam up from the void that clouded his mind. He was a wrestler. A good one, if memory served correctly. "Spare me the story, I'm not that stupid. If you're going to sign the papers and end my career, I can save you the trouble. I've been here before, and I'll be... ok." Would he really? That much was probably subjective at this point, since he felt pretty fucked up.

The doctor shook his head, folding his arms across his chest. "We'll be moving you to a private room in a few minutes. First, I'd like to talk to you."

Lies were fresh on his tongue, put down on clean white paper. He didn't tell them that this entire night had been a wash. That it had started a few months back with a very poor decision to join Nasty Pro Wrestling since he'd been holding their tournament championship for months. He didn't tell the doctor that because he couldn't remember. He couldn't remember the fight with his girl, or the spectacular crash and burn that had left him bleeding on the floor like a victim. That wasn't important. "I fell on some glass." He said slowly, watching as the doctor nodded. Understatement of the year. He'd gone through a four-inch thick plate glass table that was supposed to have been for the biggest draw match of the night. Picking through the words that cluttered his head was like walking drunk through a minefield. One hand stole up to his neck, and he felt the bristle of the stitches there at the hollow beneath his ear, stretching down to his collarbone. "Shit, did I fucking die?"

A shadow passed across Jerome's features, and he said nothing for a long moment. "Technically, yes. You were flatlined for more than four minutes."

Dead. That word made him wince visibly as everything came crashing back. Bleeding on the belt in the hallway as he collapsed on the dirty floor; voluntarily vacating that gold only to be told that this was going to be the last show for the company. "Aw, fuck."

He looked down at the white bandages that encircled his arms from wrist to shoulder, and wondered for a moment just how bad the rest of him was. The glass in his neck. He remembered feeling that. He shook his head slowly, shutting his eyes against the tears that he could feel coming. He spoke slowly, his eyes still shut against the pain, both physical and emotional. "So, you want to talk? About what?"

Jerome chuckled, "I thought maybe you could use someone to talk to as opposed to..." he let the thought trail off, looking vaguely uncomfortable. "You could have died tonight."

Jackson shrugged, keeping his eyes averted. Sweat beaded on his forehead, "Whatever. It's part of the job."

"Part of the job?" Jerome echoed, "must be nice to write off life that easily."

Jackson said nothing. He just lifted his head slowly, letting those red-rimmed eyes bore into the doctor. He'd gotten pretty good at this particular stare over the past few years. Sometimes lately he found himself in front of a mirror, just staring like this as though he could look into his own eyes and get some sense of the man that lived within. "It wasn't easy."

He shook his head, a bitter smile on his lips as those thick fingers with the scarred and misshapen knuckles plucked at the sheet that covered his bare legs. Seemed like too much of his life had been reduced to moments like this, backed into corners. He felt suddenly, unexpectedly exhausted and depressed, despite the medication. A sigh escaped his lips, "I know what you're thinking. Shit, I can read it all over your face." He looked down, swirling the melting ice in the cup he still held in his hand, watching the pink bendy straw twirl. "So maybe I'm a little fucked in the head, then," he murmured, "you going to sign those papers, and have me committed to the loony bin for some evaluation? Post-traumatic something or other for having my ass thrown through a glass table? Or you going to be a nice guy and let me walk out of here clean?"

He could tell by the measuring gaze that swept over him that the doctor didn't buy the words, or the bravado that accompanied them. Didn't matter, because they knew who he was, and were inclined to swallow them simply because they'd come from his lips. It made him angry to see that duality.

"Where are my smokes?"

"After a blood transfusion… I don't really think you should-"

Jackson struggled into a sitting position, putting himself face to face with the doctor. He pointed a finger in his face, all the threat coming from the timbre of his voice. "Honestly, Doc, you don't get paid to think, you get paid to heal. You've done that. Now give me my cigarettes."

Doctor Jerome stood quickly, and went over to the waste can in the corner, fishing out a sad looking pack of Camel deadheads that were nearly stiff with dried blood. He pushed this into Jackson's hand, and then sank back into the chair. "You used to be a legend, man. And now you're coming in here with glass sticking out of your neck and thumbtacks embedded in your back. What the hell are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking I need to get paid." Jackson quipped, snorting in derision as the cigarette found its way to his mouth. He lit it with a shaking hand, only successful when the doctor reached out to steady the flame with his own solid grip. "Can I at least have my pants back while you give me the fuckin' third degree over this shit?" Dignity wasn't the issue. He was freezing. Arms folded across his chest, he glowered at both the doctor and nurse in turn. He was sure they could see the goosebumps on his exposed skin. Bloodloss would do that. So would withdrawal.

Unless he was in the ring, he'd rather people hate him than feel sorry for him. That was easier to deal with. The nurse backed away under the force of his gaze, and returned with the bloodstained Levi's. "Listen, Doc. I know you mean well and everything, but I feel like a bag of shit. So how about you just sign on the dotted line, and check me out of this place so I can-" Just what was he planning to do? Tonight had been his last scheduled appearance for that dog and pony show. All the other bridges had been burned. No credible place would touch him now. He blinked, feeling the weight of the depression settle over his shoulders once again.

"...overnight for observation, at least." The doctor's voice pierced his reverie, and he sighed, resigning himself to his fate. Could have been worse. He could have died.

He took a small sip from the glass before setting it down with a resounding thunk on the bedside table. He swiveled his tortured gaze to the doctor as the man kept right on talking. The urge to bury a fist in his face was steadily rising.

"So, you've got no self respect? You hate yourself, is that it?"

"What the fuck?" Jackson's head snapped up, pain immediately drawing a gasp from between his lips as the stitches in his neck pulled. "Who the hell said I hate myself? Honestly, they say I'm an egotist all the time. I'm all about the self-lovin'."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," the doctor murmured, "a lot of people hate themselves."

Jackson chuckled "Yeah? Groovy, then. Guess I'm not a beautiful and unique snowflake after all, huh?" He rolled his eyes, bitterness creeping into his tone now, "I'm not in the mood for this bullshit conversation, man. You want to know why I'm doing this shit? It's because it's easy money. The violence isn't a big deal, y'know?" He fell silent, watching the ashes fall like snow on the sheets as the cigarette bobbed between his lips, "I'm done, man. Take me to that room, and leave me alone."

The doctor sighed as Jackson slipped to his feet, wobbling as his knees buckled. He braced himself against the bed, breathing heavily.

"Mr. Jackson-" the doctor reached out, touching Jackson's shoulder, only to recoil as the monster of a man pushed up to his full height. Anger spilled over into his gaze, those eyes burning a hole through the doctor's warm brown eyes. He clamped his mouth shut, opting instead to put the pen to paper on the chart again. "I can arrange to have you discharged in the morning..." Highly irregular, against policy under the circumstances. Jackson was in no condition to walk out those doors under his own power. Jerome watched as the wrestler struggled into his jeans. From the clenching of his jaw, and the pallor of his features, it was clear that Jackson was only vertical due to sheer force of will.

"As of tonight, I'm unemployed... again." Jackson growled, teeth clenched against the pain. "Got all the time in the fucking world at my fingertips. Guess I can do some serious thinking about the direction my life's taking, huh?" Shirtless, he stood there, wadding the discarded hospital gown in his hand. Jackson reached for the glass of water on the table. He tossed back the last of the contents, the melting ice crunched away between his teeth as he stared solemnly at the doctor. "You should have let me die, Doc. Nobody would have cared..."