006: Eight Days A Week [uprising]
Sept 24, 2016 0:26:15 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Sept 24, 2016 0:26:15 GMT -5
LOCATION: Mexico City
DATE/TIME: August 23, 2016 || 03:17AM LOCAL TIME
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
The sun shone down on her face, filling every part of her body with lazy summer warmth. She could smell the fresh grass that prickled against her bare arms, a soft carpet beneath her back. The sky above was endless and blue, cloudless as it stretched as far as she could see. In the distance was a low stone wall, separating the grass from a field of tall sunflowers. Bright yellow, they stretched towards the sun in the same way she was – instinctively. Lazily, she stretched and arched her back like a cat reclining in a sunbeam.
"I love summer," the voice was so familiar, her heart shattered into a million pieces and she was terrified to turn her head. She did and there he was, warm and solid. He reclined beside her, braced on his elbows, so close that she could smell him – so sweet like honey and earthy like fresh-cut lawns and dandelion fluff. Her twin brother, Robert Dale McIntyre lounged next to her in jeans and a green thermal shirt, not at all dressed for the weather. He had this thing against wearing shorts, even in the wrestling ring. She'd never really understood it since there was nothing wrong with his body – women found him handsome. The sun lit his eyes with gold, making their blue depths mimic the sky above. His lips curved up in a secretive smile but his eyes were infinitely sad.
Blades of grass stuck to her hands as she sat up. She brushed them away absently, looking down at herself. Black baby doll tee with bubblegum pink letters that said ANGEL with a pink and black plaid miniskirt. Bare legs and bare feet, toes painted wicked black against the green, green grass. She knew if she reached up to touch her hair it would be shorter, barely grazing her shoulders, shot through with red and pink strands that were just expensive extensions.
"Robby." Her lips shaped the soft whisper, chin quivering with tears.
"Don't cry," his smile widened, mischievous, blue eyes dancing now. He had a thick blade of grass between his clasped hands, pinched between his thumbs as he lifted them to his mouth, blowing hard. A squeal ripped across the silent field, making birds flee their hidden roosts. She felt laughter bubbling up her throat, looking into that familiar face. There was a smattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose, darker thanks to the summer sun. They were the same as hers.
Her heart ached to see him again. It broke in a million pieces.
His knee bumped hers as he sat up.
"Missed you, Kat." His voice held that hint of wry humor, just a little rasp at the end of each word.
"What are you doing here?" Her voice cracked and wavered. She could do no more than whisper softly, the words lifted by the warm breeze and carried to his ears. She felt the prickle of sweat on the back of her neck. She smelled the grass and the warm summer air. Her ears picked up the buzz of cicadas in the trees. She felt the tears on her cheeks.
"Other people get guardian angels," he said, "you get me, instead. It's that twin thing, I think."
"You're not real."
"Maybe not." He looked down, poking himself in the stomach, laughing before sobering, "does that really matter? I'm here."
Sobbing now, she threw herself into his arms, bowling him over on the grass. She buried her head in his shoulder, and breathed his scent.
"You have to wake up, Kat." His voice was patient and kind, brimming with love. "Bad things are coming." She looked up and the sky was dark now. Fire burned in that field beyond the wall, consuming the sunflowers. She could smell the smoke. Thunder rumbled and she felt it like a bass throb in her marrow.
"I don't want to leave you!" She wailed but he cut her off, stern.
"Go! You don't want to be here when the storm breaks. You have to go before that happens!"
She woke up with a sob caught in her throat, feeling tears drying on her face, cold and wet in her ears when she rolled over towards her husband. This dream had been bad and weirdly prophetic. She curled up against Mikhail's back, letting out a soft sigh. To admit that she was terrified of what was going to happen in this ludicrous scaffold match was the last thing she intended to do. Even here, with her knight in shining armor, she felt exposed in a way that word had never really encompassed.
Thunder rumbled outside, rattling the windows. The storm from her dream had followed her here. Or maybe it was always here and her overworked, exhausted mind had just made it part of that strange scene. Even now, she couldn't remember Robby's face. Just those sad golden blue eyes.
"Bad things are coming," she whispered, wrapping her arms around her husband, shivering, feeling him stir in his slumber. "Hold me," her voice came out soft, small and defeated, "please?"
She couldn't afford to lose again. Not now.
kittymacblog.wordpress.net posting
September 23, 2016
current mood:
current song: Eight Days A Week – The Beatles
HIT ME WITH YOUR BEST SHOT. I'm ripping off 80's song lyrics, pulling a page from Lex Collins (of all the people one should NEVER, EVER emulate) like I'm trying to be John Bender cool. I'm playing like I'm the loose cannon – part of that is true, in theory. I don't play well with others and I know that's strange given that Lauren and I seem to have forged this little public friendship, complete with compliments and gym dates. It's expected, of course, that we're going to work together to eliminate the opposition.
I want to finish what I started at the last show.
I want to strip away the rest of Chris Mosh's ego.
So, Lauren, let's be perfectly clear: I won't trust you any more than you can trust me. Eye on the prize and all that. Friends do not exist between the ropes.
So, Chris... this is what you wanted, right? A target painted bright? A place for you to focus those particular talents of yours and let loose with a little barrage? Perhaps this time you won't need this to be dictated to you, given that it's a WRITTEN medium – no video. Let's get one thing straight, right from the get-go. Unlike you, I have not lost a match. Granted I've only got two under my belt, but the fact that I defeated a CHAMPION and our interim commissioner speaks for itself, n'est pas?
Blah, whatever. Semantics, right? I still have a flawless record. Flawless. Perfect. Those two words haunt me. They mock me and I know that's so gauche to admit. Trying to define yourself is like trying to bite your own teeth. No, he never coined that phrase. He just purloined it and passed it off as his own.
And now I feel like some caricature. Some sad little fake, talking garbage with the intent to get under your skin when the truth is worse. You're already under mine. How you got there, I don't know. But I can feel you here with me. I can smell the malt-sour stink coming out of your pores. Smells like my brother used to smell when he had his down days – smells like a college drinking binge. My brain gets started on that path, and now I'm measuring you against him. Are you circling the drain like he was, ready for a meltdown? Are you one fuck-up away from permanently injuring someone in the ring and flushing your career? Are you going to walk into traffic after you fail again? Disappear somewhere in Mexico? Hm. I almost want to arrange your demise just because that would be a great headline.
Party Boy Vanishes In Mexico, Authorities Fear The Worst.
I think that's why I've been having nightmares about this match. I see him in your eyes. I smell that sickness on your skin. I hear his words coming from your lips. A part of me hates you for that reminder.
I can't escape the past.
It's here.
Lauren carries his last name – my maiden name – McIntyre.
I don't want to be that one fatal mistake. I am not strong enough to prevent that.
Look in the mirror. Save yourself before it's too late, Oleander. You don't belong here. We both know it.
It's a little past three in the morning and sleep is still the furthest thing from my mind. I ran for a couple hours tonight, but it didn't do much to burn off this energy. Feel slightly sick, that cold knot in my guts, and the sweat turning to ice on my arms and back. If the baby machinery was working, I'd be convinced of pregnancy but somehow I fear this might actually be worse than what morning sickness is like. Shudder. Shiver. Feel like crying but my eyes are dry and burning instead so I'm sitting here on the toilet, typing this shit so I don't disturb my sleeping husband and all I see in the mirror is this scared little girl with her haunted eyes.
Moment of truth like that, but I wonder... am I even capable of telling it? Short and sweet, because I'm too restless to sit here pounding keys all night.
I guess what I'm saying is that maybe I am a fraud. A fake. I'm a wannabe Goth princess with a violence fetish – well, I used to be. I'm stupid and vain and obsessed with being the best – used to be that as well. I'm hungry and desperate to prove my worth with trinkets and accolades to fill the emptiness inside me – ah, well... that one might actually still be accurate. You asked who I am, Oleander.
Do you really want an answer? An honest one?
I'm a bitch.
I'm everything you wish you could be but will never manage to become...
...and I loathe everything about me.
But I'm not shallow enough to talk about me. Consider this an intervention, honey. I don't give a shit about any of you as people. Chris is a joke, a goddamned liability. Oleander is a puzzle nobody cares about solving. And Lauren? I fear she doesn't belong here. Not after a single damned match. I fear she's far too innocent of any wrongdoings where this CHAOS is concerned.
And then we have Chris Mosh, The Party Boy. The diet cola version of Dom Harter, a man who once called himself the Frat-Boy Assassin.
Oh, that's true.
He's pathetic as well, but we're not talking about losers in other companies that don't matter. If that were the case, we'd be talking about those who shall not be named from that other place that our little haven was once linked to. I don't want to conjure any trolls from under the bridge.
Mosh, a little warning: if you have the nerve to set foot in this match with me, disrespecting the profession that's been MY LIFE for the last twelve years by being shit-faced drunk or high or popping mollies or whatever the kids do these days, I swear by whatever deity you believe in that I WILL end you. No smiles. No cute little giggles. No flippant little flirty promises and a twirl of a fucking parasol. I can back it up. Look up a girl named Kali Sidero if you don't believe me.
I have time. I'll be watching, sharpening my knife. I'll be waiting, loading my gun. Gallows. Scaffolding. I know why this bothers me so much but I can't walk away now.
I have to push through. I have a belt to think about. More than that, I have keeping it from your WORTHLESS hands to consider and that's far more important.
And come South of the Border on October 5th that long walk down to the ring is going to feel just a little bit like you're walking down Death Row to your final end. The gallows await, ladies, little boy. The scaffolding is ready for you, Chris. So is your noose that you braided so painstakingly with each and every ill-conceived word that fell from your lips – I don't envy you that.
I'd rather be the executioner. Eight days a week. True story.
=^,,^=
DATE/TIME: August 23, 2016 || 03:17AM LOCAL TIME
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
The sun shone down on her face, filling every part of her body with lazy summer warmth. She could smell the fresh grass that prickled against her bare arms, a soft carpet beneath her back. The sky above was endless and blue, cloudless as it stretched as far as she could see. In the distance was a low stone wall, separating the grass from a field of tall sunflowers. Bright yellow, they stretched towards the sun in the same way she was – instinctively. Lazily, she stretched and arched her back like a cat reclining in a sunbeam.
"I love summer," the voice was so familiar, her heart shattered into a million pieces and she was terrified to turn her head. She did and there he was, warm and solid. He reclined beside her, braced on his elbows, so close that she could smell him – so sweet like honey and earthy like fresh-cut lawns and dandelion fluff. Her twin brother, Robert Dale McIntyre lounged next to her in jeans and a green thermal shirt, not at all dressed for the weather. He had this thing against wearing shorts, even in the wrestling ring. She'd never really understood it since there was nothing wrong with his body – women found him handsome. The sun lit his eyes with gold, making their blue depths mimic the sky above. His lips curved up in a secretive smile but his eyes were infinitely sad.
Blades of grass stuck to her hands as she sat up. She brushed them away absently, looking down at herself. Black baby doll tee with bubblegum pink letters that said ANGEL with a pink and black plaid miniskirt. Bare legs and bare feet, toes painted wicked black against the green, green grass. She knew if she reached up to touch her hair it would be shorter, barely grazing her shoulders, shot through with red and pink strands that were just expensive extensions.
"Robby." Her lips shaped the soft whisper, chin quivering with tears.
"Don't cry," his smile widened, mischievous, blue eyes dancing now. He had a thick blade of grass between his clasped hands, pinched between his thumbs as he lifted them to his mouth, blowing hard. A squeal ripped across the silent field, making birds flee their hidden roosts. She felt laughter bubbling up her throat, looking into that familiar face. There was a smattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose, darker thanks to the summer sun. They were the same as hers.
Her heart ached to see him again. It broke in a million pieces.
His knee bumped hers as he sat up.
"Missed you, Kat." His voice held that hint of wry humor, just a little rasp at the end of each word.
"What are you doing here?" Her voice cracked and wavered. She could do no more than whisper softly, the words lifted by the warm breeze and carried to his ears. She felt the prickle of sweat on the back of her neck. She smelled the grass and the warm summer air. Her ears picked up the buzz of cicadas in the trees. She felt the tears on her cheeks.
"Other people get guardian angels," he said, "you get me, instead. It's that twin thing, I think."
"You're not real."
"Maybe not." He looked down, poking himself in the stomach, laughing before sobering, "does that really matter? I'm here."
Sobbing now, she threw herself into his arms, bowling him over on the grass. She buried her head in his shoulder, and breathed his scent.
"You have to wake up, Kat." His voice was patient and kind, brimming with love. "Bad things are coming." She looked up and the sky was dark now. Fire burned in that field beyond the wall, consuming the sunflowers. She could smell the smoke. Thunder rumbled and she felt it like a bass throb in her marrow.
"I don't want to leave you!" She wailed but he cut her off, stern.
"Go! You don't want to be here when the storm breaks. You have to go before that happens!"
She woke up with a sob caught in her throat, feeling tears drying on her face, cold and wet in her ears when she rolled over towards her husband. This dream had been bad and weirdly prophetic. She curled up against Mikhail's back, letting out a soft sigh. To admit that she was terrified of what was going to happen in this ludicrous scaffold match was the last thing she intended to do. Even here, with her knight in shining armor, she felt exposed in a way that word had never really encompassed.
Thunder rumbled outside, rattling the windows. The storm from her dream had followed her here. Or maybe it was always here and her overworked, exhausted mind had just made it part of that strange scene. Even now, she couldn't remember Robby's face. Just those sad golden blue eyes.
"Bad things are coming," she whispered, wrapping her arms around her husband, shivering, feeling him stir in his slumber. "Hold me," her voice came out soft, small and defeated, "please?"
She couldn't afford to lose again. Not now.
kittymacblog.wordpress.net posting
September 23, 2016
current mood:
current song: Eight Days A Week – The Beatles
HIT ME WITH YOUR BEST SHOT. I'm ripping off 80's song lyrics, pulling a page from Lex Collins (of all the people one should NEVER, EVER emulate) like I'm trying to be John Bender cool. I'm playing like I'm the loose cannon – part of that is true, in theory. I don't play well with others and I know that's strange given that Lauren and I seem to have forged this little public friendship, complete with compliments and gym dates. It's expected, of course, that we're going to work together to eliminate the opposition.
I want to finish what I started at the last show.
I want to strip away the rest of Chris Mosh's ego.
So, Lauren, let's be perfectly clear: I won't trust you any more than you can trust me. Eye on the prize and all that. Friends do not exist between the ropes.
So, Chris... this is what you wanted, right? A target painted bright? A place for you to focus those particular talents of yours and let loose with a little barrage? Perhaps this time you won't need this to be dictated to you, given that it's a WRITTEN medium – no video. Let's get one thing straight, right from the get-go. Unlike you, I have not lost a match. Granted I've only got two under my belt, but the fact that I defeated a CHAMPION and our interim commissioner speaks for itself, n'est pas?
Blah, whatever. Semantics, right? I still have a flawless record. Flawless. Perfect. Those two words haunt me. They mock me and I know that's so gauche to admit. Trying to define yourself is like trying to bite your own teeth. No, he never coined that phrase. He just purloined it and passed it off as his own.
And now I feel like some caricature. Some sad little fake, talking garbage with the intent to get under your skin when the truth is worse. You're already under mine. How you got there, I don't know. But I can feel you here with me. I can smell the malt-sour stink coming out of your pores. Smells like my brother used to smell when he had his down days – smells like a college drinking binge. My brain gets started on that path, and now I'm measuring you against him. Are you circling the drain like he was, ready for a meltdown? Are you one fuck-up away from permanently injuring someone in the ring and flushing your career? Are you going to walk into traffic after you fail again? Disappear somewhere in Mexico? Hm. I almost want to arrange your demise just because that would be a great headline.
Party Boy Vanishes In Mexico, Authorities Fear The Worst.
I think that's why I've been having nightmares about this match. I see him in your eyes. I smell that sickness on your skin. I hear his words coming from your lips. A part of me hates you for that reminder.
I can't escape the past.
It's here.
Lauren carries his last name – my maiden name – McIntyre.
I don't want to be that one fatal mistake. I am not strong enough to prevent that.
Look in the mirror. Save yourself before it's too late, Oleander. You don't belong here. We both know it.
It's a little past three in the morning and sleep is still the furthest thing from my mind. I ran for a couple hours tonight, but it didn't do much to burn off this energy. Feel slightly sick, that cold knot in my guts, and the sweat turning to ice on my arms and back. If the baby machinery was working, I'd be convinced of pregnancy but somehow I fear this might actually be worse than what morning sickness is like. Shudder. Shiver. Feel like crying but my eyes are dry and burning instead so I'm sitting here on the toilet, typing this shit so I don't disturb my sleeping husband and all I see in the mirror is this scared little girl with her haunted eyes.
Moment of truth like that, but I wonder... am I even capable of telling it? Short and sweet, because I'm too restless to sit here pounding keys all night.
I guess what I'm saying is that maybe I am a fraud. A fake. I'm a wannabe Goth princess with a violence fetish – well, I used to be. I'm stupid and vain and obsessed with being the best – used to be that as well. I'm hungry and desperate to prove my worth with trinkets and accolades to fill the emptiness inside me – ah, well... that one might actually still be accurate. You asked who I am, Oleander.
Do you really want an answer? An honest one?
I'm a bitch.
I'm everything you wish you could be but will never manage to become...
...and I loathe everything about me.
But I'm not shallow enough to talk about me. Consider this an intervention, honey. I don't give a shit about any of you as people. Chris is a joke, a goddamned liability. Oleander is a puzzle nobody cares about solving. And Lauren? I fear she doesn't belong here. Not after a single damned match. I fear she's far too innocent of any wrongdoings where this CHAOS is concerned.
And then we have Chris Mosh, The Party Boy. The diet cola version of Dom Harter, a man who once called himself the Frat-Boy Assassin.
Oh, that's true.
He's pathetic as well, but we're not talking about losers in other companies that don't matter. If that were the case, we'd be talking about those who shall not be named from that other place that our little haven was once linked to. I don't want to conjure any trolls from under the bridge.
Mosh, a little warning: if you have the nerve to set foot in this match with me, disrespecting the profession that's been MY LIFE for the last twelve years by being shit-faced drunk or high or popping mollies or whatever the kids do these days, I swear by whatever deity you believe in that I WILL end you. No smiles. No cute little giggles. No flippant little flirty promises and a twirl of a fucking parasol. I can back it up. Look up a girl named Kali Sidero if you don't believe me.
I have time. I'll be watching, sharpening my knife. I'll be waiting, loading my gun. Gallows. Scaffolding. I know why this bothers me so much but I can't walk away now.
I have to push through. I have a belt to think about. More than that, I have keeping it from your WORTHLESS hands to consider and that's far more important.
And come South of the Border on October 5th that long walk down to the ring is going to feel just a little bit like you're walking down Death Row to your final end. The gallows await, ladies, little boy. The scaffolding is ready for you, Chris. So is your noose that you braided so painstakingly with each and every ill-conceived word that fell from your lips – I don't envy you that.
I'd rather be the executioner. Eight days a week. True story.
=^,,^=
