001: Famous
Nov 24, 2016 4:42:14 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Nov 24, 2016 4:42:14 GMT -5
LOCATION: somewhere near Morocco
DATE/TIME: October 11, 2016 || sunset
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
The last cigarette made its way up to her lips – she knew she should really quit but the last few months since she'd been forced out of SCW had been hard and she'd taken up the damned habit again. Maybe she'd be able to kick it while they were here on the water. Maybe she'd go a few hours and end up begging him to turn back towards land. The latter was more likely because any willpower she'd had seemed to have vanished as quickly as her wrestling job prospects had. Uprising was meant to be a fresh start while NLW was taking that break between seasons. It had seemed so promising, with a modest-sized roster, sure, but Paul Knight wasn't an unknown. It looked great on paper. It had turned gone south so quickly she still felt vertigo just thinking about it. Now it was just another failure to add to the list of companies that no longer existed that she'd once called home.
She still had the Chaos championship belt. She'd taken it – a rash, impulsive decision she didn't regret. It belonged to her. And now it sat belowdecks on the dresser with the tiara she'd received from the Queen of Sin win. Just another trinket to mock her: look who you used to be.
"Bow down to the queen of nothing," she murmured, smoke escaping with the words, "the queen of garbage, the queen of filth and refuse." The words weren't her own. She'd stolen them from a movie, twisted them to her own liking and they'd become a sort of mantra that kept repeating in her mind, mocking her. She hated feeling like this because it reminded her of those two years she'd spent in that damned bunker, hidden away, presumed dead by the rest of the world. Her hand shook as she grasped the railing again. She didn't get seasick. She felt the motion but it didn't do anything beyond make her feel sleepy, lulled like a baby with the gentle rocking. She knew her husband had to hate it but he never complained, never really seemed to judge any of her worst vices. With automatic motions, her hand moved up to her mouth for that last drag before she flicked the cancer stick overboard, watching it sizzle out in the dark water. Standing here with her hand wrapped around the railing, she felt a tug she hadn't in a very long time. A whisper deep inside of her, telling her that if she just leapt into that water after it, everything would be fine. Reckless urges were all she'd felt since they'd left Mexico and now the sun was setting on another perfectly serene day. She had all the time in the world at her fingertips and like an idiot, she longed for a packed schedule, for bookings and travel and cramped airline seats.
The sky was saturated with the perfect autumn colours, all reds and golds and indigo where the horizon line met the water. It was the kind of Kodak moment that she'd always longed for but she couldn't help the sigh that passed her lips as she exhaled that last lungful of mentholated smoke. Closing her eyes, she bowed her head, letting that curtain of hair fall over her face. She was gripping the railing so hard that both hands ached and she knew that if she let go right now, that urge would win. She'd find herself drowning even though she'd known how to swim since she was a little girl.
As she looked down at the water, things began to creep into her notice that she might have sworn weren't there just moments ago. There was a soft almost hum in the air, though no source that she could see as she looked up and out across the ocean. A hint of fog began to roll out over the waves as they darkened without the sunlight, and she could smell a bright hit of nicotine-laden smoke after the rough scratch of a wooden match against something. The dark came up fast out here on the open ocean, the stars usually quickly bright against the velvety backdrop of the sky. She started to turn around, got a quick glimpse of the slim form of her husband standing in the shadows, the bright cherry of the Davidoff cigarette he held in his right hand, and the gleam of his eyes before his left hand caught her shoulder and made her turn around. His words were in Russian, though her brain automatically translated them, her lessons having come so far. You should have been paying more attention, Princess. Now look and see what you have done.
He took a deep drag off of his luxury cigarette, Mikhail didn't smoke often – his dislike of her habit had more to do with the menthol than anything else really; this habit was one he had picked up in prison but had never allowed to grow past 'occasional'. He exhaled, the thick smoke wreathing his head and swirling around, frosting his dark hair and caressing over the dead white rose tattoo on his neck. You think I do not see, what is happening here? That I do not know you better than you know yourself? I swore to you when we married that I would give you anything you desired. Did you forget that too, my Precious Wife?
With a flick of his long elegant fingers he sent the remainder of his cigarette after hers, the cherry stayed lit even under the water as it spiraled down until her quick gaze couldn't see it anymore. Her heartbeat sped up at his words and again she felt that shame wash over her at her prior thoughts. He couldn't truly know that, could he? A gleam came then, a flash as the too-bright stars overhead reflected off a highly polished surface. There was a sharp feeling like a pinch, then fire lit down both of her arms, her hands releasing the rails as she lifted them up in horror to see lines of rich crimson flow from wrist to elbow on both arms. She turned in a panic to her husband, and watched him draw that blade down his own arm, switch hands, and repeat before he dropped it with a thud to the deck. We will haunt these waves forever, my love. We will put the Flying Dutchman to shame, and we will bring so much misfortune that our curse becomes just as legendary. There was a pause, his thin handsome lips curving to a wicked smile. This was what you wanted, to be famous. This is how it happens, forever.
"Кейтлин! Вставай!" Mikhail's rich voice came to her ears, a flare of pain to her head as she lifted her arm, the shadow of the boom cast over the both of them from the moonlight overhead. Her husband gently rolled her to her back, carefully checking for blood in her hair, his voice low and attempting to comfort. "There there, it is not so bad. You just took a glancing strike, the tether snapped and it swung before I could warn you. We will get you checked when we make port."
Her arms still tingled, burned and when she looked she still expected to see the blood flowing, expected to find them both in a pool of rich crimson as deep as the ocean. Eyes glassy, she looked up at her husband, those last words he'd spoken still ringing in her head – how much of that had actually happened? "I don't…" the words trembled on her lips, the thought splintering before the rest could spill out. That flash. Was there a knife? Eyes squeezed shut as she shook her head slowly, feeling the throb in the back of her skull at the motion.
"Hold still. Relax. Let me get the kit, and then we will get you set up." His voice stayed warm for her, though he spoke in that clipped fashion he had when taking charge of a situation. "Did you hit your head on the deck as well?" He stood up smoothly, the linen trousers he wore rolled up into cuffs, his bare feet slapping the deck as he moved towards the cabin where the first aid kit was put away.
Had she? "I don't know." Her voice came out small even as she struggled to sit up, feeling like she needed to see the water, to see if it was running red now, as irrational as it seemed. "You said something," even as she started to broach the subject, she could feel the words slipping away, leaving behind nothing but that feeling of unease.
"I said to hold still, yes." A hint of minor vexation in his tone, as he quickly returned. He made a 'tsk' sound as he crouched down next to her. "You know better than to move after you have taken a hit to the head." He dug through the kit, producing a small penlight that he shined in each eye before he put it away. "I do not think you have a concussion at least. Let me get you off this deck." He slipped his arms around her, one under her knees and one to support her back as he smoothly stood with her in his arms, deceptively strong as always with that whipcord build of his.
Gratefully, she relaxed against him, feeling a shiver crawl over her bare arms despite his warmth. A trick of the shadow thrown by the moon on the mast and boom made her see those dark lines again and she bit her lip, closing her eyes against that feeling that rose up again. "I saw something," she whispered, feeling like she needed to explain, "the water was so dark and I thought..." she shivered. "Maybe I imagined it."
"What did you see?" He asked it in an absent fashion as he used his bare foot to pull the cabin door open enough to take Kitty inside. "Dark waters are tricky waters, there are many stories of fantastical things seen in such."
Kitty licked her suddenly-dry lips, trying to think past the ache in her head – it all seemed so very real. "You had a knife." The words tumbled out as she forced the darkness on the edges of her vision away, trying to hold that thread that was doing its best to slip away. "And there was blood. So much blood."
Mikhail let out a slightly inelegant snort as he settled her on the small bed, it was meant for 'crew' to nap in for traded watches and not nearly as luxurious as the one belowdecks but it would do for now. "I have several knives, so this is not so surprising?" He moved to get a lap blanket from a storage chest bolted to the inner cabin wall, and paused as he rifled through the contents. "But still, you seem as if this is not all there was." He murmured something she couldn't hear, or maybe he didn't and it just seemed that he had before he turned around to bring the brightly woven blanket over to cover her with. "Rest, maybe the rest will come clear then."
"Maybe," she echoed, the doubt written all over her face. The further she'd gotten from that railing and the siren song of that dark water, the more she thought it had all been in her head. The fog. The things Mikhail had said, the way he'd said them felt like there was some secret message she couldn't quite grasp. Maybe if her head stopped throbbing. Maybe if she just closed her eyes for a brief second. That brief second was enough for her to fall asleep, and Mikhail gently smoothed his hand over her hair before he went to tie down the boom for safety, he'd check on her frequently after of course but what she'd said had somehow struck a chord with him, as if he'd heard it somewhere before.
kittymacblog.wordpress.net posting
November 23, 2016
current mood: ᕦ(ò_óˇ)ᕤ
current song: I Don't Care – Fall Out Boy
Calvin Harris. I'm getting all a-tingle just typing that name. Just rolls right off the fingers so nicely, doesn't it? That's right, folks, I'm going to be facing THE Calvin Harris in just a few short days (on a side note, some guy named JT Midas is also in the match, although you'd be hard-pressed to tell from the things he's posted on social media lately). So, let's take a moment of silence to mourn the passing of Uprising, Pure Amusement and Honor Wrestling before we get too carried away.
…
…
And that's about enough of that.
I want to preface this little missive with a brief thought. A kernel of wisdom, if you will. You see, I know all about the egotists and sadists. I think I can call myself an expert, really. After all, I married two of them.
I'll pause for a moment here to let that sink in. I know you, Cal. I know everything I need to know – really appreciate that, by the way. Was quite nice to not have to do an ounce of legwork this time around. See, I know you're not what you say you are. I know you're a whiny brat who thinks if he tries to cut me off at the knees that I won't keep coming at him like the goddamned Terminator.
For someone who starts out his ego-maniacal rant about how many companies he's been in by saying he believes in giving credit where it's due, you certainly don't follow through with your words. Let's just paint ourselves a crappy little hypocrite over here. There. Isn't that nice? See, Calvin Harris thinks because he found an open source article about me that he's found the holy grail – oh yes! He thinks he knows everything about me and even tries to use it to judge me, only to contradict himself a few moments later. He quotes passages verbatim – other people's words coming from his mouth and then says he doesn't believe it. So to recap, because I have a feeling putting two and two together may not come easy to you, your entire basis on my career that you researched (using that term loosely), you don't actually believe. I hate to shatter your perception of reality like half of this country did on November 8th, but I didn't actually write that article. I know, Cal. Take a few seconds. Go get some water so you can spit it out when you read that sentence over again.
As a woman who doesn't fancy herself as a writer, I'd much rather sit here behind a computer screen sipping on a glass of wine and collecting my thoughts rationally than stand in front of a camera and shout incoherently for ten minutes. That's right. I didn't actually go online and document every minute of my life or every second of my wrestling career. I have better things to do with my time.
By the way, I do want that ten minutes of my life back.
And I digress but the fact remains that the article you copied and pasted into your speech like you were the first lady elect was written by a fan of mine. Or several, each one putting their own experiences together to try and represent my life as best as they could to the public who may be curious, but I didn't write it. If I wanted to promote myself, I'd actually go out and do it, not write up a history lesson (and yes, I realize the irony in saying that in an online blog, so don't bother pointing that out, tyvm).
Whether you believe what I've been through is real or not doesn't affect me at all. Insulting past companies I've been in doesn't get under my skin either. Why would it? If I believed that they were the best places ever, I would still be there, wouldn't I? In this business, especially when you're starting out, you can't be that picky about where your pay cheque is coming from. My goal since day one has been to be the best, I've already stated that, and rather than sit on my couch waiting for the perfect spot to fall in my lap, I went out and made the best of every situation I could to get there. Being someone who grew up in wrestling, who's been touting your last name since day one to get you noticed, I can see how that would be a foreign concept to you. Some of us had to work hard to get to where we were. Wrestling sixteen years ago wasn't anything like it is today.
But I don't need to tell you about that gender divide, do you? I mean you ARE with Nova Wonder, after all. Believe me when I tell you that you can't get greatness from osmosis and that she's a hundred times the fighter and talker you will ever be. Does that sting a little bit, short stack? I get the feeling it just might, given how loudly you've been proclaiming your greatness. You know the story of the boy who cried wolf, right? You know the more you have to tell us all how great you are, the less any of us listening actually believe that. Show, honey. Never tell.
I'm not a writer. Not by any stretch. So I already feel like I've come to the end of the things I need to say about you – to you. My fingers are stilling on these keys, the adrenaline and the angst burning inside starting already to simmer down. I'm no longer Jason Mewes making that vain effort to express an opinion on the Internet, trying to one-up the idiot chorus. I suppose that reference is a little dated, but you have to admit it is an image that sticks. Arguments are futile, aren't they?
Ah, but let's see what we have here so far. Let's make a tally. JT has insulted my age and implied I have a particular taste in television programming. I'm sure you can picture how hard I'm rolling my eyes. In the words of Pete Wentz: I don't care what you think as long as it's about me.
Do you know why I call Las Vegas home? It's easy to fade into the crowd. It's easy to shirk the celebrity mantle and walk down the street hand in hand with my husband and not be hounded for autographs. The city is full of famous people. It's full of hookers and broken people and tourists and the latter bunch are so dazzled by the lights and the action that they rarely notice – in Vegas, I'm next to invisible. Do this long enough, Calvin, and you'll understand why I crave my privacy. You'll understand why I call myself a veteran but I don't have a thousand and one worthless title reigns to my name. Collecting trinkets has never been my passion, boys. I just want to be the best. I want to be the face on the poster, the largest font on the marquee, the one they're all coming to see. I want little girls to pump their fists in the air when they hear my music. I want boys to wish they could be my darling Mikhail. I have dedicated my career to being in the top tier, always. Since 2010, that's been true and I don't plan to close out this year any differently.
All witty repartee aside, I appreciate the gesture, Calvin. I know it must be hard to talk about others when all you really want to do is distance yourself from the sour taste the name Pure Amusement Wrestling leaves on the tip of every tongue. The world is on the brink of falling apart and this business we both call home is a microcosm echo of that. There's a divide that's rearing its ugly head again and that paranoia that we believed was finally under control so many years ago has come screaming back with a vengeance. This time it brought friends and they're settling in for a hell of a bender. It's become our reality. Fear is our new spice of life, and it's a sick seasoning. In fact, it's not even paranoia any more. It's honest knowledge that the world can, and will fuck you over on a whim. It happens every day.
I know that begs the obvious question. Whose turn is it today? Yours? Mine? JT's?
Paranoia used to be that sleeping devil. Creeping on you, crawling up your spine like that touch that gives you a shiver, and then biting you the moment your guard slips – fear venom drifting through your veins. Run and hide. Make a stupid mistake or two and then they're on you, cutting you down.
JT knows a thing or two about running, about trying to distance himself. Every single thing he posts telegraphs that. Every photo of those perfect leading man looks, every suave one-liner he drops reeks of it. He's trying so hard to claw his way out of that shadow. He wants to be special. He wants to be someone, anyone. It doesn't matter. He just wants to be acknowledged. He just wants to see the sun for a few seconds before being eclipsed again. Poor unfortunate JT.
They both think they know me. I don't know them, and I'm honest about that. I know words on pages. I know video clips from the internet. I know 140-character brainfart blurbs on social media. I know nothing of the two men I'm slated to face in the very first Victory Wrestling show. Facts aren't everything. Alphabet soup acronyms and former accomplishments and resume bullet points don't make a wrestler, boys. They don't make an opponent.
Walking down to that ring, getting between those ropes and standing tall, unflinching when that bell rings does. So you study up hard. You watch me in the Queen of Sin tournament last year. You watch me against Mikhail Reinhardt just a few months ago, a match that went so strongly in my favour he's doing his best to pretend never happened. You watch me take that belt from Chris Mosh. You pause and reverse, zoom in and repeat. Try to find that moment I bat an eyelash out there.
You won't.
So I'll go out there with the hopes you'll fuck me up. I want that. I want you at your best, boys. I want you to WANT this victory. I want you to try your best to break me. Saves me the trouble. I put myself in these places because only the strong survive. Are you strong? Have you been tested? I put myself there, under the microscope, up on the pedestal for your scrutiny. Do you like what you see? Do you hate everything about me? Are you ready to pull at threads, hoping to unravel everything I've spent nearly two decades building?
Judge me, boys. Do it. I've been spat on, I've been shat on, denied and hollowed out when I gave everything to this business. I don't feel like a victim. I don't sit here sobbing, poor little me.
I go out there and I do what I do best. Every single night.
Come get me, boys. I'm right here. I'm not afraid. I face this reality of ours with open arms. Madness is all around us.
What you're about to discover is that I'm the worst thing that's ever going to happen to you. You'll wish for Hell after this, boys, and let me tell you Hell hath no fury quite like me.
=^,,^=
LOCATION: somewhere near Morocco
DATE/TIME: October 12, 2016 || sometime around midnight
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
"Mik?" His name trembled on her lips as she sat up on that narrow bed, her head throbbing, vision slightly blurred. Hand stealing up to the back of her head, she felt the lump there. It came to her in flashes, bits and pieces.
The cigarette spiraling into the water. His arms around her, whispering about the legend of the Flying Dutchman and curses. The flash of the blade. The pain and the oceans of blood that morphed into that stabbing pain in her head and the shadow of the boom looming over them as he told her to stay still. Don't move.
She shivered, grabbing the blanket as she moved slowly to her feet. Draping it over her shoulders like a shawl, she made her way across the cabin, her vision finally adjusting to the moonlight filtering in past the open door and the small window. The further she moved from the bed, the less it seemed to pound and by the time she stood in the doorway, it felt more like the residual ache after too many glasses of wine rather than a concussion.
"Mikhail?" She called out his name again, a little louder this time. Nothing but silence answered her, but she could feel the vibration of the deck beneath her feet. She could feel the wind tugging at her, almost eager as she stepped out. The moon was bright in the clear sky, nearly full, ringed with a hazy glow.
Her foot touched something cold just before she reached the railing where she'd been standing earlier. Looking down, she saw the knife, something dark gleaming on the serrated blade. Something ominous and she expected to see that fog over the water like before.
Don't touch it. Oh God. Do not.
The handle was cold against her palm and as she turned it, the moonlight flashed off the blade. She flinched as it all came crashing back – that ominous feeling, her husband's words and the way the blood had flowed down both their arms, mixing with the water. She felt a prick and looked down to see the blood welling on her other palm with no knowledge of having cut herself. It was so sharp. Of course it was. He'd never leave a tool in poor condition, let alone a weapon.
"Mikhail?" She whispered his name, smelling smoke for a moment before it was swept away by the wind. She was still alone as the blade fell from her hand, clattering against the deck. The dark stain on the blade was real this time and the blood dripped from her clenched fist as she held it over the water, whispering with conviction, "this is how it happens. Make me famous..."
DATE/TIME: October 11, 2016 || sunset
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
The last cigarette made its way up to her lips – she knew she should really quit but the last few months since she'd been forced out of SCW had been hard and she'd taken up the damned habit again. Maybe she'd be able to kick it while they were here on the water. Maybe she'd go a few hours and end up begging him to turn back towards land. The latter was more likely because any willpower she'd had seemed to have vanished as quickly as her wrestling job prospects had. Uprising was meant to be a fresh start while NLW was taking that break between seasons. It had seemed so promising, with a modest-sized roster, sure, but Paul Knight wasn't an unknown. It looked great on paper. It had turned gone south so quickly she still felt vertigo just thinking about it. Now it was just another failure to add to the list of companies that no longer existed that she'd once called home.
She still had the Chaos championship belt. She'd taken it – a rash, impulsive decision she didn't regret. It belonged to her. And now it sat belowdecks on the dresser with the tiara she'd received from the Queen of Sin win. Just another trinket to mock her: look who you used to be.
"Bow down to the queen of nothing," she murmured, smoke escaping with the words, "the queen of garbage, the queen of filth and refuse." The words weren't her own. She'd stolen them from a movie, twisted them to her own liking and they'd become a sort of mantra that kept repeating in her mind, mocking her. She hated feeling like this because it reminded her of those two years she'd spent in that damned bunker, hidden away, presumed dead by the rest of the world. Her hand shook as she grasped the railing again. She didn't get seasick. She felt the motion but it didn't do anything beyond make her feel sleepy, lulled like a baby with the gentle rocking. She knew her husband had to hate it but he never complained, never really seemed to judge any of her worst vices. With automatic motions, her hand moved up to her mouth for that last drag before she flicked the cancer stick overboard, watching it sizzle out in the dark water. Standing here with her hand wrapped around the railing, she felt a tug she hadn't in a very long time. A whisper deep inside of her, telling her that if she just leapt into that water after it, everything would be fine. Reckless urges were all she'd felt since they'd left Mexico and now the sun was setting on another perfectly serene day. She had all the time in the world at her fingertips and like an idiot, she longed for a packed schedule, for bookings and travel and cramped airline seats.
The sky was saturated with the perfect autumn colours, all reds and golds and indigo where the horizon line met the water. It was the kind of Kodak moment that she'd always longed for but she couldn't help the sigh that passed her lips as she exhaled that last lungful of mentholated smoke. Closing her eyes, she bowed her head, letting that curtain of hair fall over her face. She was gripping the railing so hard that both hands ached and she knew that if she let go right now, that urge would win. She'd find herself drowning even though she'd known how to swim since she was a little girl.
As she looked down at the water, things began to creep into her notice that she might have sworn weren't there just moments ago. There was a soft almost hum in the air, though no source that she could see as she looked up and out across the ocean. A hint of fog began to roll out over the waves as they darkened without the sunlight, and she could smell a bright hit of nicotine-laden smoke after the rough scratch of a wooden match against something. The dark came up fast out here on the open ocean, the stars usually quickly bright against the velvety backdrop of the sky. She started to turn around, got a quick glimpse of the slim form of her husband standing in the shadows, the bright cherry of the Davidoff cigarette he held in his right hand, and the gleam of his eyes before his left hand caught her shoulder and made her turn around. His words were in Russian, though her brain automatically translated them, her lessons having come so far. You should have been paying more attention, Princess. Now look and see what you have done.
He took a deep drag off of his luxury cigarette, Mikhail didn't smoke often – his dislike of her habit had more to do with the menthol than anything else really; this habit was one he had picked up in prison but had never allowed to grow past 'occasional'. He exhaled, the thick smoke wreathing his head and swirling around, frosting his dark hair and caressing over the dead white rose tattoo on his neck. You think I do not see, what is happening here? That I do not know you better than you know yourself? I swore to you when we married that I would give you anything you desired. Did you forget that too, my Precious Wife?
With a flick of his long elegant fingers he sent the remainder of his cigarette after hers, the cherry stayed lit even under the water as it spiraled down until her quick gaze couldn't see it anymore. Her heartbeat sped up at his words and again she felt that shame wash over her at her prior thoughts. He couldn't truly know that, could he? A gleam came then, a flash as the too-bright stars overhead reflected off a highly polished surface. There was a sharp feeling like a pinch, then fire lit down both of her arms, her hands releasing the rails as she lifted them up in horror to see lines of rich crimson flow from wrist to elbow on both arms. She turned in a panic to her husband, and watched him draw that blade down his own arm, switch hands, and repeat before he dropped it with a thud to the deck. We will haunt these waves forever, my love. We will put the Flying Dutchman to shame, and we will bring so much misfortune that our curse becomes just as legendary. There was a pause, his thin handsome lips curving to a wicked smile. This was what you wanted, to be famous. This is how it happens, forever.
"Кейтлин! Вставай!" Mikhail's rich voice came to her ears, a flare of pain to her head as she lifted her arm, the shadow of the boom cast over the both of them from the moonlight overhead. Her husband gently rolled her to her back, carefully checking for blood in her hair, his voice low and attempting to comfort. "There there, it is not so bad. You just took a glancing strike, the tether snapped and it swung before I could warn you. We will get you checked when we make port."
Her arms still tingled, burned and when she looked she still expected to see the blood flowing, expected to find them both in a pool of rich crimson as deep as the ocean. Eyes glassy, she looked up at her husband, those last words he'd spoken still ringing in her head – how much of that had actually happened? "I don't…" the words trembled on her lips, the thought splintering before the rest could spill out. That flash. Was there a knife? Eyes squeezed shut as she shook her head slowly, feeling the throb in the back of her skull at the motion.
"Hold still. Relax. Let me get the kit, and then we will get you set up." His voice stayed warm for her, though he spoke in that clipped fashion he had when taking charge of a situation. "Did you hit your head on the deck as well?" He stood up smoothly, the linen trousers he wore rolled up into cuffs, his bare feet slapping the deck as he moved towards the cabin where the first aid kit was put away.
Had she? "I don't know." Her voice came out small even as she struggled to sit up, feeling like she needed to see the water, to see if it was running red now, as irrational as it seemed. "You said something," even as she started to broach the subject, she could feel the words slipping away, leaving behind nothing but that feeling of unease.
"I said to hold still, yes." A hint of minor vexation in his tone, as he quickly returned. He made a 'tsk' sound as he crouched down next to her. "You know better than to move after you have taken a hit to the head." He dug through the kit, producing a small penlight that he shined in each eye before he put it away. "I do not think you have a concussion at least. Let me get you off this deck." He slipped his arms around her, one under her knees and one to support her back as he smoothly stood with her in his arms, deceptively strong as always with that whipcord build of his.
Gratefully, she relaxed against him, feeling a shiver crawl over her bare arms despite his warmth. A trick of the shadow thrown by the moon on the mast and boom made her see those dark lines again and she bit her lip, closing her eyes against that feeling that rose up again. "I saw something," she whispered, feeling like she needed to explain, "the water was so dark and I thought..." she shivered. "Maybe I imagined it."
"What did you see?" He asked it in an absent fashion as he used his bare foot to pull the cabin door open enough to take Kitty inside. "Dark waters are tricky waters, there are many stories of fantastical things seen in such."
Kitty licked her suddenly-dry lips, trying to think past the ache in her head – it all seemed so very real. "You had a knife." The words tumbled out as she forced the darkness on the edges of her vision away, trying to hold that thread that was doing its best to slip away. "And there was blood. So much blood."
Mikhail let out a slightly inelegant snort as he settled her on the small bed, it was meant for 'crew' to nap in for traded watches and not nearly as luxurious as the one belowdecks but it would do for now. "I have several knives, so this is not so surprising?" He moved to get a lap blanket from a storage chest bolted to the inner cabin wall, and paused as he rifled through the contents. "But still, you seem as if this is not all there was." He murmured something she couldn't hear, or maybe he didn't and it just seemed that he had before he turned around to bring the brightly woven blanket over to cover her with. "Rest, maybe the rest will come clear then."
"Maybe," she echoed, the doubt written all over her face. The further she'd gotten from that railing and the siren song of that dark water, the more she thought it had all been in her head. The fog. The things Mikhail had said, the way he'd said them felt like there was some secret message she couldn't quite grasp. Maybe if her head stopped throbbing. Maybe if she just closed her eyes for a brief second. That brief second was enough for her to fall asleep, and Mikhail gently smoothed his hand over her hair before he went to tie down the boom for safety, he'd check on her frequently after of course but what she'd said had somehow struck a chord with him, as if he'd heard it somewhere before.
kittymacblog.wordpress.net posting
November 23, 2016
current mood: ᕦ(ò_óˇ)ᕤ
current song: I Don't Care – Fall Out Boy
Calvin Harris. I'm getting all a-tingle just typing that name. Just rolls right off the fingers so nicely, doesn't it? That's right, folks, I'm going to be facing THE Calvin Harris in just a few short days (on a side note, some guy named JT Midas is also in the match, although you'd be hard-pressed to tell from the things he's posted on social media lately). So, let's take a moment of silence to mourn the passing of Uprising, Pure Amusement and Honor Wrestling before we get too carried away.
…
…
And that's about enough of that.
I want to preface this little missive with a brief thought. A kernel of wisdom, if you will. You see, I know all about the egotists and sadists. I think I can call myself an expert, really. After all, I married two of them.
I'll pause for a moment here to let that sink in. I know you, Cal. I know everything I need to know – really appreciate that, by the way. Was quite nice to not have to do an ounce of legwork this time around. See, I know you're not what you say you are. I know you're a whiny brat who thinks if he tries to cut me off at the knees that I won't keep coming at him like the goddamned Terminator.
For someone who starts out his ego-maniacal rant about how many companies he's been in by saying he believes in giving credit where it's due, you certainly don't follow through with your words. Let's just paint ourselves a crappy little hypocrite over here. There. Isn't that nice? See, Calvin Harris thinks because he found an open source article about me that he's found the holy grail – oh yes! He thinks he knows everything about me and even tries to use it to judge me, only to contradict himself a few moments later. He quotes passages verbatim – other people's words coming from his mouth and then says he doesn't believe it. So to recap, because I have a feeling putting two and two together may not come easy to you, your entire basis on my career that you researched (using that term loosely), you don't actually believe. I hate to shatter your perception of reality like half of this country did on November 8th, but I didn't actually write that article. I know, Cal. Take a few seconds. Go get some water so you can spit it out when you read that sentence over again.
As a woman who doesn't fancy herself as a writer, I'd much rather sit here behind a computer screen sipping on a glass of wine and collecting my thoughts rationally than stand in front of a camera and shout incoherently for ten minutes. That's right. I didn't actually go online and document every minute of my life or every second of my wrestling career. I have better things to do with my time.
By the way, I do want that ten minutes of my life back.
And I digress but the fact remains that the article you copied and pasted into your speech like you were the first lady elect was written by a fan of mine. Or several, each one putting their own experiences together to try and represent my life as best as they could to the public who may be curious, but I didn't write it. If I wanted to promote myself, I'd actually go out and do it, not write up a history lesson (and yes, I realize the irony in saying that in an online blog, so don't bother pointing that out, tyvm).
Whether you believe what I've been through is real or not doesn't affect me at all. Insulting past companies I've been in doesn't get under my skin either. Why would it? If I believed that they were the best places ever, I would still be there, wouldn't I? In this business, especially when you're starting out, you can't be that picky about where your pay cheque is coming from. My goal since day one has been to be the best, I've already stated that, and rather than sit on my couch waiting for the perfect spot to fall in my lap, I went out and made the best of every situation I could to get there. Being someone who grew up in wrestling, who's been touting your last name since day one to get you noticed, I can see how that would be a foreign concept to you. Some of us had to work hard to get to where we were. Wrestling sixteen years ago wasn't anything like it is today.
But I don't need to tell you about that gender divide, do you? I mean you ARE with Nova Wonder, after all. Believe me when I tell you that you can't get greatness from osmosis and that she's a hundred times the fighter and talker you will ever be. Does that sting a little bit, short stack? I get the feeling it just might, given how loudly you've been proclaiming your greatness. You know the story of the boy who cried wolf, right? You know the more you have to tell us all how great you are, the less any of us listening actually believe that. Show, honey. Never tell.
I'm not a writer. Not by any stretch. So I already feel like I've come to the end of the things I need to say about you – to you. My fingers are stilling on these keys, the adrenaline and the angst burning inside starting already to simmer down. I'm no longer Jason Mewes making that vain effort to express an opinion on the Internet, trying to one-up the idiot chorus. I suppose that reference is a little dated, but you have to admit it is an image that sticks. Arguments are futile, aren't they?
Ah, but let's see what we have here so far. Let's make a tally. JT has insulted my age and implied I have a particular taste in television programming. I'm sure you can picture how hard I'm rolling my eyes. In the words of Pete Wentz: I don't care what you think as long as it's about me.
Do you know why I call Las Vegas home? It's easy to fade into the crowd. It's easy to shirk the celebrity mantle and walk down the street hand in hand with my husband and not be hounded for autographs. The city is full of famous people. It's full of hookers and broken people and tourists and the latter bunch are so dazzled by the lights and the action that they rarely notice – in Vegas, I'm next to invisible. Do this long enough, Calvin, and you'll understand why I crave my privacy. You'll understand why I call myself a veteran but I don't have a thousand and one worthless title reigns to my name. Collecting trinkets has never been my passion, boys. I just want to be the best. I want to be the face on the poster, the largest font on the marquee, the one they're all coming to see. I want little girls to pump their fists in the air when they hear my music. I want boys to wish they could be my darling Mikhail. I have dedicated my career to being in the top tier, always. Since 2010, that's been true and I don't plan to close out this year any differently.
All witty repartee aside, I appreciate the gesture, Calvin. I know it must be hard to talk about others when all you really want to do is distance yourself from the sour taste the name Pure Amusement Wrestling leaves on the tip of every tongue. The world is on the brink of falling apart and this business we both call home is a microcosm echo of that. There's a divide that's rearing its ugly head again and that paranoia that we believed was finally under control so many years ago has come screaming back with a vengeance. This time it brought friends and they're settling in for a hell of a bender. It's become our reality. Fear is our new spice of life, and it's a sick seasoning. In fact, it's not even paranoia any more. It's honest knowledge that the world can, and will fuck you over on a whim. It happens every day.
I know that begs the obvious question. Whose turn is it today? Yours? Mine? JT's?
Paranoia used to be that sleeping devil. Creeping on you, crawling up your spine like that touch that gives you a shiver, and then biting you the moment your guard slips – fear venom drifting through your veins. Run and hide. Make a stupid mistake or two and then they're on you, cutting you down.
JT knows a thing or two about running, about trying to distance himself. Every single thing he posts telegraphs that. Every photo of those perfect leading man looks, every suave one-liner he drops reeks of it. He's trying so hard to claw his way out of that shadow. He wants to be special. He wants to be someone, anyone. It doesn't matter. He just wants to be acknowledged. He just wants to see the sun for a few seconds before being eclipsed again. Poor unfortunate JT.
They both think they know me. I don't know them, and I'm honest about that. I know words on pages. I know video clips from the internet. I know 140-character brainfart blurbs on social media. I know nothing of the two men I'm slated to face in the very first Victory Wrestling show. Facts aren't everything. Alphabet soup acronyms and former accomplishments and resume bullet points don't make a wrestler, boys. They don't make an opponent.
Walking down to that ring, getting between those ropes and standing tall, unflinching when that bell rings does. So you study up hard. You watch me in the Queen of Sin tournament last year. You watch me against Mikhail Reinhardt just a few months ago, a match that went so strongly in my favour he's doing his best to pretend never happened. You watch me take that belt from Chris Mosh. You pause and reverse, zoom in and repeat. Try to find that moment I bat an eyelash out there.
You won't.
So I'll go out there with the hopes you'll fuck me up. I want that. I want you at your best, boys. I want you to WANT this victory. I want you to try your best to break me. Saves me the trouble. I put myself in these places because only the strong survive. Are you strong? Have you been tested? I put myself there, under the microscope, up on the pedestal for your scrutiny. Do you like what you see? Do you hate everything about me? Are you ready to pull at threads, hoping to unravel everything I've spent nearly two decades building?
Judge me, boys. Do it. I've been spat on, I've been shat on, denied and hollowed out when I gave everything to this business. I don't feel like a victim. I don't sit here sobbing, poor little me.
I go out there and I do what I do best. Every single night.
Come get me, boys. I'm right here. I'm not afraid. I face this reality of ours with open arms. Madness is all around us.
What you're about to discover is that I'm the worst thing that's ever going to happen to you. You'll wish for Hell after this, boys, and let me tell you Hell hath no fury quite like me.
=^,,^=
LOCATION: somewhere near Morocco
DATE/TIME: October 12, 2016 || sometime around midnight
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
"Mik?" His name trembled on her lips as she sat up on that narrow bed, her head throbbing, vision slightly blurred. Hand stealing up to the back of her head, she felt the lump there. It came to her in flashes, bits and pieces.
The cigarette spiraling into the water. His arms around her, whispering about the legend of the Flying Dutchman and curses. The flash of the blade. The pain and the oceans of blood that morphed into that stabbing pain in her head and the shadow of the boom looming over them as he told her to stay still. Don't move.
She shivered, grabbing the blanket as she moved slowly to her feet. Draping it over her shoulders like a shawl, she made her way across the cabin, her vision finally adjusting to the moonlight filtering in past the open door and the small window. The further she moved from the bed, the less it seemed to pound and by the time she stood in the doorway, it felt more like the residual ache after too many glasses of wine rather than a concussion.
"Mikhail?" She called out his name again, a little louder this time. Nothing but silence answered her, but she could feel the vibration of the deck beneath her feet. She could feel the wind tugging at her, almost eager as she stepped out. The moon was bright in the clear sky, nearly full, ringed with a hazy glow.
Her foot touched something cold just before she reached the railing where she'd been standing earlier. Looking down, she saw the knife, something dark gleaming on the serrated blade. Something ominous and she expected to see that fog over the water like before.
Don't touch it. Oh God. Do not.
The handle was cold against her palm and as she turned it, the moonlight flashed off the blade. She flinched as it all came crashing back – that ominous feeling, her husband's words and the way the blood had flowed down both their arms, mixing with the water. She felt a prick and looked down to see the blood welling on her other palm with no knowledge of having cut herself. It was so sharp. Of course it was. He'd never leave a tool in poor condition, let alone a weapon.
"Mikhail?" She whispered his name, smelling smoke for a moment before it was swept away by the wind. She was still alone as the blade fell from her hand, clattering against the deck. The dark stain on the blade was real this time and the blood dripped from her clenched fist as she held it over the water, whispering with conviction, "this is how it happens. Make me famous..."
