Chapter Twenty-Five (Day For Night) [final OWF]

DAYS SOBER: 2

I woke up last night convinced I was back in that Alcatraz prison cell. Skin crawling, pinpricks of fire that I could have sworn were rat bites and I wonder if I'm going to even make it out of this place alive. Four clean walls. California King bed. It could be a hotel room – one of the thousands I've stayed in that all look the same. You can tell the chain by the furniture arrangement, the weird art deco lamps, and the starving artist prints on the walls. Sailing ships. Generic mountains. Happy little trees and streams. They're meant to make you feel calm. Carefully selected to make you feel at ease with their bland sameness.

They keep giving us tasks here in the same vein – distractions to keep us docile, I suppose. Menial shit. Making lists. Writing letters. Feel like I'm in some goddamned remedial college English course but here we are. Day two and I'm supposed to document my progress like a good boy. Maybe I'll be forced to read this shit aloud – Jesus wept. They gave me a pad of paper, a little cup full of these blunt little pencil nubs – I'm sure someone tried to slash their wrists with a ballpoint pen. Can't have that.

Haven't slept for more than a few minutes since I got here. I'm climbing the walls. Broke down and begged Lyv to come see me. She left an hour ago, shuffled off to some hotel suite to rack up a room service bill, I'm sure. Sabra told me that SCW is going to cover the costs of this treatment but I'll believe that when I see it – the board of directors is probably thrilled I completely self-destructed when their Jewish American Princess beat me. No build. No warning. Global Title defense out of the fucking blue on a weekly show.

They asked me yesterday to make a list of the reasons I feel like I need to get high.

I'm not sure I'm ready to put that into words.

Not yet.

Forgot completely it was our anniversary. I remember now. Remember last year, too. I was late for dinner, damn near overdosed. She found me on the floor in the hotel bathroom – John Belushi-style in a puddle of puke and broken glass from the shower door that I took out with my fall. All the shit I've done my best to forget over the past couple years has crept back in. First anniversary is paper. I don't know why I know this shit, but I do.

Second is supposed to be cotton or linen. Fabric of some kind. Towels or sheets.

I can't do this.

I hate this weakness. I hate that cowering shit I see in the mirror, that broken, stupid fucking old man. I can't even hold the fucking pencil. Can't straighten my fingers out without having this goddamn tremor so it's hunt and peck with ol' Lefty, tapping this garbage out on this shitty little netbook. Surprised, really, that they let me have this. Could hang myself with the charging cord, after all.

This is why we can't have nice things.

I ruin them.


He watched her as she looked out over the Vegas strip, his hand in the pocket of his jeans, thumb rhythmically stroking the velvet box. Back and forth. Over and over. Half his age, barely old enough to drink and here she was, thrilled to be his arm candy for the next SCW event at The Luxor.

"Jax!" She sounded so giddy, breathless as she turned and nearly flung herself into his arms. "I'm having the best time ever!" She hugged him, forcing him to pull his hand from his pocket and grab her in return, reasserting his balance before they toppled over.

Keeping the conversation light, he nodded, "glad you're having fun, Lyv. Wasn't just you who needed this... kinda feel like maybe we both did. Just a nice little holiday like what normal people take," the words came out caustic, oozing with unchecked sarcasm.

Do it now. The moment's perfect. The sun's setting over the best view in the entire world. It's now or never, hoss.

He hesitated, his smile dimming slightly, "hey, you know how I mentioned gambling earlier?"

Nodding, "mmhmm, and we've done really good. As corny as it sounds, I'm freaking excited I won five dollars!" She laughed. He didn't. "Not sure I'm ever going to want to leave this city."

"I wasn't talking about the casino games," his smile faded completely, replaced with a serious look. "I was talking about something..." he hesitated, swallowing hard against a suddenly dry throat, "else entirely."

Her smile faded after his did, her eyes wide and apprehensive. "I don't understand." Lyv tensed slightly as she stared up at him, "is everything okay?" She bit down on her lower lip.

"Everything's fine, babe. Better than fine. In fact I'm happier than I've ever been in my whole life." He turned away from her for a second, looking out the glass window of the Stratosphere's tower at the lights of Vegas below. The little velvet box was burning a hole in his pocket. He knew that some might think he was moving far too fast in this relationship, but his care factor was zero. From that first contact, they'd clicked in a way that just made perfect sense.

His eyes moved back to hers, seeing the apprehension there. "Shit, I'm doing a really awful job of this, aren't I?" He took a breath, feeling his guts tighten up into a knot, "you make me feel brand new, Lyv... and that's why I'm going to take this gamble, right here, right now... with you." Before she could say anything, he dropped to one knee, and took her hand. "Alyvia, will you marry me?"

She froze, the shock clear on her face. She just stared at him, trying to form some kind of coherent sentence, but it was hard. This was unexpected, hadn't even entered her mind he'd do something like this. "Jackson?" She managed to get out, keeping her hand in his. "Are you... are you proposing to me?"

"Well, yeah," he said with a brittle laugh, "I was trying to–"



DAYS SOBER: 830
DAYS THAT HAVE MATTERED SINCE: 288

Barely slept last night. Back in the UK and I remember the last time I was working for Frontier too keenly. It's funny how the blips on my mental timeline are landmarks, of sorts. They're mental debris. I remember punching a fan. I remember Lyv in this cute little skirt, this little plaid schoolgirl number and I was still mopping blood off my hand, still worried I was going to get myself fired or arrested or have my working Visa yanked and she climbs in my lap like a stripper. Next thing I know she's begging me to fuck her because watching me slip into that role was too much of a turn-on for her to resist. And I get that. I do. I've been on the receiving end of those kind of perks for so long I expected them. More hero worship wasn't unwelcome.

Admiral Akbar was curiously silent that day. Granted, when my dick is hard, I'm not good for much else.
She never told me she'd left the birth control pills back in Reno. Didn't deem that important despite how she'd sworn to me that she wanted kids as little as I did. Alyvia was a liar. Ryann was an attention whore. Georgie was neurotic. Kitty was poisonous – I used to have a type.

Hindsight: I made a mistake when I chose her.

I proposed after twenty-one days. It was based on a lie from the start. She played me in the worst possible way.

I've done the math. I've figured out the right amount of time, all the factors required. She's seen me at my worst. She legitimately had absolutely no idea who I was when I had her come out to Miami for that job interview. I know deep down that my career is over – all these little things keep reminding me. The companies that have been around the block know that my name still holds a certain level of value but they're not putting me out there over the kids half my age. They're not going to give me top billing over The Glitterati or the Inner Circle or any of these other groups with the interchangeable fresh faces I can't keep straight.

I came to the UK for one last walk down memory lane. I was hoping to cross Andreas Lasiewicz off my bucket list. Not in the cards.

I'm going to ask her today.

I'm going to find a way.

It's time.



Lyv Nouvelle stood on the balcony, staring down at her brand new engagement ring as she tried to swallow back the overwhelming feeling of dread. She should have been happier than she'd ever been. Jax had proposed to her just hours before. Instead she felt vaguely sick to her stomach.

When Jackson got out of the shower it was quiet inside the spacious suite, ominously so. Wrapping himself in one of the complementary terrycloth robes, he walked out into the living room. "Lyv?"

Nothing but silence answered him and for a moment he was almost worried before he spotted her out on the balcony. Grabbing his cigarettes off the table, he dropped them into the robe's pocket before making his way out there. "Some view," he said softly, moving up behind her. "Isn't it?"

"Mmhmm," out of habit, she leaned back against him, knowing that he was going to wrap his arms around her. She needed that embrace right now more than anything else. "It's breathtaking; I don't think I could ever get tired of it."

"Yeah? I lived here for a while. Don't know if I ever told you that," his voice was raspy, as if there was some emotion clawing at his throat. When she said nothing, he prodded her, "Lyv?"

"Mmm?" She tilted her head back, looking up at him. "How was the shower?" Just a few more moments of idle chit-chat and then she'd tell him.

He gave her a squeeze. "Woulda been better if you were there... but I guess that would've defeated the purpose." He chuckled, kissing the top of her head. "You think you'd wanna come back here to get married?"

She didn't answer him right away, her hold on him tightening. "Jax, we gotta talk." The words came out before she could stop them and she winced, closing her eyes.

The pause made him freeze, wary. "Did something happen while I was in there? Did Strike and the rest of the peanut gallery start in on you again?"

"No," she said shaking her head as she turned and looked up at him. "Can we go back inside? It's getting cold out here."

He nodded, taking a step back as he released his hold on her. "Sure." He gestured towards the patio door that he'd left open, "after you, beautiful."

Lyv tried to smile up at him, but it fell short as she brushed past him into the room. Swallowing hard, she pulled her hands back out of her pocket and caught herself staring down at her engagement ring. "When you asked me to marry you, I said yes because it felt so right, but I—"

"Don't." The word came out as a rough whisper as he turned around, just in time to see her staring at the ring. "Please... don't say what I think you're gonna say—"

"Jax..." she licked her lips, hesitating, "I..."

"It's okay. It's too fast." He chuckled, shaking his head as he turned away from her again, making a beeline for the fully stocked bar, "yeah, I'm gonna need a drink for this, aren't I?" The question was mostly rhetorical since he was already filling a glass with ice before pouring in a few inches of aged Glenlivet.

She swallowed hard, still staring at the ring. "I haven't been honest with you." The words came out almost as a whisper.

He sighed, leaning against the bar as he lifted the drink to his lips. Of all the times he'd heard those words over the years, he'd never expected them from her – their relationship had begun with an elaborate game of Truth or Dare, after all. The liquor burned down his throat as he finally lifted his head to look at her. "Alright. Do I have to guess or are you going to tell me what's so bad that you're looking at that fuckin' ring as though it's going to burn a hole through your finger?" He couldn't hold back the anger that flared – white hot – he could already feel clammy sweat on the back of his neck. Of course she'd changed her mind already. He shouldn't even be surprised.

"I..." she flinched, assuming that anger was directed at her, "I lied to you."

"Listen, are you breaking it off or not?"

"I need you to know who I really am," she murmured, eyes still downcast, "the daughter of fucking trash."

"What?"

"Jax, think back to WCWF," the color had drained out of her face.

The wheels started turning as he studied her, drawing a blank. "Dan Bonez?" He shrugged, "gotta be more specific. Lots of trash in that place, especially back in the early days."

"Tristain Mayhem." The finally looked up at him, tears caught in her eyelashes, sparkling.

"Shitstain?" He laughed, "what—"

"He's my biological father."

Her words hit him like a physical blow and he closed his eyes, thinking of that scaffolding match on the inaugural edition of Wednesday Night Wreckage back in the days when WCWF was just a regional territory based out of Dallas. 1997. That drunk piece of shit had thrown him too far, sending him sailing over the edge. He'd fallen from three stories up, through a soundboard. They'd told him that he'd never wrestle again. Just hearing that name made the scars on his back that were camouflaged by the stylistic sun tattoo burn. "Bullshit," he growled, shaking his head. "That's not even possible."

"Explain to me how it's not," Her eyes met his, wanting to see if there was any chance he believed it.

"Mayhem's wife was a slut. Hell, I got her in the sack half a dozen times..." he shook his head, "that fucknugget never did a goddamn thing in his life right. No way in hell he had anything to do with you."
The comment about her mother made her wince, but she spoke as if she hadn't heard it. The next words that came out caused a faint smile to cross her face. "I remember this one night I was backstage with him and I spilled soda all over his wrestling gear. He grabbed me by the arm and dragged me into the hallway. He started yelling at me, telling me I was a fucking klutz... he looked like he was gonna hit me but then someone stopped him. Some guy, I always considered to be my knight. He saved me from getting hit."

It'd been at a house show in 1998 in Boise. He wasn't even back on the full roster then. He was silent for so long that it bordered on awkward. "That was me," he said in a low voice, "threw him into the wall and told him—"

"Only cowards beat on little girls."

"Jesus Christ, Lyv." He stared at her, shaking his head slowly.

"I know it was you," she paused, her voice trembling on the confession, "I always knew."



His heart was racing and the phone actually fell from his hand, clattering against the table before bouncing to the floor. The screen went dark, the green LED flashing rhythmically.

She replied. Or maybe she just put a heart on it. A star. Whatever they are now. It's out there and you can't take it back because thousands just saw it.

He didn't bother to argue with that voice in his head. It had been a reply to her clumsy attempt at French which meant less people would notice it. There was still time to make it disappear. Laugh it off. Pretend he'd meant to say something else entirely rather than 'marry me' in another language.

She'd gone to get something, and walking into the lobby she stepped to the right out of the way of people that might be coming in the door just so she could send him a little something sexy, something in French that she was very sure wasn't what she wanted it to be. She'd been learning though, and he was letting her practice on him. French was hard, it wasn't linear to her brain the way German was, she'd picked that up easily enough – and then her phone made that little sound she'd set for when he replied to one of her little posts. Not Tweets, she really hated that even though that's what they were and then she found herself blinking, thumb swiping the little favorite icon automatically because she struggled with his reply.

But when it clicked, she inhaled sharply enough that the desk clerk looked up at her and then of course up and down with appreciation even though as far as she was concerned at that moment the only thing that existed was the phone in her hand, and what he'd replied. It had been quick, she could take it as a tease really, but something was telling her there was more to it than that. She shifted her bags to one hand as she put the phone up to head up to the room, because she realized the only way to solve the puzzle was to see him herself. That ride up in the elevator was the longest she had ever experienced, and by the time she made it to fumble for the keycard to open the door she was relatively certain that 'playing it cool' was no longer an option on the table for her. He'd know. He always knew.

"Oh," he said when the door to the suite swung open, glancing up from the screen of his phone. "If I'd known you were…" he trailed off, doing a double-take at the expression on her face.

She could tell just from how he'd reacted how she must have looked. Big eyes wider than usual, bemused expression, hell even her lips kept wanting to twitch upwards into a smile. She took a shallow little breath that had her nostrils flare before she gave herself a sort of shake that was enough like a shimmy to maybe count as sexy before she nudged the door shut behind her with her foot and brought the bags over to the bed to set them down. "Hey… no big, babe, really." A pause. "So was it bad, or did you understand what I sent?"

"I understood just fine." Jackson nodded, still clutching his phone, managing to keep his tone light, "no lines. Basic enough. I'm not sure my reply will make sense. Not sure you've started in on the reflexive verbs yet, have you?"

Missy blinked, looking up at him with her lips barely parted enough that he could see a slight flash of white as her teeth delicately held the tip of her tongue a second. Another little pause. "No, we started those last lesson," her gaze flicked up to his face and she meant it to be for just a second, but his eyes caught her fast. "Jackson, it made sense." Of course then she could look away and busy her hands with taking things out of the bags.

"Ah, well. That's…" his voice grew rough, he had to stop and clear his throat as he moved to his feet. "You need a hand with all that? Geez, babe… did you buy out the whole store?"

"You know what they say, never shop when you're…" she paused, and then she couldn't help it, she laughed, bright and happy, "oh for fucks sake, Jax." She stopped messing with the bags and marched over to him, lifting her hands to cup his cheeks before she went en pointe like a ballerina to kiss him as hard as she could, until she had to break it to take a breath. "It's just us, babe."

"Just us," he echoed with a raspy chuckle, "does that mean I'm not really obligated to wear pants anymore today? Because… if we're being completely honest? Not a fan."

She giggled. Missy was not a giggler by default, but that got her and there was that breathy little sound. "Oh I don't know. I'm pretty much a fan of your ass in those jeans, but you out of pants is also high on the list of watchable things. So, no pants for the rest of the day is fine by me Mister Jackson, but be aware I may have to fight the urge to jump you." A definite pause. "Maybe I should get the pink robe. I brought the pink robe."

"See, now you're talkin' my language, ma petite chou." He grinned, feeling like some final piece that had been missing for so long had finally slid into place. The way she felt in his arms, the sound of her voice with that gently teasing tone – there was no anxiety, no grim certainty that he'd made another huge mistake. "No pants. The robe. Don't suppose you bought any whipped cream, did you?"

Her lips curved up into a definite smile. "Oh there's that. And frosting too and you know what I'm like with frosting." She was reluctant though to step back from him, the warmth that always radiated off him always drew and kept her close. "I fucking love you. I'm going to learn how to say that right in French. Then I guess I'll have to pick another language too. But French, first."

"Reflexive verbs…" he couldn't keep the smile off his face, "je t'aime... or maybe, you want to make it a little fancier – je t'adore – I adore you, Miss."

For a second she had on that little expression of concentration as she listened to him speak, it was easier for her to pick up the words hearing them than trying to learn off a page. His smile got her to smiling before she paused to sound it out in her head before she nodded, her hands slipping down from his chest to rest loosely at his waist. "It's true, you know. Je t'aime, with everything I have."




DAYS SOBER: 831
DAYS THAT HAVE MATTERED SINCE: 289

For the first time since I started keeping this goddamned journal, forcing myself to write in it every day as a sort of hashmark on the wall, I actually feel like progress has been made. I proposed to Missy on social media. The world blinked and missed it.

No stars fell.

Nobody noticed. I didn't alert the media. I didn't offer any exclusives or take out any ads in the local paper. I'm shrinking in on myself, this larger-than-life sphere of existence narrowing.

I feel like maybe there can be an actual life for me outside of the ring. My life, lived on my terms without outside scrutiny, without trying to play some elaborate game with smoke and mirrors. Leave that shit to Criss Angel – is that fool still out there? I'm out of touch.

I have too much shit on Netflix I haven't watched.

Books I haven't read.

Places I've been but never seen.

The prospect of leaving wrestling altogether isn't scary.

Walking away from Carnage was easy. Too easy.

I just don't give a fuck anymore. Hitting people, digging down and pulling that anger up from my guts and spewing vitriol just doesn't move me anymore. Feels like work. Feels like a chore. It bores me.

What does that mean?

I don't know.

I truly don't.

The prospect, though? Doesn't scare me as much as it would have back 830 days ago. The Machine has been dismantled, parts discarded to rust away. The Dark Horse ran his last race when he beat Alexandra Kelly and Bryan Stryker for belts he didn't really want but felt obligated to chase out of habit. The King of Pain died in a garbage-filled, rat-infested cell on Alcatraz – nobody mourned him.

That angry little boy named Bradley doesn't exist.

Peter Pan doesn't want to live in the past. His voice is raw hamburger from all that crowing. He's sick of flying – you do it all the time, it's not new. Same with winning.

Who gives a fuck?

Peter Pan just wants to love his Wendy. He wants to watch the sun rise and set a million times over while holding her hand. Simple pleasures and I know this isn't something you will really understand. I know I'm going to actually post this one eventually. Maybe when that match I'm angling for gets booked. I want to face CJ Wylde again. I want to face Lucy Wylde. Not looking to add more names to the list of so-called greats I've torn apart when they're down. Lucy was on the radar and I missed out what would have been a hell of a fight when I got knocked out of that bullshit tournament by that overrated turd named Jesse Williams. TL;DR... who gives a fuck about it now, right? I was a body filling a slot – let's be honest here. And it was a nice break from the shitshow Carnage had become. Five years ago, they'd have handed it to me on a platter just for the honor of darkening the door.

I wasn't meant to win that. I wasn't meant to win that title. That guy who won deserved it – his name eludes me but the respect he tossed in my direction is etched permanently. Stop and smell the roses, Jackson. The little things matter more. Lorenzo. That's his name. Good kid. Probably be remembered long after I'm a ghost in a machine popping up in some ancient Google search – plagiarized years later by hacks who can't cobble together these little rage bombs on their own.

Fuck.

I love. I am loved. I believe in that truth because it shines through every moment. The way she makes me feel is unlike anything that's come before. There are more lines on my face than there were a year ago. I know I look like shit. I know I look like the years have been unkind but the creases by my mouth, at the corners of my eyes – they're from laughing, from smiling. I've stopped waiting for the shoe to drop.

I've cancelled that subscription to the 'something's gotta go wrong because this is too damn good' newsletter. Fuck that.

We're going to make it through. Together.

I've booked a flight to Japan, arranged accommodations to parallel the stops on OWF's tour. I'm putting the wheels into motion. Half a dozen matches remain, if that. I'm getting out and the Outsider Wrestling Federation's ring is the last stop. They know it. They were over the moon thrilled when I told them they made it to the top of the shortlist.

I've burned so many bridges I'm not sure I really had a choice at this point. Carnage was out of the question – the bullshit Mohr pulled was a death knell. Ojeda poisoned the well. The old Jackson would have been there in the middle of that gorefest, thrilled to watch the place burn. I don't want that. I don't want to set the world on fire. I don't want a revolution. I don't want the spotlight and I'm content to know that the last two belts that left my hands I laid down WILLINGLY.

I'm not going to rage, rage, rage against the dying of the light. I'm sure that's utterly shocking, but I've recently had a bit of an epiphany. Darkness isn't scary any longer.

Night isn't the end. It's a pause before a new beginning.

I think that's the revelation that matters here.

––Jax