November 26, 2013

The cab idled at the end of the curved driveway, the rough sound of the engine enough to comfort her as she made her way towards the house. As soon as it came into sight, she had to stop— the memory flooded back to that first time, when he'd insisted on playfully blindfolding her for the last of the trip, only to whisk the gauze scarf aside when they reached this spot.

"Shit," Nessa mumbled under her breath, pressing her tiny fist against her forehead as if she could ward off the tears. The sun was already peeking over the horizon as she stood there, suddenly afraid to get any closer even though she knew that Matt was likely still somewhere in Europe. The World Champion was required to be on hand as much as possible, she knew. Steeling her shoulders, she marched towards the house, the key already in her hand before she arrived at the door. The fact that it fit in the lock was surprising. On some level she'd expected him to have the locksmith out the same day they'd had that ludicrous telephone conversation.

"Hello?" She called out as the door swung open, "anybody home?"

Stepping across the threshold, she felt a little like a burglar, as if she could now add breaking and entering to her already impressive résumé. The air inside was stale, tasting of dust and something else she couldn't really put her finger on. Maybe he'd actually stopped coming home, opting to spend his entire life on the road. The silence was almost ominous, making her let out a nervous little chuckle that turned into a soft yelp as her shoe crunched on broken glass. "What the hell?" Looking down, she realized that the floor was covered in debris— it was a veritable minefield. The hall table had been reduced to kindling, weeks' worth of mail just strewn on the floor. The glass on the front of the antique grandfather clock she'd admired had been smashed out, some jagged pieces still in the wood frame looking as though they were darkened with blood.

"Oh, Matt," she whispered, "what did you do?"

Slowly, she made her way to the bedroom, hoping that his path of destruction hadn't extended to the clothes in the closet. She needed her extra sets of ring gear and a few of those dresses. Maybe some of her sweaters now that the weather was turning cooler—

She froze at the sight of it— the portrait was massive, bigger than she'd expected it to be even though she'd commissioned it. They were both dressed like extras from Game of Thrones, him perched on the Iron Throne with her on his knee like some saucy wench. She'd spent days agonizing over the right gift for him for Christmas, finally settling on the one thing that had been theirs alone. He'd gotten her into the show and they'd binge-watched a whole season in 3 days just so that she'd be caught up.

With effort, she forced her eyes away from it and went to the closet, her hands already unfolding the packing crate that had been tucked under her arm. She breathed a sigh of relief to find her clothes untouched and still intact. Humming softly to herself, she started to sift through the clothes, pulling out the winter garments and tossing them into the box along with her extra ring gear. Turning around, she went over to the dresser and pulled open the top drawer, grabbing the panties and bras she'd left behind. Her eyes caught sight of movement in her peripheral vision, and when she looked up into the mirror, she gasped.

Matt Ford sat on the bed behind her, his eyes meeting hers in the reflection, although his stare cut right through her. She turned around, hugging a handful of panties to her chest as though they could protect her. The two regarded each other in silence for what seemed like an eternity before she felt the guilt and shame rising, bringing the anger with it. "What the hell's wrong with you?" She snapped the words, dropping the lingerie into the box at her feet. "Why are you sitting here in the dark like a goddamn—" she broke off before she called him a psycho to his face, but the word still hung there in the awkward silence.

"Say it." He stood up from the bed then, his never leaving hers, trying his best to sound impassive, but failing miserably. "You might as well. I know what you're thinking. So say it." Nessa stared back at him for a few long moments before she merely shook her head. A slight sneer crossed his face then, before his shoulders had rolled in acceptance. "It's MY house, isn't it?" The bitterness entered his tone now, making the word almost a curse with the emphasis. "If I want to sit in the dark in MY house, I suppose I can. I thought you were 'never coming back here'?"

Nessa huffed, rolling her eyes. "I needed my extra gear— I'm wrestling in SVW and I'm teaming with Mika next week against her rivals. I suppose I should be thankful it's all here, considering the state of the rest of the house." Her eyes flickered toward the hallway, then back to him as he stood there, simply...watching her. "What are you doing here, anyway? Shouldn't you be in Europe, 'working'?" It was her turn to be bitter now, her phrasing pointedly mimicking the one he so often used.

A grim smile crossed Matt's lips in response, fading almost as quickly as it passed. "I get certain privileges other people don't. Because of who I am. And what I am. You know that." He took a step forward, closer to her now, the shiny wetness of the fresh cuts on his hands barely visible in the dim light. "You used to appreciate them."

"I…" she took a step back, colliding hard with the dresser. There was fear in her eyes for a split second before that familiar moxie of hers flared to life. "Right, and I can see you've been using that downtime your position affords quite productively." Staring him in the face, it was so hard to keep from feeling something— anything— about the whole rotten situation. "I was only a few hours away from here," she muttered with bitterness in her tone, "and I figured you wouldn't—" breaking off, she bit her lip as her eyes fixed on those cut-up hands. It was easier than looking into his haunted eyes, knowing that the pain she saw there was partially her fault. "I just want my clothes, Matt. Can I take these and just…" she swallowed thickly, feeling like she was on the verge of tears. No real surprise there. She'd been crying over the man for what felt like months now.

"Just what? Just what, Ness? Just leave me behind again? That's what you want, right? To just forget about all this. To forget about us. After everything we went through...After everything I did for you. For US. This…" Matt stopped then, some of the anger fading from his voice as he paused, looking at the slender trickles of fresh blood running down his hand. "All of this was for us, Ness. We were supposed to share this. Together. And you just...gave it up. Turned your back on me. Just like that."

Nessa recoiled at that, fresh hurt in her voice. "I… how dare you! I never— ever— turned my back on you. If anything, I waited for you far longer than I ever should have. All of this— this insanity. This obsession of yours. You were never doing this for me. You weren't doing this for us. You were doing this for you, Matt. And if you can't admit that—"

"No. No, no, no. Everything I have done, everything I have sacrificed, I have done for us. I sacrificed everything for us. The fact that you don't see— you...are a part of me, Nessa. Or at least...you were." The words came hard as slate, thick with bitterness...and anger. His eyes fixed on Nessa's, never wavering. "Until you walked away."

It took all her effort to move back over to the closet where she started pulling out things at random, trying to decide what she needed and what she could bear to part with forever. The shoes— there were hundreds of pairs of them, stacked neatly in boxes, arranged by colour and style— she'd have to leave them. She couldn't carry that many and she wasn't about to ask him for help. "I'll just take as much as I can," she said, more to herself than him, "and then you can shred the rest to ribbons… have a nice little bonfire in the middle of the living room if that's what you want to do." The bitterness was back, bringing the tears with it. In vexation she reached up and swiped at her eyes, leaving a smear of mascara on her cheek. "Maybe you should start calling yourself the Mad King," the words tumbled out before she could stop them, almost as if she needed to make him hurt like she was, "I think it would be—" she froze, seeing him move out of the corner of her eye. "Don't you dare come near me, Matthew Ford— if you touch me— Mika knows where I am and if I'm not back soon, she'll have the cops on your doorstep so fast it'll make your head spin!" The words were empty bravado. Mikaela thought she was back at the hotel in San Francisco, fast asleep.

Matt stopped dead, almost as if the words had stunned him physically. Fury crossed his features, but quickly twisted into a look of confusion. "Do you...do you actually think I would hurt you? After everything we've done, after everything that we've shared? That I would lay a hand on you? Do you really believe that?" When Nessa didn't respond, merely eyeing him warily, something in him flared. He turned from her, flexing his wounded hand rapidly, head shaking as though he was fighting with someone or something internally. "Look around you, Nessa. Really look. If you can look at this room—" He gestured with his wounded hand, first toward her part of the closet, then toward what had been her side of the bed, still as pristine as the day she had left, and finally at the painting looming above them, "And still think that of me? If that's what you truly think...If you're foolish enough to believe that...that BULLSHIT...then maybe you should get your things and go. This clearly isn't where you belong. Not anymore."

Tears rolled down her cheeks as she stared at him, twisting the slinky little dress she'd been wearing on their first date between her hands. "You're right. I shouldn't be here… hell, I should never have been so stupid as to move in with someone like you in the first place—"

"STOP. Just...stop. Don't give me that. Don't feed me that 'someone like you' shit. You know who I was, Nessa. You knew WHAT I was." Matt turned on her again as his anger flared. His eyes flickered to the dress in her hands, the spark of recognition softening his tone only slightly. "Do you remember Miami? Do you remember that day, out in front of the arena? Because I do. I remember exactly what I told you that day. I told you this is what I am. That this is ALL that I am. And you looked at me, you looked me right in the eyes, and you told me that you understood. You told me that you were with me. No matter what. And I believed you. I believed you to the bitter end, Nessa. Everything I did, I did for us. And I thought you were with me. Even when they all turned their backs on me, when I saw them for what they really were, even when Lex—" Matt paused a moment, catching on the words and swallowing hard. "Even after everyone else gave up on me, I knew you were with me. Because you promised me. You promised me, Ness. No matter what. You promised, and I believed you." He swallowed again, the full extent of his pain and anger on him as he wiped a tear from his cheek. "But you LIED. You told me you were with me. That you would always be with me. But you weren't. You gave up on us, Nessa. Not the other way around." His shoulders slumped, and he turned from her again, eyes locked on his wounded hand, flexing the fingers again. "Remember that."

She said nothing in response, letting that anger propel her into motion again as she grabbed a few of the shoe boxes that were in reach, dumping their contents into the already overflowing box at her feet. Tossing the empty boxes aside, she bit back the sob that welled up in her throat. Bending, she tried to lift the crate but it was far too heavy for her. Instead she ended up dragging it towards the bedroom door. In the doorway, she paused and threw her last barb, not bothering to look at him as she did, "and throw that damned thing in the trash," she snapped, meaning the painting, "it's just as worthless as you are."

Matt didn't even look up as the door slammed behind her. He merely sat for a few long moments, his breath coming in long, heavy gasps, fingers still flexing on instinct. Then, in a sudden, violent flurry, he upended the bed, sending it crashing over on its side, mattress flopping out in disarray. It was only then that he caught sight of the painting again, this time from the corner of his eye. As suddenly as it had begun, the violent outburst ended. He didn't even regard his handiwork in that moment. He merely slumped down against the wall, his eyes never leaving the painting...as tears began to stream down his cheeks.