Born Losers

09-20-09 || Paris

Paris was a city made for lovers. Not many words had passed between them tonight. Not many had been needed as they both had demons that needed to be put to rest after fighting for their lives. For her it was a feeling of inadequacy, despite the success she'd had in her fight. For him it was a strange feeling that waking up on a cold floor in a puddle of dried blood had spawned, and that he hadn't been able to shake. She had no complaints- he'd been voracious, as though he couldn't get enough of her.

They fell asleep in each other's arms.

He awoke sometime later, struggling against the twisted bedding, gasping and moaning. The darkness seemed thick, close and terrifying. His head was spinning, and he felt disoriented. He felt like he was drowning, as he gasped for air. It was as though a heavy stone lay on his chest; for a brief moment he almost feared that he was having a heart attack. Tears streamed down his cheeks, mingling with the sweat that trickled down from his hair. He sat there, blinking, utterly blind as the darkness pressed against his eyes. Just as he was about to voice the scream that was building, the lamp on the bedside table snapped on.

The hotel bedroom. Curtains were open across the room, and he could see the Eiffel Tower, larger than life. His pulse slowed. The pain in his throat as he bit back the scream dissipated.

It was a dream. Nothing more. A cool hand touched his back, rubbing away the tension, and he relaxed into the touch, letting his eyes drift closed as he released his grip on the sheets. For once he didn't stiffen or push her away when she wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight. He needed it. He felt the bed shift under her weight, and then she was there beside him. He looked into her eyes, his own still filled with naked terror, tears still drying on his cheeks, and what he saw there wasn't pity- it was understanding.

"Shhh," she whispered, smoothing the sweaty hair back from his brow. Her lips were cool as she pressed them to his temple, feeling the throb of his racing pulse there.

"Ryann," he said her name, but that one word conveyed everything on his mind, a thousand things in an instant. Love, longing, pain and fear- so many things all at once. She stretched out next to him, resting her head on his chest and breaking the eye contact before he could further embarrass himself. He wanted to pull away from her embrace, lash out and push her away but the rift in his psyche said otherwise. Right now he needed her here, like this. Her gentle touch was soothing, her very presence galvanizing.

"I love you," she murmured as his arm clutched her slim shoulders, pulling her against him.

"I know," he replied automatically, the warmth in the words transforming them into something else. Looking up at their reflections in the mirror above the dresser, it was easy to detach himself, and watch the scene unfold. A stolen moment of peace in the chaos that he drew like a moth to a flame. Her hair was dark like the night itself, gleaming chestnut in the cool lamplight that splashed across the bed, a complement to the dark hair on his chest, and the dark tattoos on the arms that encircled hers. His hair was getting lighter- more salt than pepper these days. Life was taking its toll. "Can a frightened child face the boogeyman?" he murmured, and she looked up sharply, her expression troubled.

"What?"

"Nothing." She propped herself up on one elbow and wiped the tear tracks from his face with her cool fingers. His eyes darkened as she watched, turning from deep blue to a stormy purple. She knew he was about to do something. He seized her wrist, halting her actions, bringing her hand to his mouth. He kissed her palm, her fingers, one by one, all the while looking right into her eyes. She could see his emotions; written there: desire, passion, and something she knew was reflected in her own- fear. He shook his head slowly, almost as though casting aside the last of his objections, and then he turned over on his side, drawing her close against him. He kissed the top of her head, muttering to himself. "Anything happens, I want you to know I've always needed you," his voice was low, haunted as though making some final confession.

She raised her head, pressing a finger to his lips. "Stop, just stop." She hissed, shaking her head slowly, "you're freaking me out. I don't like it."

"Yeah…" he spoke around the digit against his lips, "listen. There's money you don't know about, about half a million in cash, and maybe another half in assets. If something happens to me, call Avery, and he'll give you everything."

"Shut up," she snapped, venom in her voice that matched the tears in her pale eyes. "I don't want to hear you talk like this... I... can't."

He pulled away from her, his features hardening with anger. "Then don't fucking listen... like I give a shit." His feet hit the floor, and he immediately stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door and snapping on the light. He cranked on the faucet, letting the water run as cold as the pipes would allow before splashing some on his face. It was a welcome respite to the sticky sweat there. His cell phone rested on the low marble counter beneath the mirror, and it vibrated as he stood there.

Perfect timing. He rolled his eyes, reaching for it. An unfamiliar number blinked on the screen, letting him know he had a message. He thumbed the button, and watched a video fill the screen. The audio was awful, nearly buried under the white noise of the running faucet.

It wasn't until the dark haired woman looked up into the camera, revealing the damage to her face that he realized what he was watching wasn't just some random daisy chain email.

"No, fuck no." He whispered, recoiling in horror as his back hit the door. The phone slipped and nearly fell from his hand. He had to scrabble to catch it as the video ended, revealing an address in downtown Paris.

He could hear her in the other room, moving around, opening and closing drawers, slamming things around. "Great. Perfect."

He pulled open the door and watched her toss the massive suitcase on the rumpled bed. She began haphazardly tossing things inside.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" He bellowed from the doorway, his voice louder and harsher than he'd intended.

"Leaving you," she snapped, her eyes wild and crazy behind the shimmer of tears.

He jerked as though slapped before storming across the room and grabbing her arm. "Don't hand me this shit. Not now... fuck..." His voice was low, almost a growl as he stared at her. Kitty's face flashed in his mind, the blood and gaping wound where her mouth should have been.

She tensed; her whole body was rigid. "Not now? Yeah? How long should I wait then?" Glazed eyes looked at him as she dropped the clothes in her hand and slapped him across the face. "You don't own me, Jackson. I can do whatever I want to do. I can come and go as I please... I'm not your prisoner. I'm going home."

He stood there and simply took it, still glaring at her, that muscle twitching in his jaw as he ground his teeth. He didn't touch the welt, even though he could feel the blood flowing from the scratches her nails had left behind. His words were cold, "are you finished?"

She almost looked horrified as the blood trickled down his cheek, but the look was fleeting. She tried to jerk away from him as her expression became more pained, and closer to tears. His fingers dug into her arm, painfully now as he refused to let her go. Instead of trying to pull away from him she lunged at him and half-heartedly pounded her free hand on his chest, coming closer to a breakdown. "You think I like this, huh? Sitting here alone, waiting for you to call... waiting backstage to find out if you're going to make it out of that circle alive each week? You think this is what gets me off? Well?"

Sarcasm colored his reply, his voice hoarse, "I know what gets you off, babe."

She was breaking down in his arms; a sob escaped her throat as the fight ran out of her. She hit him again and again, the blows becoming softer and softer until he barely felt them. Finally her hand just rested on his chest. Tears flowed freely, staining her cheeks, her eyes tightly shut as she pressed her face into his chest. She loved him? She resented him? At the moment, so many feelings flew it was hard to tell.

He could feel the gulf between them now, try as he might to deny it, and he was desperate to pull it back. "Ry, don't do this... don't make me..." The words jumbled in his mouth, so he pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. A sigh passed through his clenched teeth, and she stiffened, pushing against him.

"No," she fired back, "I'm sick to death of your empty promises. I'm sick of bein' the last thing you think of... this shit, it has to stop -"

He cut her off, his voice hard, "don't, ok? I had Spiral in my fucking face in the locker room tonight-"

"God, are you scared of him?" She watched his features, her eyes darting back and forth. "You think he's fucking Candyman or something?" She pulled from his grasp and moved into the bathroom, gripping the basin with a sick smile on her face as she peered into the mirror. "Spiral." She intoned, her voice filled with breathless hysteria. "Spiral.... Spiral...." With a smile, she turned from the mirror, stabbing a finger in his direction. "See... nothing happened..."

He couldn't stop himself from lashing back, wanting, no needing to hurt her just as much as she'd done to him. He blinked, and then fired back, his words just as venomous as hers, "grow the fuck up, Ryann. I never said he was the boogeyman..."

Denial. That had been what he was thinking earlier. She'd read him like a book.

He shook his head, dark anger clouding his features. "I can't win with you. You want to leave? Is that what you want, really?" He pushed her into a corner, knowing precisely how she'd react.

She couldn't look at him, but one glance at her profile as he advanced on her gave him all the insight he needed into the pain and anger she was feeling. "Get out." She said, her voice flat and hollow.

He reached for her, but she pulled away. Instead he raked a hand through his hair, and turned away, snatching yesterday's jeans and shirt up off the floor and hastily donning them over his shorts. "Fine, you got your fucking wish." He turned away, storming across the room towards the door, pausing only to snatch his wallet and cigarettes from the dresser. "I'm gone." She heard the door slam hard enough to rattle the windows in their expensive frames.

With a sob, she sank to her knees in the doorway, the tears flowing freely now as she put her hands to her face. "Please don't go," she whispered, knowing he couldn't hear her now.


11-19-07 || Phoenix

"Thank you," the words came from between her bloodless lips like a whisper of air, almost drowned out by the sound of machinery as Jackson released her from the impromptu hug. Christine Marshall might as well have been the one in that bed, for all the living she'd done over the past two years. Permanent dark circles ringed eyes that had once been beautiful, eyes that sparkled with life in the wedding photo on the bedside table as she gazed at the man she'd pledged her life to. In sickness and health, 'til death.

"It's nothing," Jackson replied, shaking his head slowly. "Mike was the closest thing to a best friend I had…" his voice caught; cracking as he covered it with a feeble cough, pulling his gaze away from the wasted, still form on the bed.

Mike Marshall, aka Nemesis. Two years ago he'd had a promising future as a wrestler. Two years ago they'd been close friends, allies in a stable called The Horsemen, allied with the man who called himself Spiral. One bleak night, after a loss, and more than 24 hours of binge drinking, Jackson tried to take his own life. Mike had shown up, in the right place, at the right time, and saved his life, only to lose his own. Spiral had come calling, looking for a pound of flesh, and when he found that Jackson had already been discharged with a few stitches, he turned his sick temper on Marshall, putting the man in a coma he'd never awoken from.

He'd been big, a monster in the ring. Nearly seven feet of pure muscle, he'd dwarfed Jackson. Now he was nothing more than a broken shell, muscles atrophied, and skin sagging and sallow. He looked like he was already dead.

Anger simmered deep down as he looked at the ruin of the once beautiful woman before him. Her blonde hair was more ash than before, she looked like she was closer to fifty than her actual age of twenty-nine. "I'd like to see him alone, Chris… one last time…"

Silence fell as she left the room without a sound, leaving him alone in the gloom. He sat down heavily on a hard metal chair, listening to the sound of the heart monitor beeping stolidly.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Mechanical sounds, no real flicker of life. He grunted, shifting in the chair, making it creak beneath his weight as he slipped the pack of Camels from his back pocket, sliding one between his lips before lighting it. He blew the smoke towards the ceiling, a rueful smile curving his lips. "Hey Mike," he began, his voice strained with the effort to hold his emotions in check. He fell silent again, watching the machines breathe for the vacant body that used to be his friend. He tore his gaze away, feeling the tingle in his sinuses, willing himself not to lose it now. The woman in the hallway was counting on him to be solid.

Simply sitting here, thinking, trying to convince himself that this wreckage before him was not his fault was a losing battle. It was. No point of contention, no delusions. If he'd been stronger that night, Mike Marshall would still be living. Still be doing what he loved, instead of laying here like a rotting vegetable. "Fuck." The expletive passed his lips, filled with more vehemence than expected, echoing in the silence of the room. "'This isn't how it's supposed to go, man. You and me, we were gonna rule the world, remember that? Heh, now I'm on top and you're…" He heaved a heavy sigh, and then coughed softly, clearing his throat, desperately craving a drink. Dependency was more than a crutch, it was a curse.

"Hey, man… sorry. I just… you know how I get…" he shook his head, looking embarrassed to be talking to himself in a darkened hospital room. Marshall wasn't much of a conversationalist these days, and over the past eight months; Jackson had only been here once. That ate at him now, gnawing away at his insides like cancer. He used to come once a week, or at least as often as his schedule would allow.

Lately other things were more important. Like celebrity. Like an undefeated record in a place that didn't even consider him to be a contender. Stupid shit.

"I'm sorry, Mike. Shit I should have said to you a long time ago. I know, I know Chris says that I'm not to blame, that you would have helped me if I was a fucking stranger. That doesn't matter. Spiral… fuckin' sadist. We were both on his radar, after we lost that night."

Jackie's words echoed in his mind now, that fearful whisper: "He made monsters of us all."

The grim truth echoed in the silent room, as he watched the fluid drip down the IV tubes, feeding into the bruised and wasted arm. Slowly, he reached out, taking hold of Marshall's hand where it lay on the bed. It was cold, cold and waxen, like a dummy. It didn't matter; Jackson gave it a squeeze regardless, feeling the weight settle over his shoulders. His mouth was dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth as he drew the sharp flavor of the Turkish blend into his lungs. "I know you don't care, wherever you are in there, if you're even still with us. Maybe you moved on a long time ago. Maybe there's a lesson in that somewhere... maybe not. Who gives a shit, right?"

He dropped the cigarette to the floor, grinding it out under his boot as he dropped Marshall's hand, letting it fall back to the pristine linens, dead weight like a landed fish. "Yeah, I wish you could hear me, man. Chris loves you… she hasn't given up hope for you. Hope's so fucking stupid, silver lining and all that shit. Like... any of that wishing gets us anything. If I had that power, I'd fix your head, man, and bring you back from... shit. Listen to this, listen to what I've become, man. Spiral's back and he's crazier than ever. Guess after all this time the world comes full circle..."

He stood slowly, rolling his shoulders to clear the tension, and finding it was still there. His fists clenched as he looked down at the still form of his former friend. "Fucking wake up, you asshole..." he whispered fervently, his voice cold as the anger bled into it. "You selfish fuck, if you can hear me, wake the fuck up..."

His hands closed over Marshall's shoulders, squeezing tight as he shook the body hard enough to rattle the teeth. Nothing. Not a flicker of elevated pulse, not a gasp. Just that empty void. He drew his fist back, and slammed it into the pillow beside Marshall's head, a strangled sob escaping his lips as he reeled back from the bed. The situation finally settled over him, bringing with it an almost calm detachment. Mike Marshall was gone, and it really was time to put this shit to rest.

Tears filled his eyes, clouding his vision as he looked down at Marshall, trying to memorize his features, and commit this grim scene to memory. "Bye, Mike," he murmured, swiping the back of his hand across his eyes before moving out into the corridor. He didn't look back again- he couldn't.



09-29-09 || Paris

The hospital staff stopped giving him a hard time days ago. Now they just endured his nearly constant presence in the room, moving around him as they tended to the woman on the bed. The doctor had removed the stitches today. They'd sent in a few specialists to give her options on cosmetic surgery to cover up the damage. She'd endured their words and attention in silence. Truth was she hadn't said more than a handful of words since he'd found her lashed to a chair, mere inches from a fall that would have killed her.

Shadows crept across the room, afternoon bleeding into early evening as the sun sank towards the horizon. He was alone, with the temptation resting on the floor beside him. An unopened bottle of Wild Turkey. He'd been toting it around for two days, unable to open it or dispose of it.

He was blind to the world. Sitting there unwashed in a hospital room. His clothes were stiff with dried sweat. On the other side of the bed Mark Bishop sat on a chair, equally silent. He'd been friends with Kitty almost as long as he'd known Jackson. The two of them had been a couple when Mark had met them. The blushing bride, so to speak. It was hard to see her like this. It was even harder to see Jackson like this. Jackson believed he was moving his mouth but he'd stopped an hour ago and he was only reciting into himself. Internal monologue.

Bishop didn't interrupt.

Pained silence. Jackson shook his head, and analyzed his feelings. Yes, he was still angry. Yes, he wanted to kill Spiral with his bare hands for this. The subject was discarded and the memory filed. At least he still had that.

"Still have Paris," he mumbled, and Bishop started, jerking in surprise.

"What?"

"Nothing." A firm, unshakable belief remained. He believed he could retrieve the shattered fragments of that carefully crafted ego upon a return from this room. He believed that with all his heart. He had to, because the alternative was so bleak it was bound to drive him mad.

There were flowers on the table. Dying already.

At the moment, fear had left. He'd been frightened- terrified really. It was gone now, and he was closer to coping with this. Stages of grief. What was this, then? Denial? Acceptance?

His lips quivered, aiming for a smile, and coming up in a strangely feral snarl. Slowly but surely he was tiptoeing towards the void. Barely breathing, he looked up. "We need to get her out of this place. Pronto."

The clock above the door winked, sharing the secret. One of Salvador Dali's twisted timepieces, the seconds dropped from the fat black hands like molasses in January. A conspirator, it would seem, in the self-imposed punishment. How long was enough? How long did he need to sit here as penance for his wrongdoings?

The tip of the cigarette flared up orange, reflecting in his eyes as the shadows receded with each intake of breath. The jaundiced glow almost, but not quite, transformed his rugged features into something demonic. Jackson drew in a deep breath, pulling the smoke deep into his lungs, holding it in as long as he could before his chest began to hurt. He let the breath out slowly, shifting in the hard chair, the creaking of the aged wood the only evidence of his presence as the shadows gathered around him again.

He hadn't intended to maintain a silent vigil this long, but it had happened just the same. Kaitlynn lay upon the pristine sheets, surrounded by the heavy scent of flowers and antiseptic, a teddy bear cuddled in her arms. She slept soundly, snoring softly. They had her heavily medicated. The first night they hadn't she'd nearly torn out the eyes of her attending nurse with her nails. She'd been feral and wild. Now she was just silent and strange.

Machinery hissed and pinged, the mechanical lifeblood of the hospital; sounds that reminded him painfully of his mother, and visits to a place like this that had instilled terror in him as a child.

The past felt very close tonight as he sat there in silent contemplation, smoking the Camel right down to his fingers, feeling and ignoring the burn against his flesh.

"Now I am become Death, destroyer of worlds," he muttered, running a hand over his jawline, his dry fingers rasping over the stubble there. Quoting one of Spiral's favorite lines without meaning to. "I'm sorry, Kaitlynn."

He let his head hang, feeling the weight of his burden of guilt against his shoulders and the back of his neck. He pressed his thumb and index finger against his aching, burning eyes and sighed, the sound turning into a drawn out expletive. "…fuck..."

"Brad," Bishop said softly, "you're not Superman. It's not your fault."

Jackson groped in his pocket, withdrawing the mangled pack of Camels. With absent motions, he tapped it against his palm, shaking another filterless deadhead up to his lips. He lit it with a snap and a snick of his silver Zippo. The bluish flame illuminated his features, revealing the hard expression: the thinning of his lips, the furrow between his dark eyebrows, and the twitching of a muscle in his clenched jaw.

Inhale. Exhale. The rhythms were in time with Kaitlynn's breathing on the bed. "I should have seen it coming. Should have known."

"If I'd known it would end like this, I wouldn't have left you," he thought to himself, drawing the smoke into his lungs, feeling the raw pain in his throat, enjoying the bite. Ah, the only thing that reminded him that he was still alive, if this sort of existence could be considered a semblance of life. Pain, the catalyst.

He thought the words, feeling the dull pang of regret at the lie. It tasted sour, like the remains of a night of binge drinking. "Goddamned if I don't feel responsible, Mark."

Regret. The idea was laughable, but he was feeling it all the same.

He was exhausted, emotionally and mentally drained, yet he lingered here a moment longer, watching Kaitlynn sleep peacefully. With effort he pushed up out of the chair, crossing to her side. Gingerly he set the long-stemmed rose on the table, propping the little card against it. Remember Vegas, he'd written. He remembered it well. The last time he'd seen her, inside that hotel room. The last time he'd seen that look in her eyes. That fire- the spark that made her the woman he'd once loved.

Now the spark was gone. Her eyes were dead. The scars on her cheek were pink, dotted with holes where the sutures had been. They'd done their best. He looked at her and all he could see was Spiral's laughing face.

He leaned over her, brushing her tangled hair away from her brow before placing a soft kiss against her forehead. "Rest," he murmured, pulling away from her quickly as he felt the stirrings of a strange longing overcome him. Nostalgia. Kaitlynn stirred, her eyes fluttering open.

A soft gasp escaped her lips as she saw Jackson standing there, looking down at her. Confusion and panic boiled in her eyes, turning their greenish depths gold. Jackson backed up, letting the light wash over his face. "It's me, Kitty."

"Brad?" She murmured, her voice clogged with sleep and lazy with the medication. "Am I dreaming again?"

He reached down, taking her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. "No, babe. I'm here." He almost cringed at the lameness of his understated words, but Kaitlynn said nothing, simply looking at him with those strangely flat eyes.

"Good." She said simply, her eyes drifting closed once again.

He waited for her to drop off to sleep again, and when he thought she had, he turned to Bishop. "I think we should bust her out of here tonight."

"No." He turned back to find Kitty's eyes open, and fixed on him. Her black hair fell over her face as she stared, licking her swollen lips slowly. "I don't want to go." She cocked her head, looking at Jackson. "Can I stay here a little while longer, Brad?" He shrugged and she continued, "good."

He nodded and turned around, reaching for the door, only to have it jerked from his grasp as a nurse stepped inside the room, colliding with him. She gave a small yelp, which was muffled by Jackson's hand. "Shhhh," he admonished in a mock whisper, pulling his hand away from the startled nurse's lips. "She's sleeping…"

"Monsieur Jackson," the nurse stammered, "visiting hours ended hours ago. You shouldn't be here."

Jackson chuckled as he moved towards the door. "…you don't know how right you are…" he muttered, pushing out into the deserted corridor and disappearing into the gloom right before her eyes.

She put a hand to her lips, wondering if she had imagined the man. She could still feel the pressure of his palm against her lips, the residual warmth of a few seconds ago quickly fading. She shook her head, and turned to check on Kaitlynn.

On the table was a simple rose, exquisitely formed, a stark crimson bloom, barely opened. The stem was impossibly long, the leaves a rich green. Propped against this was a simple florist's card, the waxy cardboard covered in a shaky scrawl, the ink a deep crimson like the flower. Jackson's unmistakable handwriting. A gift. An apology.

Silence reigned in the room, the dark night pressing against the glass as the nurse drew the curtains.

Silence was a great healer after all. Kaitlynn slept. The nurse moved on and the hospital machinery beeped and hissed, keeping the place alive.

Kaitlynn met Mark Bishop's gaze and then threw aside the covers to reveal that she was fully dressed underneath them, other than the shapeless hospital gown. "Help me, you ass." She chewed on her bottom lip, cocking her head to stare at him. "You want to help me or WHAT?!"

"Not really. I think this is a mistake, Kitty. Stay here and talk to someone... let them help you."

He watched as she pulled on the faded t-shirt that he'd brought her, watching as she wincing at the pain in her back. "I'm through talking, Mark. There's nothing to be gained in that. They're making me feel like a fucking lab rat. I'm not some mousy little victim."

"Then... what? What are you going to do now?"

She laughed. "For starters, I'm going to check myself out. I'm fine, and sitting around here is driving me nuts. And then, you're going to go home. We'll go our separate ways, and we'll pretend this conversation never happened, because I don't want to remember it. All… all I wanted was for Spiral to fuck with Brad."

She leaned against the door, lightheaded and exhausted, almost wavering on her feet. "Hey, if it helps, pretend I'm doing this for the good reasons like I used to... instead of the selfish fuck off ones that I really mean." She turned around, waving a hand over her shoulder. "Tell Petrov I'll be in touch. Later."



Jackson pushed out into the night air and sighed, his promise only entering a personal history that kept a ghosted tally mark of sacrifices quietly made and loudly forgotten. He met his tired, dark shaded eyes in the rear-view mirror as he slid behind the wheel.

It was better off this way. Much better. He hoped in some fleeting way to trap himself in the reflection; to make the trade with the opposite self he had been too afraid to regard. Time slipped around him.

They didn't try to stop him as he peeled out of the parking lot. For that he was thankful.

Eyes forward, back straight, forward unflinching, like a soldier off to war.

The similarity wasn't lost on him one bit.