014 [WWH]

You wake up in a strange room with no memory of how you got there. It's one of those logic puzzles, in a sense. What's the first thing you do? A normal, rational person would look for a clue. What's the last thing you remember? What were you doing? Who were you with? Where are you? For me, it takes a wrong turn somewhere around Albuquerque and the assessment becomes more. What kind of room is it? Hospital? Locker? Hotel? Is there a painting on a wall? Sheets under your back? That sour-stale sweat smell like an old pair of hockey gloves and unforgiving and ugly linoleum or tile or bare concrete depending on what level you compete at?

What do you hear? Voices? Machines? The white noise of the TV station that stopped broadcasting after midnight but you still left the idiot box on out of that old road habit?

Assess further. It's not enough. Are you in pain? Where? How did it happen? Was there a match? Some backstage attack? Was it self-inflicted? The answers don't come. It's just a fog of pain, that unsettling unease bordering on terror.

Close your eyes. Count to ten. To twenty. To three hundred. Wait out the ringing in the ears and the blurred vision and the panic that's trying to build into a scream that'll render you mute for weeks if it ever makes it out. It won't, of course, because you've been putting on that brave face for so long that it's second nature now to swallow it whole, take the medicine without any water – conditioning.

I was in the gym – I don't remember that but I know I was because I can feel the drawstrings of the Zubaz between my fingers and I only wear them for workouts. The throwback to better times in pro wrestling amuses me and I stretch a little, wiggle the digits. I haven't wrestled yet. I know that because my calves and my right foot don't ache like they usually do.

I don't know where I am.

Time to look for the next clue-

"Max?" She'd probably said his name half a dozen times over the last twenty minutes, wondering if they were going to need to call an ambulance after all. Jerry, the owner of Fit Legit had checked his pupils when they'd found him sprawled on the floor in front of that cracked mirror and the overturned rack of hand weights. She'd reviewed the footage hours ago, committing the sins to memory.

"Flossy?" His voice came out soft, that pet name slipping out because he still wasn't fully aware of himself. "I..." something was there on the tip of his thoughts, teasing him for a few seconds before it snapped into focus, "thought you had a late session. That guy with the intricate back piece that needed colouring?"

She rubbed his arm softly, trying a faint smile. "That was yesterday, love. You've been..." the catch in her voice gave her away, "attacked... by this piece of trash." Her usual sweet voice had turned somewhat sharp.

"Yester..." he tried to sit up, groaning as pain stabbed through his temples. The last of her words penetrated through his haze, probably aided by the pain that brought it all into focus. "And you sound angry." He tried for a smile, hoping he could bring her back from the brink of that fury he could hear her trying to control. "My head hurts and I lost... how much time? A whole day?" Max squinted at her, trying to bring her features into focus even though she actually looked really good through his hazy vision, like some soft-focus glamour shot or something. "Am I gonna make it to..." he looked around, realizing they weren't in a hospital room after all. It was the little room at the back of the gym's office and he was on that trundle bed that Jerry sometimes crashed on when he was having a spat with Denise. Relief was written all over his face as he met her gaze again. He didn't have to wrestle for another week. He'd probably be okay by then. Hopefully.

"Don't move so much, Max. I think you got a light concussion." Florence moved closer, carefully and gently kissing the side of his head. "I wish she would just vanish from our life. That miserable piece... that can't hold a man for her life." The anger in her voice had mixed with concern. "I really can't see what you ever saw in her." A small chuckle. "Ordinary if anything."

The pieces clicked. He remembered it now. The hatred on Kasey's face. The unholy scream she'd unleashed right before she'd speared him right off his feet. "I grew up on fast food," he replied after a few moments of silence, letting out a sigh. "I wouldn't have known what gourmet food was if... wait. No. This is a terrible metaphor, isn't it?" He smiled grimly, reaching out to catch her fingers with his. "Something about chopped liver versus filet mignon. That's what I was going for but... well, you know what I meant, right?" Max hesitated, not wanting to get all schmaltzy now. "It... well, it was a mistake. The whole damn thing. It was. She was."

"I don't blame you. Well, I do. A little," she laughed. "I just don't know the deal. She acts like a friend. Then gets back with pretty boy, not giving a damn about you. The moment he leaves her like the afterthought she is... bam! She jumps you down." Flo scratched her head, leaning against the wall. She stretched out her legs when closing her eyes.

"She does that. Comes crawling back because..." he sighed, "I let her. And now he's gone dark again. I know I shouldn't be keeping tabs but I was. Because of that..." he couldn't bring himself to vocalize that damned restraining order, remembering now that Kasey had denied it. "She always turns up like a bad penny when..." he paused, watching her for a moment. "I don't feel anything for her. If that's what you're wondering. Maybe I never really did. I think I might've just convinced myself that she was..." Max chuckled sheepishly, wincing at another stab of pain in his head. "God, it feels kinda rude to even say 'convenient', but that's what she was. Stockholm syndrome, maybe? A little. Came up together. Went through the same training camp. Ended up in Defiant after everything was said and done although she had her little hissy fit and left when she couldn't crack that Aidan-shaped glass ceiling."

He fell silent for a few moments, running his thumb back and forth across the back of her hand. "You're right. Like always. She's trash."

"We all had that one person, Max. Where we saw something better than they were." Florence interlaced her fingers with his. "She led you on but now it doesn't work anymore. And that makes her bitter. I know that kind."

"Bitter. Evil. Spiteful. Mean." He tossed out all the adjectives he could think of, seeing that rage twisting Kasey's features into something awful all over again. "Can't trust her. Can't kill her. Thankfully she's far, far away." He swallowed hard, nodding even though it made his headache intensify. "This... was her statement, loud and clear. I guess she wanted to make sure no loose ends were left and surely that means we won't have to see her again."

"I can only hope. Wouldn't wanna have to punch her." She smiled softly. "Wait, that thought sounds quite alluring. She messed with someone I love... never a good idea."
The list of people I was wrong about is ever-changing. I suppose that's both good and bad in a business like this. You form a first impression by words, by social media, by so many little things. Sometimes those we feel like we can trust will let us down in the most spectacular ways – case and point being my opposition for this first Hellsgate back for 2018. Damon Xalvador. A man I briefly thought I could see a future teaming with. Hindsight says I should have known better. I'm not really cut out to be a tag team wrestler, despite the fact that I took on Lady Black, a quite talented tandem wrestler in my final match of the year. I closed out 2017 with another happy hashmark in the W column.

As much as you want to run from it and reinvent yourself, you can't. The past is right there with you. It molded you into the person you are today. Every moment, every experience, it whittles away a piece of you. Sometimes it's for the better. Strips away the blinders, rips off a chunk of pride or knocks a chip off a shoulder. I expect everything to circle back and bite me in the ass and life rarely disappoints. I'm sure you're going to bare your teeth and try to be the bigger dog with the deadlier bite. I'd try to combat that if I thought there was a point. There isn't. We both know that as much as we knew your name would end up at the top of my dance card after our exchange online.

I hate social media. I really do. It's an excuse for lazy assholes to spend their day picking fights rather than focusing on what really matters – improving their game. I'm sure you'll take offense. Absolutely will because I'm not genuflecting the way you expect. Shooting off my mouth will screw me over. I know it, and he can't help but tell me off.

I'm over here in the deep end, trying to keep my head above the water. I feel like I should leave, like that's what I'm expected to do now – remove myself from the situation before it grows toxic because I've got no foothold here. That bothers me. Being wrong about people.

Exile – what a thought. There's nothing to distract me from myself right now; I've got this festering wound I'm tying to deny. Trying hard not to sink into the depression I can feel reaching for me. I need a fix, I hanker for it. The coppery taste of adrenaline in the back of my throat, and that blood-screaming rush.

I hate her for an instant, for making me second-guess myself. I hate her for making me feel like I'm still never going to be good enough, for making me feel like I had no right to my anger. I realize there is no sinking that I can avoid. I'm already here. I've been struggling. I want out of this cold water. I want to stop swimming. Try to find my endless drive, the motivation, and I can't.

Try to care and I can't.

I just want to hit something. I want to lash out. I want to prove a point, to prove that things would have been different if I hadn't been randomly paired with a jerk like you.

You don't know the first thing about me, Damon.

I've heard you're a great student, though. So maybe you'll learn.

I'm happy to beat it into your head for you, if that's what it takes. I'm happy to let the powers that be know that I want another opportunity. I want a chance. I don't want to wallow and waste my time picking scabs online. I don't want to make little ripples in bathtubs, blow bubbles in a glass of milk – fuck no! I want to make waves. I want to come in like a hurricane and leave all the asses on the edges of their seats.

I want to inspire.

I want to...

NO.

I will.

Win. Succeed. Persevere.

You don't know how it feels to be me. I don't care how it feels to be you. I don't need to know you that way to beat you – intimacy is not a requirement. I'm not like you. I'm not like most of the wrestlers out there. I never will be. I don't care what belts and accolades, tournaments and matches you've won in your career. I don't care about your record. Only one fact matters: you haven't beaten me.

This business of constantly having to explain my every word really needs to stop. My trip is my trip. You can have yours.

You want to whine about weaknesses and inadequacies? List off your own. I'm a selfish man.

You and me, Damon. All out. Balls to the wall.

You think you can do it?

I don't. Go ahead. Try and prove me wrong.