002: Devour

LOCATION: Miami, FL
DATE/TIME: January 22, 2019 || 04:17 AM EST
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF

She woke up in a cold sweat, in a Spartan room that was furnished with nothing but a narrow bed and a battered dresser with misaligned drawers. The last remnants of a nightmare clung to her and she shuddered, chilled to the bone as the night air from the open window washed over her, turning the sweat to ice. She couldn't remember what she'd been doing, where she was – the room was like something out of her worst memories and for a moment she thought she was back in that underground bunker, being watched over by those asshole FBI agents. The curtains blew. Lights from a car washed across the wall, reflecting across the mirror to splash over her face. With a pitiful moan, she shielded her eyes in the crook of one shaking arm.

Kitty Petrova had no idea where she was. The last thing she remembered was walking through out of the OCW Arena in Miami, triumphant because she'd managed to get Zybala to see the light. Scrabbling for her phone, she swiped at the screen, immediately closing her aching eyes against the brightness.

Migraine? Had she been drinking and mixing with the lorazepam before bed again? She had no idea.

Scuttling back, she huddled into the deepest shadows in the corner, feeling the pain wrapping around her head, squeezing down like a vise. Her head bent, forehead touching her knees; her breaths began to slow as she probed her memory carefully. She recalled looking up Noah Hanson, to see what he'd been up to over the last twelve years, since she'd last bumped shoulders with him in a locker room. Odds were slim that he'd remember it – she'd been nothing more than Brad Jackson's glorified arm candy then. A slew of championships, multiple companies she'd never even heard of. Apparently, he'd been quite successful in WWH after the exodus of all their true talent, including James Raven, Aidan Collins and Finn Whelan. Good for him. Maybe not so good for her.

Obviously, she'd fallen asleep while forcing herself to relive his best moments, finding that not much had changed with the old man after all this time. Revisiting it now did nothing but make her feel more anxious and her eyes narrowed as she looked up. Where was she?

Some sort of pressing urgency filled her, and she looked around the room, hoping to find her belongings. On the table by the door she could see that old green backpack she'd been using to cart around her wrestling gear since the beginning. Old habits died hard. She'd brought it with her, just in case there had been a change of booking.

It hadn't happened.

"Please answer… please…" her voice was rough and raw, catching on a near sob. She didn't even understand this motivation, just knew that she had to hear someone's voice. She had to make sure she wasn't the only person left in the world.

"Hi, you've reached Lyv Jackson and I'm unabl-"

A bellow shattered the silence, as the fear boiled over into anger. She waited for the beep and spoke as levelly as she could into the phone.

"Hi. It's Kitty. I know it's late but I thought maybe I'd catch you… stupid timezones." She exhaled sharply, trying for a laugh and failing, "either way, I hope you'll be able to make it on the 27th. I had them set aside two tickets for you guys at the door. Let me know, okay?"

Her head began to ache as she ended the call, realizing she was standing over the table beside the door, breathing hard. She reached into the bag, looking for her pills and finding nothing. Gone? No, they had to be there. She upended the bag, finding nothing but two changes of clothes, two unopened packs of cigarettes and her makeup kit. Her pills were gone. She felt the metallic tang of panic in the back of her throat.

Her back hit the wall as she slid down it, pressing her fingers into her temples. Her teeth clacked with the impact against the floor and a harsh dragged-in breath tore at her throat, bringing with it the smell of fear-sweat. Her own stink.

No.

Not like this.

She could feel the panic squeezing her chest as her heart raced.

Gone. The word echoed in her head. Mikhail is gone.

Another failure. She couldn't remember the events that had led to that level of certainty, but the pain ached in the space where her heart might have been. Pain screamed through her head and she rocked forward, head in her hands, fingers pushing against her skin as though to shove her brains back through her skull.



current mood:
current song: "Devour" by Shinedown

You don't know me, so try and keep up: this is your most important lesson. I don't sugar-coat. I don't pander. I won't ever lie to you – none of these are because I care. It's simpler than that and has far more to do with the men who trained me than it does about a love for the purity of this industry that employs us.

I've been around the block a few times. I'm sure you can find evidence of that all on your own.

See, this is a dream come true, boys. It's a little like falling overboard and making it to shore only to find you washed up in paradise. A title opportunity when I'm only three matches in with the company? Yes, please!

I can't wait to hear the mutterings around the internet about how I managed to pull that off. I can assure you that my request had nothing to do with being on my knees and everything to do with the resume and pedigree that I carry with me. Is that pretentious? Perhaps. But I feel the need to put that out there from the onset so we're 100% clear. I want to keep a safe distance from the haters who get off on belittling women in this business – don't make light of my ambitions.

I want to make it into another Hall of Fame in a company that matters, one with a longstanding history of greatness. I want to win this match, go on to win that Paradigm Championship. I'm sure I'm not alone in that regard.

I know I've got the uphill climb here, clearly at a disadvantage against three brawny, burly, <i>dangerous</i> men. Uh huh. Noah Hanson is scary, unhinged. Dangerous Dan is a hardass psycho. Mike Harrison is going to tear me apart, break all my bones, one by one and make a stew from my remains. The three of you will likely conspire to rip out my heart and eat it while I'm still alive. I've seen Indiana Jones. I know what happens when the testosterone starts to fly.

I live for these moments. Ask around. I beat Aiden Morrow once. I beat Jackson Ford before he changed his name to Alexander Rizzo and then disappeared off the face of the earth. I beat Chris Mosh.

I know those really aren't much of a claim to fame.

It's fine. It's a new year and new history is waiting to be written.

I've overcome pain, I've overcome fear. I've overcome death and come back on the other side just to prove I can – maybe someday I'll tell you the whole story.

In the meantime, I have this wonderful opportunity. Congratulations, boys. You're officially on my radar. Believe me… that is NOT a place you want to be for any length of time.

Ask anyone, they'll tell you, without any sort of hesitation, that Kitty Petrova is a bitch with an ego the size of Texas. They usually take it one further and tell you how I love to keep everyone down, at the expense of their careers, advancement, and everything else, just to pander to my ego. They say that I love nothing more than the numbers piling up in the win column on my stat sheet. I can't deny it. I do so love a good streak. There's nothing more satisfying than the looks you get from your so-called peers when their name appears next to yours on the next booking sheet. That 'oh shit' they mouth to themselves when that streak is running hot – it's glorious!

They push. They prod. They lash out at me. I know why they do it; I don't care.

They see a victim. A good outlet. Weakness. Age. Frailty. Whatever it is, they think they're safe because I have breasts and a vagina. They think it's all hype.

Call me some iconoclast cunt, like I think I'm so much better than you. It'll be the first time you managed to peg me. I am. I do believe that with all my heart. I know it and soon OCW and Mike Zybala will too.

My opponents are trash, the worst kind of interlopers. They make my hands ache. They make my eyes burn. They make my teeth grind and the bitter bile rise in the back of my throat. They force me to hate them for their small minds and their petty thoughts and when I think of them in pain, I smile. Anticipation is wonderful and I can't wait to destroy their dreams. That's what I do best, after all.

I'm going to rip you to shreds, boys. You're like the rest of them who have vanished in my wake, forgotten. I don't know if you've heard, but I'm sort of a big deal in this industry. Sarcasm doesn't translate well in this medium. On this page, writing to you, this is the only place I get to be real. Out there, everyone is selling so hard, trying to convince you they're worth it. Trying to get away from what they are, hiding behind lies and smoke and mirrors.

I never have. I never will.

Reality is terminal, a sort of brain cancer, if you will.

The truth is the best weapon, always sharp and it reduces us to nothing more than the lie-filled meatbags we are. Humanity isn't something to celebrate. Lies are what separate us from the animals.

Weak and dependent, you feed off your own inflated self image, don't you? Noah Hanson, the veteran. "Dangerous" Dan, the enigma. Mike Harrison, the man who could be great if he could just apply himself a little more – he could, he can… by golly, he will!

Not tonight.

Not on my watch.

Go back to California, Noah. Go be the big fish in your stagnant little pond. Leave the heavy lifting to someone with the muscles to pull it off.

You can be beaten; I will prove it or die trying.