004: Muddy Waters

When the Uber pulled up to the curb, Hannah breathed a sigh of relief, feeling the anxious pressure in her chest start to abate. Lex sat in the middle of the blackened slab of concrete that used to serve as a driveway, looking out over the overgrown lawn where his childhood home used to sit. She stepped out into the humid air, the buzz of cicadas taking her back to childhood. By the time she reached his side, the car had pulled away, and her head was swimming with bittersweet memories.

Now that she was closer, she could see that he wasn't focused on the weed-choked lawn at all. No – he was staring at his hands.

"I got your note."

He said nothing, letting her voice wash over him like a cool breeze.

"I waited six hours and then when you weren't back, I started to worry," she was trying to apologize for the intrusion because she felt as though she'd just blundered into something private.

"I'm alright." The words came out like they always had, brought to his lips by this place as if he was pulling that part of himself back from the ashes that had turned the lot into a jungle. Every time he'd crawled through her bedroom window or she'd found him in the tree house, bloodied and battered, he'd told her the same thing. It was all subjective, always. Quantifiable by ticking the boxes. He could breathe. He could move. The blood had crusted up, stopped flowing – he'd live to see another day because that was his purpose. Absorb the hate and the violence and Clay's spiteful sickness like a good little sponge.

Hannah sat down next to him, realizing that the tree across the street was blocking out the worst of the sun. "How'd you end up here?"

"Feet went where they wanted – where they needed to go." His voice was hoarse when he replied, his gaze still locked on his upturned palms and thick fingers. "Body knows better: I need to work it out. Solve the puzzle, y'know? Find the flaw an' excise it. I've been thinkin' a whole lot since Angola."

She rested her head against his shoulder. He smelled like fresh air and salt, like the ocean, and she closed her eyes, finding comfort in that familiarity. After all this time, she understood his restlessness and the sleepless nights. She understood him disappearing from the public eye and knew what that withdrawal meant. "Maybe I can help?" Her voice was soft, her fingers gentle as she took his hand in hers, caressing his calloused palm with her thumb.

"What makes 'em go bad? I mean, what makes a man stop fighting for survival an' start striking out for power or spite instead? There's gotta be...a trigger. A breakin' point or somethin' – nature or nurture, there's gotta be a flaw like the veins in rock they usedta follow when mining for gold. I gotta," his voice broke in desperation, but he didn't look up. "I gotta find it." As if he could feel the questions bubbling up before she could even think of uttering them aloud, he chuckled bitterly, shaking his head. "Doin' it again, aren't I? Shit… here." He took his hand from her grasp and pulled the skull ring off his finger, handing it to her.

"Decoder," he murmured, closing her fingers around it. She felt it against her skin, strangely cool even though his hands were so impossibly warm. "It's been in the back of my head for a while now, like an itch I can't scratch. I wanna… I wanna hurt people, Han. The ones who hurt me, who poke an' prod an' run their goddamn stupid mouths when they don't know shit. I wanna bash their faces in. I wanna hear their bones break an' I gotta find… I gotta…" he was talking faster, almost breathless as he finally met her gaze. His eyes were dark, wild and sad as they made contact only to skitter away again.

Familiar pangs were felt in her chest and it had been awhile since those were present. She remembered the night of the fire; Clay had lured Lex back here into a trap, hoping to kill them both. Shaking it off with a shiver, she slipped his ring onto her thumb even though it was still too big and rested her hands over her stomach. "Whatever you need to do, Lex… I'm here."

"Maybe you shouldn't be." He didn't realize that he'd said the words aloud until he heard her gasp, felt her stiffen and pull away slightly.

"No." There was defiance in her tone. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise me," it sounded like a plea, as if he needed to hear the words but he didn't clarify, didn't elaborate on what he wanted her to say. The words caught in his throat. All he could smell was scorched earth, probably imagined, especially since the rubble had all been cleared away.

Without a moment's hesitation, Hannah crawled on her knees in front of him, forcing him to look at her even though she knew he didn't want to. "All these years… it's always been you." Her arms went around his neck as she hesitated, biting her lip as she searched his expression, trying to find the right words to get through to him. "My best friend. My confidant. My first love and the father of the most precious little girl in the world… you're all that matters, Lex. All of me loves all of you – I've loved you for a thousand years. I'll love you for a thousand more-" she saw his lips twitch towards a wan smile at the lyrics. "I'm yours, which means I'm not going anywhere. Ever."

He was stiff in her embrace, as if he'd been sitting there so long he'd started to turn to stone – better than a pillar of salt for being so foolish as to look back at the ruins he'd been forced to leave behind seventeen years ago. "No." That rough whisper ruffled her hair, his frustration barely contained when he realized he was still speaking in tongues, the disconnect never more apparent to him than right now. "Han, that's not – promise me this: if you see it, if I ever start to…" his voice broke and he swallowed hard past the lump and the sickness of certainty that came with it. "Put a bullet between my eyes. Don't hesitate. Don't let me hurt you…"



"I provoked you, didn't I?"

Lex Collins sits with a bloody towel in his lap. His chest is covered in drops and streaks of blood that's starting to dry brown. There's a gash on his forehead, just above his right eyebrow that's still oozing, mixing with the sweat to trickle down his cheek. He's still in his ring gear, his hands still taped up from the match. Slowly, methodically, he starts to unravel the tape from his right hand, flexing his fingers with every pass. He's being careful with his enunciation, making sure every word comes out clear.

"King Shit of Turd Island resorts to the same bullshit tactics – my blood's all over the belt again. Possession's nine-tenths of the law, right? Oh, we're gettin' there, chief. I caught you in the middle of that fuckin' ring. Not a damn thing on the line except pride and while you were so busy playing Thor at Ragnarok, tossing down lightning bolts, I was doing what the damage sponge does best. I sucked it up. I squeezed that little ember of hate deep down inside and I let it burn just a little. Enough to put you down."

A crooked smirk lifts one corner of his lips as he shakes his head.

"What happened next? The question's rhetorical – I'm the fool for expecting something different, really. In a perfect world, in the goddamned movies, you'd have stayed down. Learned a lesson with me an' Andi sharing a look or a smile or a cheesy-as-fuck high-five as the crowd blew the roof off the place. Instead ol' Dag pops up like a demonic jack-in-the-box and lays everybody out with the title belt again. So hey, my ringin' ears say 'thanks'. Again."

He chuckles softly.

"Prob'ly wasn't wholly clear when I said I was keeping a tally. Add another mark on the wall." He lifts his hand to touch the weeping wound on his forehead for emphasis before wiping the blood from his fingertips onto the towel.

"All the transgressions, marking 'em down in here." He rests his clenched fist against his chest over his heart, the cadence of his words growing a little quicker, the accent creeping through just a little. "My memory's muddy these days. I forget which river I'm in – not that it's a big deal. I can swim without thought. I keep the things'at matter deep down in the core. Everything you touch, you taint. Everything I do, every action an' goddamned REACTION leaves a mark on my soul an' I know you're gonna spin some long-winded-as-fuck eulogy for me, like steppin' to you on a grander stage, with all the marbles on the line means I'm about to be martyred. I won't be. I've looked into your eyes, Dag. I traded blows with you. We did the dance. The circles connected an' I fuckin' know who you are now. Behind the curtain where the wholly mortal wizard is pushin' buttons for the smoke an' fire an' brimstone show – you're a fraud."

He bites his lip, shaking his head again.

"See, now I'm tiptoein' through the fields of hypocrisy. I used to be a dreamer – really. Usedta have all these great notions about the world based solely off the books I read as a kid. Escapism, y'know? No matter how bad it got, it always got fixed in the end, like no fuckin' writer ever had the balls to go for broke, to have it start out shitty an' remain on that same level at the end. But, hey, I mean it all works out if you just believe. Look deep in your heart, find that one happy thought so the grown-up Peter Pan can fly again, save the day like the hero's supposed to do. I never aspired to be the one in the spotlight, up there drawin' fanfare an' crosshairs alike. I just wanted to turn it around, use my schoolin' for something – why the fuck not? What the fuck was I thinkin'? I can stand it for a while, and then I gotta disconnect an' disappear. It eats at me too much. Takes too much out of me, doesn't give enough back. But the ring an' me, we're caught in this sick relationship an' I can't ever get too far; I can't ever leave. I need the abuse. I need someone to tear me down, to rough me up. Right now, my head hurts. My hands…"

He flexes his unwrapped and obviously swollen fingers, "they're numb, wrists on fire an' all I wanna do is get back out there again. I wanna hit you, Dag. I wanna give you the medicine you fuckin' well deserve an' I hate myself so much right now I wanna puke an' I know this is all gonna sail right over your head. Narcissism's fatal – there's no cure. Long after you've taken your ball an' gone home, found something else to occupy your time, I'll still be workin' my ass off. I'll still be throwin' bricks an' taking out the trash 'cause this is my story. This is where I'm from an' every chapter is a variation on the same goddamn theme: fight. Survive. Get back up. Don't die. Don't make a sound. Just bleed… let the sickness they transferred to you be purged that way. Just breathe."

His voice shakes but he doesn't break eye contact.

His eyes are dead black and that blood drying on his face looks more like warpaint than evidence. His voice is softer now, calmer when he says, "I know exactly who you are..."




It was after midnight when the boy was dragged from bed, groggy and confused even as the first slap across the face brought that familiar metallic taste flooding his mouth with bloody saliva. He held his breath, counting to ten, to twenty-five before the harsh rasp of whiskey breath assaulted his ears and nose in turn, bringing alertness more quickly than smelling salts could have. Another slap brought the clouds back and he registered the uneven floorboards of the hall under his bare feet with no knowledge of leaving his room.

Everything smelled metallic now. Blood trickled from his nose, dripping on the floor when it rose up to catch him. More dripped down the back of his throat, making him gag as his eyes slammed closed against the impact with unforgiving wood seconds before a steel-toed boot smashed into his ribcage. He cried out, unable to catch himself in time and the lightning that flashed in sync with the rumble that shook the house turned the black specks buzzing through his vision to white. He knew he should've stayed away, but he didn't have anywhere to sleep. It had been too cold. Raining sideways – the tree house would've been too exposed, and he couldn't spend the night at Hannah's when her father was home. He heard a whistle, realized it was coming from him as he struggled to breathe.

Rough hands seized his shoulders, pulling him upright. With a startled cry, his eyes snapped open and he crashed against the wall just as the lights went out. Lightning flashed again, and he wished it would come down upon them, end this vicious cycle once and for all. His lungs filled, and he broke the silence first, one word slipping past his lips, nearly drowned out by another clap of thunder. "Please."

He didn't usually say anything but there was a dance at school and he'd promised he'd take Hannah – the kind that needed him to dress up and look like a presentable human being.

Fingers like talons dug into his cheeks, smashing the back of his head against the wall. "Please... what?" Clay's spittle hit him like the sleet flung against the glass beside his head, as if the storm was finding its way inside them both. "Lemme hear it, boy. Sp-sp-spit it out." His laughter was harsh, the faux-stammer meant to mock.

"Don't," his tongue felt thick against the roof of his mouth, like it was three sizes too big. He couldn't see straight, Clay's leering face kept doubling and tripling, moon-white in the flash from outside the window, reduced to nothing as the red-black specks took over. "Fffff..." the word didn't form, became nothing but a hiss of air he couldn't afford to lose. Lungs burning now, white-hot agony in his sides – the pain was the only thing left as rebellion faded. Provoking the monster would ensure that it hurt more but it would be quicker. He wanted it to end. For Hannah's sake, for the promise made, it had to.

He never saw the next one coming as those hands fisted in his shirt. Airborne, he felt the crunch as something drove deep into his ribs and then there was a crash of glass breaking before—

"9-1-1, what's your emergency?"

"Please come quickly," the girl spoke in a hushed whisper, "there's glass and blood everywhere. I think his dad's gonna kill him..."



There's a hiss of static and the image stays dark before a familiar soft-spoken voice comes through the speakers.

"Must've watched those last couple matches a thousand times. I know it all forward an' back. I know the moment I fucked up an' let Andi steal away a win that was all but guaranteed on paper. I've lost sleep over it. I've let it get under my skin an' I let it eat away. You both think you know me, think you understand what's goin' on in my brain but it's not just an obsession to persevere at all costs. There's this part of me, this fucked up wrinkle in my head like a scab on my brain. I can feel it there in the back of my mind, this pressure, y'know? It never really goes away an' I guess that's 'cause I'm always picking at it. The itch, that little annoyance gets worse. I know soon I'll be out there doin' something stupid or drastic but self-destructive urges were what got me into this business. I have no desire to change who I am, an' I don't really feel remorse for that. You don't know shit about my motivations. It wasn't to marginalize you, Andi. It wasn't to play misogynistic games – I've wrestled women for most of my career. I don't give a shit about your gender identity any more than I do your sexual orientation."

There's a creak followed by a sigh, as though he's getting more comfortable in the chair he's sitting on.

"People've wanted to end me, to erase an' eradicate me for years – this isn't new or original, Dag. But, hell, that goes without sayin' where you're concerned. Not a goddamned thing out of your mouth or from your playbook is. For all the posturing, you could be a villain in a bad action movie. Stand there an' regale us all with your prophecy for damnation of the company, the species, the universe as a whole – the world waits with bated breath to see the hero rise at the last moment an' destroy you. You earned it, man. Maybe that's what you want. Maybe you're just as fucked up, as suicidal as I used to be – if that's the case, I'm sorry for what's about to come 'cause I got no designs on bein' the next Kevorkian. I don't wanna lie to you, to withdraw back behind this safe little wall of lies an' lick my wounds. No. I wanna rub your nose in the mess – bad dog. I wanna watch the scar tissue form. I wanna look in the mirror an' see that new blemish on my face an' know that you tried to bring me down. Tried bein' the operative word here. You hit me, sure. You didn't break me. You drew blood, sure. You didn't kill me. But, hey. You tried your best, right? When I look at you, I don't see a guy capable of gettin' the job done. I don't see a killer. I don't see a warrior. I don't see a CHAMPION."

He clears his throat softly.

"I keep a picture in my pocket when I wrestle. It's faded an' yellowed with sweat, the lamination all cracked with age. I don't think she even knows I still have it but it's in my hand right now – you don't need to see it. Just picture this, okay?"

He pauses for a moment.

"There's a kid with dark eyes. Dark spiky hair. Piercing in his lip, padlock on a chain around his neck an' this beat up jacket covered in studs 'cause he wants the world to think he's a rebel. He's got his arms wrapped 'round this pretty girl with a smile like the sun. He's the cloud cover behind her – ominous. He's there but he's not 'cause there's nothing looking out at you from his eyes. The lines are skewed, so jagged an' he couldn't bring himself to smile in any of the four shots while she's muggin' for the camera, doin' her best to be silly an' carefree to make him laugh. There's a bruise on his neck – you can see finger marks if you look closely. His nose is already crooked at sixteen. They could be cosplayin' young Sid an' Nancy but she looks so damned normal next to him – so fuckin' happy just to have his arms around her for those few seconds, captured in time an' immortalized."

He sniffs disdainfully.

"The night before was bad. We went to the mall 'cause she wanted to cheer me up. Everything hurt but I wanted to pretend I was normal – Pinocchio just wanted to be a real boy, didn't he? It doesn't matter now. The sharp edges've dulled with time. She smiled. She laughed. I held on an' I just prayed that one day I could breathe without pain. Hoped I could just do what I wanted to do without second-guessing', without havin' to be so fuckin' vigilant. See, those who forget history're destined to repeat it. I forget nothin' – keep that tally in my soul, remember? I learn. I pick myself up when I'm broken, gather as many pieces as I can find an' I go on as best I can. I keep movin', keep pullin' air into my lungs, waitin' for the moment it stops hurtin' so I can live again. I know the steps to this dance. I lived seventeen years on the back foot, waitin' for the next blow to come an' I can read all your tells a mile off, you goddamned coward."

There's a longer pause this time, almost too long and then when it seems like the recording might end, Lex's voice comes again.

"Those moments of peace where I can smile, where I can hold my girls an' feel like a human being instead of some broken, useless, unwanted fuckin' THING… those're what I live for. See, in their eyes, I already got you beat. I'm already CHAMPION. You can say all the shit you want, you can try every dirty trick in the book – you can't take that from me. Neither of you can."



He felt brittle, close to breaking as the Zeppelin lyrics kept circling in his head. He needed to sleep. It had been two days and he was starting to feel disconnected, as if he was watching some drama playing out on screen that didn't involve him directly. He could change the channel, turn it off and walk away – go make a sandwich.

"Never comin' back here again," he murmured, feeling Hannah's hair tickling his arm as the wind shifted directions.

There was a storm brewing out over the water and he couldn't stop thinking about rain and levees breaking. When he pulled out the old black shoelace, she looked confused until he let it dangle from his hand, showing her the worn brass key on the end.

"Is that…" she trailed off, remembering how he'd always had that around his neck as a teenager, always there under whatever punk tee he had on – the key to the house that had burned to the ground.

"Yeah." Their beach was smaller than he remembered, just a scrubby little strip of sand that ended abruptly at the water's edge. Sticks and trash littered the high tide line, drawing noisy gulls as the sun crept over the horizon. His fingers found hers, holding them tightly as another day dawned. "Remember that fourth of July, we bailed on that barbecue an' came down here?"  

"You told me we were gonna get out of here," Hannah smiled, resting her head against his shoulder. "Said we'd go all those places you had postcards for. See the world. Have adventures."

"I made good on that promise. Eventually." His voice came out softer as he felt the weight of the key pulling on the end of that tattered old string. "Seems smaller than it used to, don't it? Felt like it went on forever, but I can see the end now." He wasn't just talking about the beach.

"It's still beautiful," she said, at the same time he muttered something else entirely.

"It's beyond salvage."

She turned to look at him, wishing she could tap into his mind and shine a light in the dark corners that plagued him so much. The beautiful daybreak was forgotten when she saw his expression, saw the dark circles under his sad, sad eyes. "Then let it go, baby."

He nodded, pulling away from her side. Slowly, he walked towards the water, wrapping the shoelace tightly around the key, keeping his eyes on the horizon. In a week's time, he'd be in Nigeria, taking on a sociopath NeoNordicist, whatever that was supposed to be. At least it wasn't a damned dark match in a half-empty arena. He was supposed to have wrestled that garbage last night but it had been cancelled, the company's social media account going dark before disappearing altogether. Ironically, he'd been planning to hand them his notice – he was sick of the small ponds. He'd earned his stripes a thousand times over in these dives, the fact that Riot Star had signed him after the WWHQ bullshit was proof positive of that.

He stopped shy of the waves, waved off the squawking gulls as they took wing, angling out over the water again. Pulling his arm back, he threw the key as hard as he could. He lost sight of it in the sun and turned back towards Hannah without waiting for the splash. "C'mon," he held his hand out to her, leading her back to where they'd left the rental car. "This place's sinking an' I don't wanna swim."