Faint [PWX: 05/30/2014]
May 12, 2019 21:55:29 GMT -5
Post by Admin on May 12, 2019 21:55:29 GMT -5
February 4, 2014 || Reno (off camera)
The music was so loud that every drum kick made his ears throb— it needed to be like this so that he could blot out all thoughts. Everything kept circling back, over and over to the point where he was too nauseated to even keep anything down. He'd been guzzling water all day, hiding down here with the weights and the terrible playlist on repeat. Disturbed gave way to Mushroomhead as he closed his eyes, remembering Spiral and Matt Ford. At one time he'd believed both could have been his eventual demise. Ironically, he'd survived both and come out swinging. Spiral hadn't been able to beat him in Unleashed. He'd been a defanged monster in the PCW relaunch, raving incoherently before falling on his face, ultimately vanishing back into the abyss. Sure, Matt Ford had sidelined him for a month with a cracked collarbone but he'd still been World Champ in MWA. The revolving door of alphabet soup accolades had always been there to embrace him until now.
MWA had closed its doors seconds after he'd been humiliated in the ring. He'd lost the belt and he hadn't even been pinned. Prince Kamijo had draped himself over the dead weight of Lito Kruz and it was all over. But he still had Sin City and he held that so close as he pulled back all the stakes in other companies. He still had the feather in his cap as the man who'd taken the Global Title from Drake Mosa, that cowardly TFWF so-called legend.
And now, he'd been thrown this defense out of the blue against Lucy Jones. He had no idea who that even was and it was so friable, so fucking fragile that the scar on his shoulder ached— reminders of High Octane and being impaled by the goddamned American flag. It was all circling back and he had no choice but to rage, rage, rage against the dying of the light. He could smell garbage even though the room was clean. If he turned down the music he knew he'd hear the rats scuttling. He'd never told Lyv about them— the only secret he had was that. A lie of omission wasn't really a lie if it was for her own good— for the sake of the way she saw him. The last thing he wanted was for her to know how bad it had really been before she came into his life. So he'd glossed over it. Sure, he'd told her about the solitary confinement cell. He'd told her how that time locked away alone had poisoned what he felt for Ryann because it had given him too much time to analyze all the flaws.
It's fucking déjà vu all over again.
Hands slid in the sweat but he gritted his teeth and forced the bar towards the ceiling, feeling the burn as his arms shook. Sweat pooled beneath his back, dripping over the sides of the bench.
One more rep. Do it, you pussy!
He could taste blood from the split in his chapped lips. It reminded him of something else as the bar crashed back down. Labored breaths rattled in and out of his lungs as he lay there in a puddle of his own sweat, trying like hell to shut off his brain. Feeling his stomach lurch, he swallowed hard as he put a hand over his eyes. The overhead light was burning, but he couldn't take the dark. It was too close— too fucking real.
"Fuck," he mumbled, sitting up slowly and scooting forward on the bench. He groaned, the sound dissolving into retching as he dry heaved. Bile burned his throat, but at least it was something to feel besides the tightening in his chest and the ache in his knees. He waited for it to pass and then reached for the syringe on the table. The stress built as he brought his foot up on the edge of the bench, spreading his toes before stabbing the tip in between the big and second— that moment of release as he felt the cocktail mixing with his bloodstream was so good. Just one more dance and he'd be home free until the next required defense. He'd let it ride— Sabra would let him keep taking the easy road until he surpassed that record of one week shy of a year with the CWF All-American Dumpster Fire title. Letting out a sigh, his eyes drifted to the trophy case on the wall. He kept that gold-spray painted hunk of plastic around just to remind himself that it could ALWAYS be worse.
His ears were ringing.
Loudly.
He was high as a kite, not as bad as he'd ever been and maybe he just believed that out of some fucked up little glimmer of hope; but the fact remained that he was completely strung out. Had he taken a second dose or was that the first?
"Lyv," he tried to call her name but it came out as a croak. He shifted himself, bracing palms against the wall as he staggered up, swaying between this and that, rebounding from bench to rack to basin, and propelling himself as a function of momentum. His heart was hammering and then everything went...
November 16, 2010 || Cameron (off camera)
Numb— Ryann Hardy felt numb, inside and out. She'd spent the entire day on the phone, making funeral arrangements and dealing with the never-ending phone calls from friends and family wanting to pay their respects. The entire day had passed but the one person who'd said they would call still hadn't. She didn't think he was going to either— once again his promise had been nothing more than lip service to get her to stop being mad. She was too emotionally drained to care after spending the night and most of the day in tears.
The TV was the only company that she really wanted, and even then it was only because it provided enough distraction that she didn't have to focus on the fact that she was six months pregnant and alone. When the phone rang, it scared her out of her daze and made her jump. Swallowing, she didn't bother to look before she answered it, figuring it was just another well-wisher.
Instead it was him, the last person she'd expected to actually keep his word. "I'm sorry I couldn't call sooner." He said in a hoarse voice, as if he had been chain-smoking, or screaming. With him, it could have been both. "There was a layover in Seattle for two hours. Engine trouble. Was going to call you then but I didn't know if you'd be up."
"Can't sleep much," the words spilled out before she had a chance to think about them, still shocked at the fact that he'd actually taken the time to call her. "Where are you?"
She heard the creak of springs, and could only assume that he was in a hotel room somewhere. A long pause followed as she heard the sound of him breathing, and knew that he'd just lit a cigarette. "In a hotel." He replied softly, without any trace of sarcasm in his voice. "In Dallas, well... Plano, actually. There's a place that still gives me a good rate from my days in WCWF."
"Oh..." she sighed, "why did you call?"
The hope that he was feeling died a horrible death, replaced with that usual dread. He tried like hell not to get defensive, but the words came out sounding petulant. "I miss you, Ry."
"Right. You miss me. That's why we haven't seen each other since July."
"Yeah," it was his turn to sigh, "you mean the day you came to the club... told me that you wanted to work it out and then told me how I'm not the guy you thought I was and that you needed to 'find yoursef' again without me? Because you fed me that same bullshit line in Japan when you were fucking Chapman, you know."
"Is that why you called?" Her voice was cold, "to remind me how everything always revolves around you?"
"I'm not..." he clamped his lips shut, letting out a soft grunt as he tried to keep himself from ripping a strip off of her. "I'm sorry about your dad."
"Bullshit."
He closed his eyes, counting to twenty before letting out a soft sigh.
"If you cared, you'd be here. Where are you, Brad? You're wherever in the hell you want to be... like always. Not where I need you to be. You're so—"
"And what about what I need, Ry? I checked myself into rehab." He cut her off, letting the annoyance creep into his voice. "I didn't tell you because—"
She laughed. The bitch actually laughed at him, the sound heavy with sarcasm. "That's great, Brad. That's really fuckin' priceless! So while I'm putting my dad in the ground, you can't be bothered to show up because you're... what? Getting a pedicure before—"
"Yeah. That's what I was doin' earlier, you fucking bitch," the words came out before he could stop them. "Goddamnit, Ry... don't hang up. I didn't mean that. I just..."
"We can't do this. I can't—"
"For fuck's sake... I'm tryin', okay? I don't know what you want—"
"I want you here. I thought that was obvious. Apparently not."
"I'm here for thirty days... well... twenty-seven now." He sighed, that sound drowned out by the springs creaking again.
"Well that's convenient. Why now, Brad? What's wrong with you, huh? Did you lose your precious smile?"
"I'm an addict, Ry. You know that. There's something fundamentally broken in me and it needs to be fixed—"
"Does it? Is that some cute way of saying it's my fault? Sorry I didn't love you enough when it really mattered, Bradley... sorry I wouldn't let you control me like a good little doormat any more—"
"Don't." He muttered the word, not wanting to get into yet another fight with her.
"So this is why you didn't want me to party with Mark? This is why you were so dead-set against me trying Special K or going to Disneyland on acid? You're gonna go all straight-edge on me now?"
"I called because I care," he chuckled bitterly, "don't fucking ask me why, but I do. I know you're hurting right now, and damned if I don't feel gutted—"
"No," she cut him off, "you didn't even know him, Brad. You barely took the time to meet him and I had to force that on you like my family was some sort of embarrassment to you or something."
"Ry... I lost my dad too. I know what you're feeling," he broke off, clearing his throat. "Your dad was a good man. Fuck...." he muttered under his breath, masking the fact that his voice caught. "I'm sorry, babe. I wish I could fix it." He fell silent again, but she could still hear the steady rhythms of his breathing.
Biting her lip, she shrugged once and tried to be realistic, "he's not hurting anymore and he's with mom. It's all he ever wanted." Closing her eyes for a moment, she told him, "he wouldn't have left if he didn't think we could take care of ourselves."
"Least he didn't die alone." Jackson's voice was quiet, stripped of the usual bass. "That's all I want when I go. Someone to hold my hand, and tell me it's gonna be okay. I'm sure you did that for him..." he fell silent, and then she heard him sniff loudly over the airwaves. "If I was there right now, would you let me hold you?"
"I don't know," she was honest, there was no point in lying to him, "I just couldn't tell you." She sighed softly and rubbed her hand over her eyes, "I'm not sure I want to see you right now."
"That wasn't a no," his voice faltered again, and then he said something that she didn't expect. "Pretend I'm there and my arms are around you. Pretend I didn't let you down a million times too many because I'm..." she heard a sizzle, as if he'd just put out his cigarette in something liquid, "I'm here for you, Ryann. I know you hate me but you can still use me for that. I don't mind. Just feels nice to pretend, doesn't it? Feel my arms around you and know that I can't hurt you from here."
She bit down hard on her bottom lip, trying to stop tears and failing, "that isn't helping. Pretending just makes me realize how alone I am." Sniffling she gazed at a picture sitting on the mantle, a Christmas picture of them, and her brothers and her dad. It stabbed her like a knife in the chest and she muttered through tears, "I can't pretend anymore."
"I'm sorry, baby." The funny thing was he actually sounded sincere, "I don't want to hurt you. I didn't mean the things I typed to you on Twitter. I..." his voice cracked again, and his next words were slightly muffled, "just don't want to feel this pain. I don't want to pretend... can't fake it anymore. I want to..." he dragged in a ragged breath, "I need to be here... there... where-the-fuck-ever you are... and I can't and I just can't deal with it, alright?"
She closed her eyes, dragging in a deep breath. "I can't do this right now," her voice was blurred by tears. "I can't have this conversation with you. This is a pattern for you— not being here when I need you most."
"Hey, that's a little unfair. Not like I could—"
"It doesn't matter."
"The hell it doesn't!"
She continued as though he hadn't spoken. "You not being where I needed you, you shutting down when I needed you most, just proved to me how unprepared for fatherhood you really are. You didn't give a shit about anything but that fucking belt when Sere—"
"Don't you fuckin' bring that up. That's unfair and you—"
"You're a child, Bradley. Everything matters more than me. You collect notches on your bedpost as though sticking your dick in everything that moves means you're a man. You collect belts in that trophy case to prove to yourself that you're not a failure. Everything is so much more important than your 'family'; a term I use loosely. Tells me a lot about you, Brad." She shook in anger, her hands clawing at the sheets. She wished she could slap him. "You're a selfish, hateful person, Bradley Thomas Jackson and I honestly wish I'd never met you."
"I..." he paused for a few seconds, trying not to let the anger spill out. She was hurting and she was just lashing out— it was just hormones and grief. "Ry, I'm so sorry."
"All the apologies in the world won't fix this. So damned sick of hearing 'sorry' and 'we know how you feel'. It just makes me want to shut out everyone." She knew she wasn't making any sense, "is it possible to not want to be alone, but not want anyone around you either?"
"Yeah it is." He cleared his throat, "I feel like that most of the time. People grate on my nerves, an' the sympathy trip just irks me. Makes me want to hit them. You don't fuckin' know how I feel because they're my goddamn feelings..." his voice grew vehement, and then he paused, chuckling softly. "Sorry... got a little carried away." He was quiet for a few seconds, and she could probably have pictured what he was doing— either chewing on the inside of his cheek, or staring off into space. Maybe a little of both. "I guess, what I'm trying to do is make it up to you. I've been a shithead, and... you don't deserve that. Not now... not when you've got to bur-" he stopped abruptly, as if he realized those were the wrong words to say.
She knew what he was going to say, but she tried to ignore it, "I don't deserve a lot of things that you've put me through, and I tried... SO hard to let it go." She sighed hard and continued, "I love you, but we both know you'll never change, so it's just better if I don't hold onto the delusions."
"Why do I need to change?"
"Because you're not the same man I fell in love with. That man wasn't vindictive... he wasn't violent—"
"I was half-broken," he shook his head, realizing that his explanations would mean nothing to her. "I tried." He said the words so quietly he didn't know if she'd heard them at all, "I tried to be somethin' better an' I failed at the one thing that mattered the most— I lied... I cheated... I... shit, Ry. I really did try. I know you don't think I did... but..." he couldn't really explain what he was feeling because he didn't have the words. "You told Baker and his girlfriend that I beat you. The whole goddamn locker room's talking about it because of what you told those two fucks when you were dropping off the divorce papers in my locker room. I would never..."
"You did." Her voice shook, "you slapped me at Andy's gym. You split my lip. You threw me into the wall in Chicago and bruised my ribs."
"You cheated on me," he threw the accusation back, "with Wade... with Chapman... with Zach."
"And you tried to rape Starlett Sweets."
"What? I don't even... what?"
"Cut the shit, Brad; I can't be around you now. I don't trust you... hell I don't even know you."
"Don't say that." This time there was no mistaking it, he was crying. She could hear the irregular breathing, and the wounded sob that he tried to swallow. "There will always be a place for you in my life... an' I just hope that there'll be one for me... in... in yours. I'll come to the funeral, if you want me there. I'll sign out right now... I'll be your rock if that's what you want, Ry. You just say the word—"
"I don't know what I want right now, Jax." It was the first time in months that she'd referred to him by his nickname. A step back in the right direction even though he knew she was only doing it because she wanted him to do her bidding yet again, "I need more time."
He was silent for what seemed like much too long before he exhaled slowly. "Alright... least you're being honest." There was a click on his end and then he was dragging in a deep breath before exhaling slowly— he'd lit another cigarette. "Ry, I'm sorry... for... everything... for loving you." He said the words softly, knowing full well that she heard them by the change in her breathing.
She bit her lip hard, shaking her head as she said, if nothing more than to simply hurt him, "yeah and I'm sorry I wasted so much of my life pining over a damned fantasy."
Before she could hang up, he said one last thing. "I don't blame you for hating me. I never did." And then there was a hollow click, and the sound of the dial tone in her ear.
February 4, 2014 || Reno (off camera)
The sun was creeping over the horizon when Lyv woke up. Stretching out her arms, she turned over to snuggle closer to Jax, but was confused when she didn't find him in bed with her. Seeing that his side looked undisturbed, Lyv started to worry.
Pulling the covers back and stepping into her slippers on the floor beside the bed, Lyv shuffled out of their bedroom to go find her husband. First, she stopped in their son's nursery to check on him. Christian was lying in his crib, sound asleep. Leaving the nursery, she paused and listened for any indication where Jax might be in the house. The entire place was as silent as a tomb. He must've still been training in the basement. Frowning, she quickly went into the kitchen to get him a fresh bottle of water.
With the cold bottle in hand, Lyv went to the basement stairs and started walking down. The closer she got, the louder Jax's workout music became. As she got closer to the bottom, she saw something on the floor that made her freeze out of fear. Jax was lying on the floor motionless— the color had drained out of his face and he didn't look like he was breathing. Throwing her hand over her mouth and dropping the bottle of water, Lyv ran the rest of the way to his side, skipping a few steps along the way. Dropping to her knees, she immediately tried to shake him awake.
"Jax, wake up... baby, come on, wake up!" Her words sounded frantic to her own ears, nearly buried under the growling voice coming from the speakers. She spotted the remote for the iPod dock on the floor beside the weight bench and stabbed the STOP button before turning back to her husband. "JACKSON!" She screamed his name, shaking him so roughly that his teeth rattled. "You gotta wake up, come on!"
His eyes flickered behind the closed lids, his breathing still so shallow it was almost nonexistent. Making no reply, he didn't move in any way, driving her fear closer towards full-borne terror. At least he was breathing— that meant he was alive. He still wasn't responding to her and so she looked back at the bottle of water and grabbed it. Unscrewing the cap, she splashed some in his face, hoping it would do the trick. "Wake up, Jax!"
His breath caught in a gasp, his eyes snapping open. He stared at her blindly for a few seconds before blinking away the water that was caught in his eyelashes and dripping down into his eyes. "Lyv..?" Her name came out in a hoarse croak, "why'm I wet?"
The back of her hand came up and rested against his cheek, caressing it. The relief on her face said it all as she smiled warmly. "I found you passed out on the floor. I splashed some water on you to wake you up."
"Shit," he mumbled, looking away from her as he cleared his throat. "Couldn't catch my breath... I dunno what happened."
She couldn't stop herself from leaning over and hugging him. Lyv was so relieved he was okay; she needed to hold onto him. "You've been working yourself to the bone."
His arms wrapped around her in return. "I have to," he said the words softly, his raspy tone etched with bitterness, "I have to be at my best. Can't let this little bitch take my last belt away from me like that prancing fairy did. Not gonna lose again... not like this... on a weekly show."
Lyv was still holding onto him, her cheek pressed against his. "I know you've gotta keep pushing yourself and I respect that, but I'm worried about you." She exhaled deeply and kissed his cheek before pulling back to look down at him. "I'll be so glad when this match is over and you can rest."
He snorted softly, staring at her. "It won't end, Lyv. This is what I am. This is what I do."
She nodded, "baby, I know." Her hand came back to his cheek, still caressing. "But you need to eat. You need to sleep. What you're doing to yourself right now is..."
"Don't say it, Lyv." He shook his head, "this is all I have left and I need to fight for it, okay?"
Looking up towards the ceiling, she sighed. She knew how much this meant to him. She knew how much he wanted to bring that belt back to the level it was at before Mosa tarnished it. "You're exhausted," she finally said.
"I know," he sighed, his eyes moving across the room to the shadows. He knew she couldn't see it, but the belt was over there, resting on the rack beside the weight bench. "But you can't diss the gold... worse than walking under a ladder, babe. You give it all," he shook his head as he sat up slowly, letting out a groan. "Guess I got something in common with Ford after all."
She kept her hands on him, helping him sit up. "I don't have to tell you that you've got my unconditional support." Once he was upright, her arms slid around his middle. Seeing him on the floor like that had been terrifying. It was like something out of one of her nightmares. "I trust you," she kissed his jaw, nuzzling against his neck, "you're a wonderful husband, an even better father, and you always make sure we're taken care of."
His vision darkened for a second and he caught his breath, holding it until he was sure he wasn't going to pass out on her again. His ears were still ringing when he met her gaze, forcing a smile. "Always going to, babe. That's a given."
"And I don't doubt that, one bit." Giving him a squeeze, she stayed like that for awhile. "Just promise me after tomorrow, you'll take a rest. I mean, I kinda need my cheering section for my title defense against Harmony and all."
Shit. He'd completely forgotten. "Yeah. Wouldn't miss that for the world." He closed his eyes, holding her close and there was a ghost of a smile on his lips as he gave her a squeeze. "Ran out of space on that list of reasons why you're perfect," he kissed the top of her head, breathing in the clean scent of her hair. "Just doodling extra stuff in the margins now."
That made her smile as she sighed and he could tell it was a very content one. She sounded confident as she looked up at him. "And I trust you one hundred percent." Grabbing hold of his hand, she linked their fingers, "we're in this together and always will be."
"I love you," he paused for a second, "and I know those words don't mean much when everyone's flinging them around like wildfire on Twitter... but..." he trailed off, swallowing hard. "I couldn't do any of this without you. They can try and cheapen that all they want but they weren't in my fuckin' head two years ago. They weren't sitting in the dark all those nights alone with a bottle of booze and that empty feeling inside. What we got's nothing like all of Ryann's mindfuckery an' goddamn martyr complex bullshit. This is real."
"This is as real as it gets, Jackson." She could feel his arms shaking and knew that he wasn't just exhausted from training. What had happened to him had been something far worse. She tilted her head back, pretending she didn't see the tears in his eyes. "Thank you for loving me, Jax." She said the words softly, knowing what he needed to hear, "you're perfect just the way you are."
He bowed his head, resting his forehead against her hair as he let the tears fall, letting them take the fear and the goddamn memories with them.
In the silence, he realized all he could hear were the soft rhythms of her breathing. All he could smell was that sweet scent that was pure Alyvia. The rats were gone and so was that trash stench he'd come to associate with failure— and her.
