Broken Luck [Trinity 002]

LOCATION: Napa Valley, California
DATE/TIME: September 9, 2019 || 3:12 AM PST
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF

Idle hands had always been the worst thing for her – mundane routines weren't enough to keep her regulated. She needed the occasional outlet for the anger that burned inside her. She needed to inflict pain, to open a vein and relieve the pressure. And maybe it was that latter need that had her out in the stables in the middle of the night, digging through the old steamer trunk in the back corner that was the equivalent of a kitchen junk drawer on steroids. Brittle bits of leather from an old bridle that had been long forgotten scattered like nuclear winter ash around her as she continued shifting the contents to one side. It had to still be there. Nobody else knew about it!

Just as the panic was starting to set in, her fingers grazed that familiar texture of the metal box – it had belonged to her father. The only thing that had been left behind when the deadbeat had gone out for cigarettes in the middle of the night and never returned.

It was an old thing, the kind you'd expect to find in some movie, holding all the cash from prom night ticket sales. The silver paint had flaked off, leaving rusted and pitted spots of bare metal beneath but she didn't care how dirty and dusty and disgusting it was as she pulled it out and cradled it to her chest. She rocked back on her heels, sitting down amid the itchy straw as she lowered the box into her lap. The old padlock on it was rusty too, the dial barely turning when she tried to move it with her thumb. It was her old high school lock, the blue paint in the etched numbers faded away. She didn't need to see them to open it. The numbers were still there, still fresh in her mind. The lock wasn't cooperative and she had to take a moment to bite her lip, to feel that little twinge of pain to pull her back from the brink of meltdown – she'd been tiptoeing that precipice for weeks now, doing her best to pretend everything was fine. If the lock wouldn't cooperate, she'd just get it off another way. A hammer and chisel, perhaps. She had wire cutters for the chicken wire they'd used on the new coop but they probably wouldn't be strong enough to snap the two-inch-thick metal.

She blinked back the irrational tears, letting the box slide off her lap. It bounced, rolled twice and landed upside down – she couldn't take her eyes off it. Failure seemed to mock her everywhere she went and this was no different. Landing the way it had, it was as though the damned inanimate object was trying to remind her of how she'd had it all and pissed it away in OCW. She'd been on top of the world and she'd let that snake into her garden. She'd let complacency and laziness settle in and she'd taken the victories for granted – she'd only lost two matches there but they felt like thousands. They felt like the worst things imaginable and not because Hayley Robinson wasn't a worthy contender, either. A sigh passed her lips and she swiped at the tears pooling in her lashes, feeling the anger starting to percolate deep within her.

It wasn't fair.

None of it was fair and now Trinity was putting on a huge show and she wasn't even invited to the dance? That spoke volumes, loud and clear.

Staggering up to her feet, she went over and grabbed the pitchfork that hung on the wall. Brandishing it as though she intended to drive a monster out of town, she stalked back over to the box and kicked it until it was against the wall, lock side-up. Letting out a frustrated snarl, she brought the prongs down, smashing them over and over into the lock until it gave way, the box getting severely dented in the process. The pitchfork fell with a clatter as she cast it aside, falling to her knees in front of the box and already pulling away the pieces of the broken lock. Irrationally, she thought for a moment that the box was empty when she managed to prise the lid open. Her own shadow blocking the feeble overhead light was enough to make it seem bottomless, full of nothing but darkness. Her shaking fingers touched the cold metal, slipping against the oily residue on it.

"It's here," she whispered, stark relief in her voice as she bowed her head, letting the tears flow behind the veil of her dark hair. "Thank God. It's still here."


LOCATION: Hotel Copacabana Palace, Rio
DATE/TIME: January 24, 2004 || 3:25 AM, local time
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF

She'd been feigning sleep for two hours, letting the anxiety and fear carve her up inside until she felt completely hollowed out – she felt numb. The bruises didn't ache anymore. One eye opened, then the other, as she lay perfectly still, listening to Stanley's deep and even breathing. He was asleep, and she took a moment to look at him. If it all went to plan, this would likely be the last time she saw him. She felt a tug of guilt, wishing she'd been able to give the gentle giant the future he so desperately wanted. He looked so sweet, so innocent. Soundlessly, she slid out of the bed and crept across the room. She scooped up her favorite jeans from the floor, and carried them into the bathroom, easing the door closed quietly, even though she knew that a tornado could blow through the room and Stanley wouldn't hear it now.

She snapped the light on, and grimaced at her reflection. There were still purple smears under her eyes, making her look more exhausted than she felt – her nose had been broken, after all. She hated feeling like a victim, like the weakest link. Of course, they'd come for her. The last jaundiced bruises were fading from her jaw. The finger marks on her neck looked more like hickeys now – the thought made her want to vomit. Shaking her head, she ran the brush through her hair and got dressed without looking.

Her hands were shaking when she pulled the middle towel from the rack and dropped it on the sink. She unfolded it and felt the comforting contours of the old pistol through the plush fabric. She trusted that it would work, that it wouldn't explode in her face when she pulled the trigger. There had been far too much of that already for her liking. The terrycloth was unfolded now, revealing the dull, black metal. It was cold, and felt evil – it was necessary evil. She wasn't going to kill him. At least not unless he pushed her to.

It was cold against her skin as she settled the over-sized tank top over it. She clicked the bathroom light off, and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as she crept across the bedroom towards the door. The gun felt hot against her skin. One last glance confirmed that Stanley was still asleep so she eased out into the hall. She caught the door before it slammed, easing it shut behind herself. And it was then, and only then that she hesitated as her knees suddenly grew weak. With a muttered curse, she braced her hand against the wall, breathing hard. Was this a good idea?

"Kitty?"

She almost jumped out of her skin at the sound of his voice. There, in the doorway, stood a very groggy Stanley Schwartz-Rottonbottom, rubbing his eyes. She froze against the wall, looking unbelievably guilty.

"Why are you up? It's 3:33 AM; where are you going this late?"

She averted her eyes, looking down the hall to see if anyone was coming. "I couldn't sleep. I thought I'd just go for a walk. Go on back to sleep, honey. You need it more than I do," she couldn't keep the bitterness from her voice at the reminder that she hadn't been booked again. It was starting to become a frustratingly annoying pattern.

"You're doing what?" He stared at her in confusion, as if her words made no sense.

"A walk," she repeated. "I'll be back soon."

Stanley yawned, and then peered at her closely. "Is something wrong? I heard the door close, and it didn't feel right. Then I noticed that you weren't next to me, and that felt really wrong."

"Everything's fine," she lied.

Stanley smiled, his countenance brightening as he took a few steps forward and wrapped his arms around Kitty, drawing her close to him. He kissed the top of her head and she twisted away from him, pushing a hand against his chest.

"I'll be back soon."

He reached for her hand, trying to stop her but she twisted away again, more violently this time and he saw what was hidden beneath her shirt when the loose material hitched up with the movement. Time seemed to stand still as he froze, staring at her. His mouth worked, as he groped for words to express his feelings. It felt like the floor had dropped out beneath him, like a terrifying carnival ride, and he was free-falling forever. With a shaking hand, he plucked the gun from her waistband and held it between two fingers as though it was venomous. She didn't try to stop him. The horrified way he was looking at her cut too deeply.

"Kitty… what?" He tried to wrap his head around what was going on here. "We're in Brazil. Where did you get this? What have you done? Please tell me you haven't…"



Oh look, kids, ol' Aqualung's back, spitting out pieces of broken luck on the way by. Let's be honest, though. I could have recorded this for you. I could have put on a little production, hair wet and hanging down to hide my face, like Samara fresh from the well and ready to steal your soul – does that reference even hold up? Does anyone remember that movie?

The prospect of a demonic girl able to crawl from the TV to wreak havoc is rather appealing though, isn't it? Makes one think, appeals to the lazy part of me. I could sit back, smoke some mellow green herb and let that evil doppelganger do the work for me. I like the idea. I like the thought that watching that video plants that seed of doom. I like how it takes some time, long enough for you to brush it off as a myth, long enough for you to think maybe it was a crank or a joke – "surely this can't be real!"

Laugh it off. Yuck it up. 

And then there's the flickering lights on cue. The room gets colder. Things start to change around you and you know she's here. Your fate is sealed and it wasn't as if you deliberately did anything to piss her off, right? You just found a tape. You just shared a video online. You just clicked a link and then forwarded it to a friend because you were into how fucked up it was. You just did what anyone would do because human nature makes us gawk at train-wrecks. Sad. Completely true and I rubberneck more than most. Helps that I get to spend so damn much time on the sidelines though, doesn't it? 

And I digress. 

That need to spread misery, to wallow in toxicity, it's growing worse. Some spend their days watching CNN, for heaven's sake. I think it's a pretty good illustration of how screwed up society has become. We've got too many World Star and TMZ's, folks.

While I've no desire to spread joy in this world, eNait, I don't wanna be part of the herd, either. I've been there. I tried to play nice – don't feed the animals, lest you get bitten, right?

I tried to mix with the animals. I don't and it's not just because I see myself on a level above that pathetic rabble. No. It's because I have no desire to interact with people. I don't want to wander and mingle and hang out with the fans. I don't want to hock merchandise. Fuck that. I don't care about anyone's bottom line, here.

I'm happy to sit in an empty room, day after day, waiting for that call to action.

Hilarious. Sarcasm doesn't translate well, even in this medium.

I dispatched Cody "Never Gonna Be Champion of Anything" Larson and what did I get for it? Shuffled to the back of the deck like an afterthought? Left idle for the biggest show the company's had thus far while absolute idiots like Graham Clauson and Duncan Aires are given enough screen time to make ol' Samara envious? Maybe I should have recorded this, so you could see how this really makes me feel. And you know that they say, don't you? If you don't like what's on, change the channel?

Yeah.

That's what we're going to do. It's time for The Kitty Show – no that wasn't meant to come off crass. No titillation for you, Clauson. I know you're obsessed. Pretty obvious given the way you drop my name more than the people you're actually facing. It's flattering. I mean, it would be, if you were my type – and no, I'm not another man-hating Twitter lesbian. You're just repulsive and abhorrent. I'm sure you're angling for something. I'm sure you think calling me out is going to get you an edge. It won't.

Look at what happened to Hayley Robinson. Sure, she beat me, but where the hell is she now? What's she doing with herself? Where's Cody? Where have half those losers from that battle royal gone?

Is this my doing? My broken luck, tainting the place? I know you don't care, but in a strange way I do. A part of me still feels guilty, feels like I'm doing it wrong when I rage against the notion of playing victim. Shit happens. Don't let it haunt you. Don't let it get to you because if you do the doubt will find you. The fears will collect and you'll be left dead on the floor, a giant waste of time and energy.

Well, shit, guess I feel a little like Samara after all.

I'm coming for you, Barbara.

I almost wanna check up on those lives I infected, those minds I planted my seeds in. See what's become of them? Is it time pay the piper? Have my fruits grown yet?

I guess it depends if my opponent this week bothered to do any research. Did you watch my last match? Did you see the things I did to Cody? I hope you saw. I hope you got the message loud and clear.

HELL HATH NO FURY QUITE LIKE THE WOMAN SCORNED.

No. Wrong. 

HELL HATH NO FURY QUITE LIKE ME.

---K