Memoirs Of An Invisible Man [APW #9]

His breathing was shallow – he was in that weird place beyond exhaustion where he knew sleep wouldn't be coming any time soon. He wanted that sweet oblivion. Everything hurt, his ribs most of all and he thought they were probably fractured again, if they'd even healed right the last time they'd snapped under pressure. The next inhale trembled just a little and then the mattress shifted slightly, making his eyes clench shut against the flare of pain. Hannah's fingers crawled through his hair like spiders, making his neck and scalp prickle. He felt the tingle roll down his back, bringing goosebumps in its wake.

"You're supposed to be sleeping," she chided gently.

"Can't." His voice was hoarse, his throat raw. He kept himself rigid, trying to keep the breaths even, letting the familiarity of that gentle touch wash through him like a cleansing wave. She'd always done that, had always known what he needed in these moments when he was laid out, broken and feeling as though he'd been mentally and emotionally flayed.

"I know." She leaned in, pressing a kiss to his temple. "You've got time."

The way she said it made his hackles raise even as he felt the bottom drop out in his guts. He licked his lips, forcing the words out. "I'm not on the next card, am I? Fuckin' hell." He'd thrown everything he had in the tank to silence Red Riot only to have the goddamned cycle start again. "Maybe I can get on social media… rattle some cages."

"I don't know why you bother." There was venom in her tone, her fingertips drifting lower to graze his shoulders, drawing random patterns that brought the warmth back to his chilled skin. She'd watched the entire PPV broadcast from start to finish. She'd heard what Remi had said at the start of the show hype about her husband not being much of a champion – it'd made her blood boil.

"Course not," he snapped, "not as though you ever held a championship." The moment he said it, he wanted to take the words back. She'd tried her hand at wrestling once upon a time. Those wounds were still fresh, he knew. Closing his eyes, he dragged in a slow breath. "I didn't mean that. I'm just tired."

"Tired because you gave those assholes everything you had to give and what do you have to show for it, huh?"

Her hand fell away from his back and he could feel a twinge of pain crawl through those old scars, making him shiver. He said nothing. Deep down, he knew she was right. He knew he wasn't well-liked, wasn't really even respected in the locker room, despite the fact that he actually hadn't lost a singles match since he'd come on the scene. He'd tried to make it work, had tried to be a team player with Smitty and Damon but when push came to shove, he still felt like an outsider looking in. He didn't know if that was just his mis-wired brain, if that was just his distorted perception of the world around him or if it was reality.

"I'm serious, Lex. You need to stop letting these companies treat you like some third-rate trash. You do it all the time. Full Throttle. SVW. WWHQ. Riot Star. You let these assholes pick fights, run you down and walk all over you."

He rolled over onto his back; a furrow carved in his brow between his eyes as they narrowed to focus on her. "And what'd you have me do instead? Fight them all? Demand they treat me like a superstar?"

"You've been wrestling longer than Smith Jones." She didn't look at him, her gaze drifting across the room to stare at nothing. "You've held more championships and then you let him take The Architect from you, let him twist up your words-"

"Hey, hold up a second-"

Her eyes snapped back to his and he could see how angry she was. "You know I'm right. You should have been the leader."

"Wouldn't've worked." He muttered it, letting his eyes close. He could feel his pulse pounding in his temples, behind his eyes and a part of him wanted to scoop them out, jab his fingers into his brain to find that off switch.

"Why not?" Hannah asked, her tone sharp, "because you're afraid?"

"You got me," the frustration bled into sarcasm, "fuckin' terrified to have the world in the palm of my hand. What's it matter who they see as the leader? It made sense when the belt was on Smitty."

"Right." He could hear the eye-roll in her tone. "And now that Damon has it-"

"Stop it." He lifted his hand, pressing his thumb and middle finger against his temples as he covered his eyes.

"You've held that championship for over two months. You just defended it successfully and your teammates are good enough to get booked in a tag team match-"

"That what you think? That I'm not good enough?"

"I didn't-"

He cut her off, talking over her, his voice raising to drown her out. "Yeah. Figures. You spent all these years puttin' wind in my sails and it's all a load of shit."

"You stop it." She got up off the bed, angry energy making her start to pace. "I didn't say that. Now you're trying to twist my words. It's almost like you want to fight me over this shit – newsflash, Lex. I'm not the bad guy here. I'm not the one responsible for you getting overlooked. God, sometimes I just wanna slap the shit out of you, you know that? You keep doing the same thing, over and over and over and you wonder why you keep having the same results – it's not healthy. It doesn't even make sense. You know better. Your résumé proves it, even if you're still so twisted up over what that stupid Riot bitch said that you can't see the truth."

"What's the truth, huh?!" He forced himself to sit up, feeling the throbbing in his head intensify. He staggered to his feet, crossing the room and grabbing her by the shoulders.

She didn't flinch. Didn't back down or cower or avert her eyes. He remembered that look and it cut right through him. Her eyes were wide, brimming with emotion.



Something harder than rain hit the window, drawing his gaze for a moment and he tensed instinctively before rational thought took over. Hannah's hand fell away from his shoulder and he turned back to her with a thousand questions in his sad eyes.

She couldn't stop staring at him, her heart breaking at the thought of what Clay had put him through this time. Something had changed between them. This time he hadn't come in through the window. She'd found him huddled in the treehouse in nothing but that tattered shirt, hunched over that tiny little candle as if it would provide any real warmth. She didn't know what that meant, why things were different this time. Why hadn't he come in like he usually did? Had she done something wrong?

His chest ached when he tried to take a breath, feeling like his skin was on fire. He couldn't get enough air, couldn't quiet the noise in his head but when his eyes met hers, he could see tears glistening and that didn't make sense. The words fell out past lips that felt numb, like he'd just been to the dentist, "w-what did I do?"

Her cheeks flushed as she shook her head quickly, groping for something coherent to say. Now that they were indoors, she could see the bruises around his neck – finger marks, obviously. She couldn't lie to him, though. Couldn't bring herself to dial back the anger she felt. "You have bruises... on your neck."

"Oh." He blinked, feeling a prickle of tears that he tried to hide, reaching for his pants that she'd insisted he take off when she'd finally gotten him inside.

She watched him as he turned around, feigning modesty even though he'd been in his underwear moments before. The jeans hung low on his narrow waist, showing the waistband of the boxers and that was when she realized that belt he always wore was absent. His pants were a little bit too big and as he moved towards the window, she could see his ribs beneath those angry welts and their shiny coat of salve, count them as he breathed. She'd bandaged the ones that were oozing, had covered the others in antibiotic ointment so they wouldn't get infected.

He pressed his palm to the glass, the cold bringing him back from wherever his mind had wandered to and he answered a question she hadn't asked with that old standard of a lie. "I'm alright."

"Are you, though?" The words came out before she could check them.

"Yeah." He chuckled humorlessly, nodding as that closed-off look came over his face. "Y'know, I should make a career outta this shit."

"What?"

"Fighting." He turned back towards her, catching her in the middle of staring at him with that weird look again. "Han?"

Her eyes were wide, lips slightly parted as she studied him. The fact that he called what Clay did 'fighting' broke her heart in the worst way – there was no back and forth. He took it all, like a human punching bag. When she said nothing, he took a step back, reaching for the thermal undershirt she'd left on the bed for him.

He pulled it on over his head, feeling shaky and strange as he moved towards her bedroom door. "I'll go back outside-"

"I need to tell you something," the words came out quickly as Hannah reached out and grabbed his hand.

He froze, letting her move around in front of him and she was still holding his hand. It was his turn to stare in silence.

"I uh..." her throat felt tight, almost as if her heart were stuck inside of it. Clearing it, she tried again, "I love you." There, the words were hanging out there for him to consider, even though she figured he probably wouldn't return the sentiment.

He didn't know how to even process what she said, shaking his head. "No," he whispered. He knew Clay was right. He was trash, unwanted by everyone, even his own birth mother. Unworthy. Useless.

"I do." Hannah lifted her other hand up to his cheek, staring deep into his eyes. She saw that sadness that never really seemed to go away. She saw fear and denial and a part of her was terrified that she'd just crossed a line, had just ruined the friendship they'd had for more than ten years. There was a flicker of something else, something she'd never seen before. Was it hope? Was it love shining back, mirroring her own? "I wish you could see what I see when I look at you," the words came out soft, barely above a whisper, "wish I could show you how special you are."

He made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sob, shaking his head again. "Jesus Christ. Don't... don't say that." He stumbled over the words, "I'm not-"

Impulsively, she stretched up on her toes, both hands pressed to his cheeks as she kissed him, silencing that protest.

As far as first kisses went, it wasn't half bad – there was no bumping of noses or mashing of teeth into lips. Just that gentle pressure before he pulled back slightly, resting his forehead against hers.

"I... uh..." he struggled to form words in the midst of everything he was feeling.

"It's okay," she assured him, her hands falling to his chest and she could feel his heart racing. "You don't have to say it back. I just needed you to know how I feel... how I've felt for a really long time. You deserve something good, Lex. Something that won't hurt you."

"I wanna kiss you again," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he was afraid. Was she going to reject him even though her words and the gentle press of her hands said otherwise?

"Please?" That look was back in her eyes and he saw it for what it was, saw that fierce and wild emotion that scared the shit out of him.

He lifted his hand, fingers tangling in her hair as he kissed her with more finesse than she'd expected. When he slipped his tongue into her mouth, deepening the kiss, her breath caught in her throat. He pulled back reluctantly, wanting more than anything to keep going until they were both naked, knowing that was impossible. This was Hannah. His angel, his love. He could never bring himself to taint her like that. He had a name for that ache now, the warmth that flooded him every time he felt her fingers on his skin: it was love. He didn’t dare say it aloud, though. If he let himself embrace it, he knew it'd be taken away. Everything good always was.


"This business is fickle, full of frauds and fair-weather friends. They tell you that you matter, that they love you and then the moment you disappear from sight, they pivot to the next sap. They don't wait. They have no patience. This week, a fuckin' HARDCORE match is taking the spotlight. Damon isn't even booked. Smitty and I may as well be jerkin' the motherfucking curtain while legitimate trash is getting top billing. But hey, what else is new? This shitshow's always been a popularity contest. It's Action Wrestling 2.0 – I've got no desire to be buried in that gigantic roster of interchangeable dipshits."

There's definite venom in that quiet voice of the North American champion.

"If you're waiting for me to start begging for scraps, don't bother. You're gonna be sorely disappointed if that's what you think I'm gearing up to, here. If you want me to beg for the respect, for the recognition I proved I was worthy of at Gods of Wrestling, not gonna happen. My wife thinks I'm afraid to put myself up on that pedestal, as if it's just this unwillingness to accept the truth she thinks she can see when she looks at me. She's been telling me that our whole lives, as if she feels like she's gotta counteract the damage done to my psyche."

He drags in a noisy breath, holding it for a few seconds before exhaling slowly.

"We are the entertainers. We are the music makers – the dreamers of dreams. We don't get paid to voice our opinions. Nobody lines up to pick our brains and all this song and dance, this make-believe back-and-forth we do is just a perfectly choreographed dance. There's no deeper meaning to any of this and that's what I used to love about it. It was simple. It made sense in a simplistic tab A into slot B kinda way. I used to see championships as a distraction. I used to see fame as a golden parasite; an albatross latched around the neck that turned every movement into a gross mockery of something that was once so pure, so goddamned REAL. And that's the fucked-up part, isn't it? None of this was ever real, not in that sense. My wife... all this time she's known me and she still doesn't understand it's not fear that's kept me silent so long. She thinks I'm taking what the critics say to heart, letting it fuck with my mojo. She thinks I should've stepped up, took the wheel of The Architects and set a precedent. I've never been much of a follower. I've never been the type who plays well with others in a group setting. That's not me being cute, playing 'rebel without a clue'. That's me being honest about the gross disconnect within me. My people skills aren't 'rusty'. They don't 'need work'. They're nonexistent."

Lex sucks his teeth in the deliberate pause.

"Fires lit. Banked. Stoked – the inferno rages an' I wonder if any of you're ready for this. Nah. All eyes on the main event, on fuckin' Corey Black versus Spartan in the worst match type our industry has, like hardcore wrestling has a place in a world where we now understand the dangers of CTE. Not like Alpha Pro gives a shit – they'd rather book a packed arena in the middle of a pandemic, celebrate a geek show that'll shave years off. Not that it matters much to the bottom line, does it? The expendables become someone else's problem by that point. We're just the debris smeared on the cogs of the meat grinder. The show must go on. And it does, invariably, while this company pushes the agenda on what's essentially a snuff film. Did anyone watch that cage match between Smitty and Kelser? Was it something I could let my daughter watch?"

He sighs.

"None of this'll register in the ears that need to hear it most. I'm screaming into a vacuum, the void gobbles it up. I'm invisible, right? Insignificant."

Chuckle.

"Not the golden boy, after all – up on display, inches from the Humpty Dumpty scrambled egg fall. Which is fine, honestly. Don't want my legacy to be that pathetic. Don't wanna teach my daughters that it's okay to strike back, even if it's morally justifiable. I don't want this emulated. Replicated.

Once again, it's three weeks before I see any action in the ring. People's Choice edition and my brothers were fodder in a joke of a match. Should be grateful I was left off that drizzling shitshow, count my blessings that I've got something familiar this week with Sitch across the ring. It could've been some fuckin' interloper now that we've dropped into the AW Zone. The graves're dug. Burial is imminent. Soon Alpha Pro'll be absorbed into the gelatinous cube, digested like Trinity was."

The scorn couldn't be heavier.

"I almost feel bad. Almost.

Thing is, I won't be here to see it. Championship should be on the line this week – my prerogative. This is your moment, Sitch. Right place. Right time. The universe chose you as successor – you lucky duck."

Beat.

"I'm getting off this carnival ride that's made me too sick for too long. Gotta purge. Vitriol burns like napalm, wants to consume this entire landscape. You cannot rebuild on a foundation that's deliberately being eroded. That's the true definition of insanity, an exercise in futility. Can't do this anymore. Won't. I'm done."

There's nothing more to be heard but a hiss of static before the audio cuts off entirely.