Ew, Another Origin Story? [UNTELEVISED, Gold Rush #1]

The chairs were arranged in a loose circle, the church's basement smelling of stale coffee in a way that reminded Max of hanging out at the Dunkins after a hard day of training at Wild Ones. Those bright-eyed and bushy-tailed days of 2009 seemed so far away now that they might have been a dream. He had his hands hidden in the pockets of the cargo shorts he wore, thankful that he'd worn the old hoodie that had been kicking around in his back seat for months because it was almost freezing down here, despite the oppressive heat outside. He hung back in the corner, hood up to shield his face although nobody really took much notice of him. Eventually everyone shuffled to their seats, leaving him as the last to claim the closest empty chair. They were plain black, the metal folding kind he was used to finding under a wrestling ring, the kind he'd been hit with more often than he liked to admit.

His hands went into the pockets of the hoodie and he hunched forward, wondering why he'd let Florence convince him that coming here was a good idea. At the urging of the woman with the red frizzy hair, the various people around the group started to speak, to tell their reasons for being here. He heard about abuse, about addictions and a girl who struggled with bulimia. There was a pretty brunette across from him, her hair tied up in a messy ponytail – she looked like she wanted to be there even less than he did.

"Sometimes," her voice came out quiet, shame written all over her face even though her story probably mirrored everyone else's. "I cut myself. Little scratches, nothing deep. I tell people that I have a cat but I'm actually allergic." An embarrassed laugh came from her lips, her eyes meeting Max's for a moment only because he was directly in her line of sight. He watched as her cheeks flushed and she looked down at her lap, falling silent.

The eyes in the circle turned to him, as the last and newest member to this sad, sick little circle.

"Uh... hi." He took his hands from his pockets, rubbing the clenched fingers on his bad hand with his good to ease the tension. They were starting to ache, his body responding to the anxiety of the situation more than he liked to think about. He'd wrestled in front of hundreds of people, where a botch was bound to wind up on some viral video highlight reel to embarrass for the rest of his life. Why was the prospect to telling these strangers why he'd come to a suicide and self-harm support group so daunting?

"I bought a gun. This old Colt revolver that looked like it came out of a 70's cop movie – it was at a pawn shop in North Dakota. Cost me all of ten dollars and the guy threw in two bullets with it. I used one of them just to make sure it worked. Fired it at a soda can in the middle of nowhere and just winged it a little. I mean, you don't really have to be good at aiming for Russian Roulette, right?" A bitter chuckle passed his lips and he shook his head, keeping his eyes downcast. He didn't want to see pity, didn't want to see looks of judgement or solidarity or anything on their faces. He just wanted to vomit out his word salad in the hopes that it would get the poisonous thoughts out of his head.

"So... uhm... I'm a professional wrestler. I mean, I get my ass kicked, get paid for it. I don't really make a living doing it – I'm not on that level yet. I know I don't look like one... I get that all the time. Too small. Too..." he sighed, shaking his head again, realizing he was digging too deep for this and finding he was unable to stop himself. The anonymity was good. He didn't live around here. He'd probably never see any of these people again. "My mother was a junkie. She put whatever she could into her veins to cope with all the demons in her head. I was born messed up, didn't realize it was cerebral palsy until I was in first grade, when they started to focus on motor skills and figured out that my hand was..." he trailed off, looking down at the fingers that were finally relaxed against his thigh. "Compared to some of the kids I've worked with... kids with developmental issues mostly... I got off easy. I've never needed a wheelchair. My mobility is good. When I'm tired, sometimes I limp a little on that side. Sometimes my foot goes numb and I mean... I found a way to work through that, to try and make my dream of hitting the big time in the wrestling ring come true. I saved every cent I had. I trained with two of the best guys in the business. I've tried really hard and it's just..."

He fell silent, biting his lip.

"God, I sound like a real asshole, don't I? A real selfish piece of shit." He lifted his head, saw the girl across the way looking at him. Her eyes didn't dart away this time. She held his gaze, nodding almost imperceptibly as if she wanted him to continue. "Nine days ago, I was sitting in my car. I had the gun out and I was seriously thinking if I put the bullet in there, if I gave that wheel a spin and pulled the trigger and nothing happened, that would be a sign, right? That it was meant to be. That I actually have a purpose here?"

He chuckled bitterly, "someone... a friend... she knocked on my window. Stopped me and the bullet fell down, under the seat somewhere. I can't find it anywhere. I mean, that was the sign – she stopped me. Divine intervention or whatever so why is it that I can't stop looking for that bullet? Why do I feel like if I can't find it, I'm gonna need to go out and get another one? Why do I feel like there's unfinished business... like I have to actually follow through and pull that trigger or something terrible is gonna happen? Is… is that normal? Does that make me certifiably crazy or does everyone have thoughts like that? I just…" His voice was rough, his breathing ragged as he bowed his head, barely hearing what the woman with the frizzy hair said in response once she realized he was done speaking.

There was a murmur of commiseration from around him, a few sniffles of solidarity and then they were breaking for coffee. He was still rooted to the spot, eyes on the dirty toes of the lime green Converse he had on with his ass glued to the chair with sweat.

Open mouth. Insert both feet to the knee. You'll be lucky if they don't send the guys with the butterfly nets to pick you up on the curb afterwards.

The voice in his head was having a heyday, tearing him down more than usual.

"Hi," the voice was familiar and he looked up to see that girl slipping into the chair next to him, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"Hi," he replied, realizing now that she was closer, just how pretty she was. He hadn't bothered to wear his glasses, had left them in the cup holder in the car but now he almost wished he had them on. "I'm Max... and I usually don't talk that much, I swear." He tried for a smile, coming up with a sort of grim smirk instead.

"It's okay. Sometimes it's easier to say things when you think nobody's really listening." She glanced over her shoulder at the rest of the group. Some had broken off and were conversing as if they were already on a first-name basis. "I'm Rayna, by the way."

This time the smile came, there and gone in an instant but it made his blue eyes sparkle just for a moment. "I like that – it's unique." Now that he'd purged himself, he did feel a bit lighter, that mantle of defensive sarcasm falling back around his shoulders as he looked at this beautiful girl. "So, Rayna... do you come here often?"

She actually laughed at the cheesy line, shaking her head as a blush crept over her cheeks again. "No. It's... it's actually my first time."

"Mine, too." He looked away, back down at the floor and his dirty shoes. "But I guess that was obvious with the oversharing, huh?"

Rayna wrapped her arms around herself and shook her head. "I'm kinda on the other side of that; I don't feel like I shared enough." Glancing around the room to find that nobody was paying any attention to them, her focus then shifted back to the man in front of her. "I'm sure I'll have other opportunities, though."

"Oh probably," Max nodded, "I mean, I'd love to hear your story." He looked away, feeling like an idiot as his face grew hot. This girl clearly wasn't here trolling for a date and here he was, battling the urge to flirt with her because she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

Hearing his admission caused a smile to form, not a wide one but it was genuine. "I've never really shared my story with anyone, but you look like a pretty good listener." There was something about this man in front of her that was intriguing and possibly even something more.

"I like to think we were born with two ears and one mouth for that very reason." Although he said it with a straight face, he couldn't keep the sparkle from his eyes as they met hers again. He was starting to think that Florence had been right to push him in this direction, not so much so that he could unburden himself under the guise of anonymity but so that he could find a kindred soul who might be able to understand the mess he carried around inside. He was quiet for a few moments, listening to the murmur of conversations all around them before leaning forward. "I know a really good place near Greenwich Village that makes these amazing over-sized cupcakes... if you don't mind heading into New York after dark... we could do that." He started to stammer, "uhm, after this, I mean. If you wanted to. They're open late and I promise you I'm not a serial killer or anything. There's a lot of foot traffic there even at night. It's near the-"

"Sticky Fingers?" Rayna laughed in delight when he nodded, looking surprised. "I go there all the time. It's just down the block from where I go to school."

"Whoa," Max stared at her for a few seconds, floored that she was familiar with the area of New York he was currently staying in. "What are the odds? It's almost like it's meant to be or something." The sarcasm was back but there was a kernel of truth in the joking. This felt a little too much like kismet, a little too much like some cheesy movie but he couldn't bring himself to knock it.

"I think you might be right."

He grinned, "careful now. Compliments like that'll go straight to my ego."

She couldn't help smiling in return, grateful that she hadn't skipped going to the support group as she'd been planning on. He had the kindest eyes she'd ever seen and something within her was sure he could be trusted. "I would love to join you, Max."