004 (Falling Down) [PCW]

THIS WAS SO DAMNED FAMILIAR, he was all but reeling from the déjà vu. The depression. The numbness. He'd been here before. The only thing new was the anger, totally self-directed. He sat there, staring down at the cold steel in his hand, thinking about all that had come and gone. What did he have? In this screwed up world, what did he have to keep him sane? Friends? Family?

"Lawrence?"

And then there was Chauncy, still lurking, making everything infinitely more complicated.

"Law—"

"I heard you the first time," Gowan muttered. "You never answered me. Why are you here?"

"Your first title defense," Chauncy said softly, "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Gowan let out a very uncharacteristic snort, shaking his head. He kept seeing the face under that mask. He kept seeing that crimson flower blooming on the white sheet. He kept seeing that dead-eyed stare, bouncing back and forth between the past and the present.

"Let me take you back to the hotel, Lawrence. Please? I think it would be good for you to shower up and get some rest."

"He was dead."

The silence returned, Chauncy falling silent as he tried to grope with what he could say in the face of this turn of events. The last time they'd spoken was the day he'd brought Gowan home from the hospital after they'd found him backstage, hacking up his wrists with a piece of broken glass. He'd gone out to buy groceries and returned to find Gowan had bolted after having a fight with Jackson— that damnable asshole could be blamed for the majority of Gowan's issues.

If Shawn was alive then he'd killed a man for no reason. The gun was in his duffel bag, back in the trunk of his car, at the airport in Toronto. He longed to feel that cool, comforting weight in his hands. He wanted to look into that dark tunnel, and feel the thrill of Russian roulette; he was, after all, in Russia. He could see, in his mind's eye, the gaping chasm of his good intentions, yawning at his heels like an open grave. The farther, and faster he ran from it, the bigger it became and it was about to swallow him whole. He sat there, turning the knife over and over, balanced on the precipice. He could see the stains on his hands, even if nobody else could. This was the same knife. The one that had killed a stranger named Bruno— an eye for an eye, or so he had told himself at the time. He'd gotten it through airport security by taping it to the back of the title belt, packed inside its own protective case. They hadn't bothered to check it out— he felt safer with the knife. It was easy to rationalize it, with Shawn dead. His love was that strong, his convictions that concrete. But that was then and this was now. The carpet had been whisked out from under him, and he was falling down the rabbit hole. Everything was a lie.

"Lawrence, please put the knife down. You're scaring—"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" He screamed the words, spittle flying from his lips like foam as his head whipped around. "Why can't you just go away and leave me the motherfucking hell alone." He never swore, but right now it felt so damned liberating to let the expletives flow. "Get out of my locker room, you goddamned nuisance! I DON'T WANT YOU HERE!"

Chauncy bowed his head, taking in a deep breath. "Did you ever consider that perhaps I want to be here?"

Gowan didn't reply. Instead he deliberately turned away, catching sight of his own reflection staring back at him in the mirror on the wall, distorted at this angle. And that's how he felt, warped and out of focus. He thought he knew who he was. He flinched when he saw Chauncy moving towards him out of his peripheral vision. "Please..." he shuddered, "please don't touch me again."

Chauncy knelt beside him, touching his shoulder despite the warning. "Please calm down," he said softly, only to recoil when Gowan flailed, almost catching him in the face with an elbow.

"Get off me, you worthless little fucking F-FAGGOT!"

The youngest Rottonbottom brother cringed at the word, rocking back on his heels. "I will let that comment slide for now, but only because you've had a shock—"

"A shock?!" Gowan was incredulous, "is that what you call it? Right. A shock. I thought my brother was murdered and I stabbed a man in the guts with this goddamn knife and left him for dead—"

"What?" Chauncy's hand clapped over his mouth as he stared at Gowan in horror.

"I killed a man." He should have felt sick at that thought, but instead he felt nothing but an odd calm. Detachment. It was like watching himself on a television screen while munching on popcorn— some form of entertainment. So why did he feel so repulsive? He'd laid waste to another human being, even if the man was scum who deserved it, that didn't make it right. He'd broken a rule he held dear and become nothing better than those he'd hunted. He was garbage.

"Surely you're joking." Chauncy's voice shook and Gowan found himself relieved that the eighteen-year-old didn't try to touch him again.

His self-loathing was greater than any he had felt before. His body ached, but he didn't notice nor did he even care if he still held the World Title. Everything had changed in the blink of an eye, when his eyes had met those of the man he had called brother. He could tell himself that it was impossible— that Shawn was dead— it would just be more lies. He knew his brother's soul, and he had seen that in his eyes.

His own eyes were swollen, red rimmed and limned with weariness. He'd trusted Shooter. He'd allowed himself to be manipulated into chasing after the title belt because Duke had wanted to use him as a pawn. The thing that rankled most was that all the while, Shooter and Shawn were conspiring behind his back. He chuckled, and the sound was harsh, entirely unpleasant.

"Why? Why did you do it?"

"I didn't—"

"What sort of sick person would fake his own death... and let his... his... family... suffer like that? I thought I knew you, Shawn." Gowan stumbled to his feet, unsteady on legs that were trembling with the afterburn of adrenaline. Vodka. There was a fifth in his locker. Who visited Russia and didn't partake of the local beverages? When in Rome— he unscrewed the cap, and drank greedily of the contents, enjoying the burn as the tasteless liquid scorched his throat before igniting his stomach. He held up the bottle, and mockingly toasted his former tag team partner.

"He said he'd kill me if I didn't get sober." A sharp bark of hysterical laughter passed his lips as he turned around, stalking towards the door. He jerked it open, shouting into the deserted hallway. "Make good on your promise, Shawn... I'm right fucking here! KILL ME, YOU BASTARD!"

"Lawrence," Chauncy's hand fell on his shoulder only to be shrugged off again.

"What are you waiting for, huh? Take me out, you coward! TAKE ME OUT!" The tears were spilling down his face, his hand fisted so tight around the vodka bottle that his fingers ached.

"Larry, pl—" the words died as Gowan turned around, the knife that was still in his hand grazing Chauncy's stomach. He jumped backwards, but not in time to save the button on his shirt.

"He can bring it all he wants," Gowan muttered, "doesn't know who he's dealing with anymore. I'm not the same person I was... I've... changed."

He let the empty bottle fall from his fingers, not noticing as it bounced and rolled away. The knife was still in his hand... his eyes locked on the mirror as he inched closer and closer to his troubled reflection. The blade kissed the glass, making a sharp squeal as it bounced out of his grip. He didn't notice. He looked deep, into his own eyes, and what he saw horrified him. Evil. His eyes were silvery, colorless and flat, like dirty dimes. His face was hard lines, his cheekbones more prominent than before. Five o'clock shadow graced his cheeks and chin, making the waxen pallor all the more noticeable. He looked like a man on the verge of collapse.

His fist lashed out, connecting with the center of his reflected face, shattering the glass. Broken bits fell, glimmering silver, a thousand warped reflections of himself. An eye here... a nose there— he felt just as shattered— broken in a million places, never to be repaired. His heart ached, filled with a gaping loneliness. It made him want to kill those who had made him feel this way. The anger was all-consuming and he was choking on it. He'd kill them all. Chauncy. Shooter. Shawn— the last bullet he'd save for himself.

"Just answer me this, Shawn? Are you happy? Did fucking with my LIFE make you smile? I swear to GOD... you will pay for this. Look at what you've made, Shawn... admire your handiwork!"

So easy to lay the blame on Shawn. The World Title sat on the bench, mocking him. Was it worth all this? Was that sliver of fame worth the complete destruction of himself?

"I hate you," the words came out in a hoarse whisper, clogged with tears as he held up his arm, inspecting it in the half-light. The scars were still there, fading away, still visible if one looked close. He knelt slowly, and plucked up a shard of glass, looking at his distorted image before running the jagged edge slowly over his arm. Blood welled, and he felt satisfied, sated for a moment as he let the evil bleed out. Cutting himself open told a story without the need of clumsy words— the breach in his body's integrity was akin to his soul dripping on the carpet. He could stop the cutting but that wouldn't stop the pain. It could never stop the shards of his shattered soul, the jagged fragments of his innocence from shredding his psyche.

Chauncy's hand closed over his wrist, squeezing it hard enough to make his fingers relax. The shard fell and joined its brethren. "Please don't hurt yourself like this," the young man whispered, pulling Gowan into his embrace. "It kills me to watch you do this."

"Then don't watch," he tried to twist out of Chauncy's grip, but the boy was too strong. Guilt was tearing him apart, and the tears that coursed down his cheeks were hot with regret. His sobs caught in his throat as he buried his face in Chauncy's shoulder. "Don't leave me," he sputtered through labored breaths.

"I won't, Lawrence. I..." he almost said the words, biting them back at the last moment. The last thing he needed was to hear those three words from some 'worthless little faggot'. "I'm here," he concluded softly, hugging his former partner tight.


Mark Bishop was sitting backstage, twiddling his thumbs, when his cell phone began to ring. Normally he would have ignored this, but he was bored. Rumble in Russia had come and gone sometime ago, and although the media was abuzz with the return of Shawn Stevens, seemingly from the dead, Mark still had nothing to do. Weekly shows, as a general rule, were boring when compared to the hoopla and hype of Pay-Per-View events. He was still lurking, waiting to catch a scoop now that another Sunday Night Impact had gone off the air. Most of the superstars were headed back to their hotels, some for the airport, and still Mark lingered. Some sixth sense told him there was still a scoop to be had here, in the nearly deserted Joe Louis Arena.

He pulled the phone from the holster clipped to his belt and flipped it open, not bothering to look at the caller ID. "Bishop here."

"Mark! Thank God I finally got a hold of someone. Are you still at the arena?"

Bishop's brow furrowed in concentration— the voice seemed familiar, but for the life of him he couldn't place it. He hesitated before replying. Almost as though his caller could hear the unspoken question, he snapped with irritation. "It's Jackson, fucknut! Listen, Mark... are you at the arena or not?"

The hostility was evident in Mark's voice as he visibly bristled. He didn't like Jackson, he never had. "What difference does it make to you?"

The sigh that came through the line was filled with frustration. "Mark. I know you and I've never been friends, but this has nothing to do with us right now. Are you still at the arena? Just give me a straight fucking answer!"

Mark rolled his eyes, and finally answered the question, his voice dripping with disdain. "Fine. I'll play your stupid game. Yes, I'm at the arena. I suppose now I'm supposed to ask why?"

Jackson seemed to take a moment to gather his thoughts, and then the sound of screeching tires and honking horns filled the silence. After an earsplitting moment, his voice came back over the line. "Sorry about that... listen, Mark... I'm on my way there... hell; I'll be there in about two minutes or less. Tell me this, have you seen Larry tonight?"

Something in Jackson's voice made Mark reconsider his snarky reply; the guy sounded beside himself with worry. "Um, yeah... he wrestled Matt Walker in the Main Event tonight. Why?"

"I... Christ, I hope we're not too late. I hope he's still there..."

Now it was Bishop's turn to sound worried. "He's still here as far as I know. I've been hanging out by the exit doors— it's the only way out. If he left, I woulda seen him. Brad... too late? For what?"

"To stop him from doing something foolish. You said you're at the back doors?"

"Yeah."

"Knock. Knock."

And almost immediately after those words were spoken, someone began to pound on the steel door behind him. Bishop gasped, and then closed the phone, returning it to its holster before casually strolling over to the door. He shoved in the bar, and eased the door open, finding himself face to face with a distraught looking Brad Jackson. Thunder rumbled overhead, and lightning flashed ominously as Brad shoved past Bishop, clearly out of breath. He started down the hall, and paused only when Mark grabbed the back of his shirt.

"Whoa. Where are you going in such a hurry?"

"What are you, deaf? I told you... I'm going to find Larry." Brad glowered at Mark, his expression fierce. Something was definitely wrong. Jackson looked like shit— as if he'd slept in the clothes he was wearing or had just rolled out of bed. Perhaps he had. It was after all, nearly one in the morning. Brad held something clenched in his hand, and to Mark, it looked like a scrap of yellow paper, like those legal tablets lawyers use.

Bishop stood his ground, blocking the narrow hallway with his arms folded. He matched Jackson's intense glare with one of his own. "Not without me, you're not. Level with me, Jax... what the hell's going on?"

Instead of answering, Brad thrust the paper in Mark's face. "You want to know, Mark? Read it... but do it quick— while we walk."

Bishop took the paper and smoothed it against the wall, ironing out the sweaty creases. His eyes moved over the words, hastily scrawled on the lines, and the closer he got to the end, the more ashen he grew. "Oh my God. Where did you get this?"

"He left it at the hotel's front desk for me—"

"Is he seriously going to—"

"We don't have time for speculation! That tea-sucking British fuckwit was supposed to keep an eye on him. I didn't know it was this bad."

Bishop nodded, and then turned on his heel, almost sprinting down the corridor, leaving Brad no alternative but to follow as he tossed his last words over his shoulder. "Come on, I know where his locker room is!"