JABBERWOCKY: ’Twas Brillig [UNTELEVISED, PrimeTime VII #1]

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"

He chortled in his joy.

You can't be a hero when nobody believes in you.

Max looked up from the website he was staring at, blinking blearily before removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes. Thinking he heard someone trying to say something to him, he reached out and muted the TV, silencing the vintage wrestling match Bret Hart and Goldberg. In the sudden silence, he could hear the rhythmic sound of the sewing machine from the spare room, realizing he couldn't have possibly heard Rayna when she was in the middle of making something.

"Probably nothing," he muttered to himself, getting up and stretching. His back was tender, still sore from the match the night before and he felt a thousand years old as he shuffled into the kitchen, pulling one of the many ice packs from the freezer. With a sigh, he draped it across his shoulder, tucking it down the back of his shirt. Leaning against the counter, Max closed his eyes and tried like hell to clear his mind of the useless pretensions that came with being a professional wrestler. Right now, at this moment, he felt like shit. He felt like the sorry joke that people had accused him of being, as though someone like him held no place in an industry that willingly embraced the Barron Boneius and Ruxx Rampedes of the world. He quit thinking about what was Max or what was the so-called Handicapped Hero; fell into himself without the pretensions of either. He could feel the darkness clawing at him in a way that it hadn't for a couple years and he found himself wondering why he kept at it when the whole universe was trying to tell him to give up.

You're never going to be a champion. Not as long as I'm here.

Lifting his head, he frowned, taking a few steps towards the hallway – he could still hear the sewing machine. Could still hear the soft sounds of the music his wife was playing while she worked.

I know you can hear me.

Thinking he'd left something playing on his laptop, he shuffled back towards the living room and the coffee table where he'd left it. The screen was dark and he felt a sudden impulse to shut the screen because that black space seemed too much like it was judging him somehow, like that void was a reflection of something deeper. He felt drained, physically and mentally and a part of him hated the thought that he was sidelined for the upcoming show, even though he knew he needed the rest. There were still parts of his body that were tender from the match with Priscilla.

He also knew that a week off was going to give him too much time to get stuck in his own head, reviewing the footage of his past failures, looking for the key to unlock a success next time. He knew that was futile because Priscilla Kelly was a master of the long game, the one who saw the big picture like one of those Magic Eye things he'd never been able to get to work for him. She saw the sailboat, the mermaid, the cute puppy dog when he just saw a jumble of chaos. And maybe that was what set her apart from the rest.

He used to think he was unique, that raging against his own body's limitations made him special or outstanding or even remarkable in some way. Now he just wanted to let the void swallow him whole, chew him up and digest him because maybe he'd find himself changed into something more useful by the process.

"Fertilizer," he muttered as he snapped the laptop's lid closed firmly, "pushing up daisies is better than counting flowers on the wall."

He'd been telling himself that for years, the calm assurance that taking in all the garbage around him was going to better the world – as long as he had a smile ready, it was going to be okay. He'd developed that shield of sarcasm before he'd graduated middle school and it had been his best armor through the worst of times. They couldn't cut him down if he did it first. That was the reason he'd put the universal handicapped symbol on his gear. That was the reason he'd adopted the 'Handicapped Hero' moniker. He rubbed it in their faces, made sure everyone knew he was a disabled pro wrestler when he could have lied about the visible issue with his hand. He could have pretended it was an injury and kept the truth hidden from the bookers and the fans alike.

A part of him wondered what that reality would have been like, if he'd begun his journey in this profession based on the back of a lie. Would he have held championships by now? Would he have been successful? Would he even be working for a company like AWF?

He envied the freedom Priscilla had. She could do whatever she wanted and the world seemed absolutely fine with that. There were no repercussions. There were no consequences. Nobody had seen fit to overturn her win even though she'd cheated to accomplish it. Nobody (save Rockstar Spud) had actually acknowledged that asterisk that belonged there next to her name. The more he dwelt on it, the more it had begun to fester deep within him. The resentment was like an infection, poisoning him from within and he couldn't stop the hatred and self-loathing that bubbled up like pus to the surface.

Right now, he felt like he was taking precautionary measures to keep his sanity from exploding under the onslaught of his profession. Somewhere along the way, he'd lost track of himself, and the delineation between the man and the role he played when cameras were rolling had dissolved like sugar in water.

Max. Maxi-Pad. Loser Maximus. HELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. I know you can hear me. STOP PRETENDING YOU CAN'T. MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAXXXX!

Frowning, he turned back towards the hallway, calling out even as he walked towards his wife's craft room. "Bunny? Need something?"

She barely glanced up at him, clearly distracted. "Hmmm?"

"I thought I heard you call me."

She shook her head, eyes dropping back to the silky blue fabric she was sewing. "I didn't say anything."

"Oh. I probably left a video playing on my laptop." He shrugged and turned away, knowing he was lying to himself. He'd definitely heard someone saying his name although it had been so muffled, now he wasn't sure. "I should..." he turned back towards the door, feeling like an idiot for barging in on her. "I'm gonna go check on that."

"Okay." When he hesitated in the doorway, Rayna looked up and stopped what she was doing, her brow furrowed as she studied him. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah," Max lied, nodding as he forced that self-deprecating smile of his into place. "I just got a little sidetracked, watching some of those old wrestling tapes I had digitized. Lost track of time. You want me to start something for dinner?"

She shook her head, "no. I'll start it – not sure how long this'll take to finish. I really wanna get it done tonight, before we have another booking for Cinderella."

Max nodded, "sure. I'll be out in the garage then. Might as well get a little core work in while I can."

She made a noncommittal sound, already back to the new dress she was making. Her business was booming, so much so that she'd actually hired three more girls to work with her. She spent more of her time maintaining and making the outfits, fixing up the wigs and organizing things than she did actually performing at the parties – the fact that she was making far more money entertaining children than he did wasn't really a sore spot. He was thrilled to see her succeeding at the business she'd built from the ground up, mostly as a giant middle finger to her asshole parents who'd said she'd never amount to anything if she didn't stay in school.

Max trailed the fingertips of his good hand over the wall as he made his way back through to the kitchen, skimming a few inches below the framed photographs and a few inches above the wainscoting, perfectly centered between them. He always did this, not really even noticing anymore. It had just become another part of the routine after they'd moved in and gotten the house arranged the way they liked. It had taken almost a year and there were still a few boxes down in the crawlspace that would probably stay that way until their next move. Things that went unnoticed that long tended to be forgotten, after all. He had gotten used to calling himself a hero, hiding behind a role that he thought he'd earned through hard work and perseverance.

It had taken the clash with Priscilla to truly drive the point home: he wasn't even remotely close to being a hero, a champion. At one time, he'd thought it suited him. Now, it was as hollow a concept as the rest of the business. He'd believed that the only acting he did was on screen. Now, in this moment, he realized that wasn't true. He was always acting. He wasn't really sure how to turn it off now, how to stop pretending.

The door that connected the garage to the house was in the kitchen and he realized he'd left the freezer door partly open when he'd grabbed the now-warm ice pack. It felt like only a few minutes ago but there was already a puddle on the floor from the melting ice that loved to gather on the bottom of the sliding drawer. How long had he been standing there, staring at the dark screen of his laptop?

He plucked the pack from his shoulder, filled with the irrational urge to squeeze it in his fist until it exploded that blue goo all over the room. Instead he tossed it inside and kicked the drawer shut hard enough to make sure it actually closed this time.

You're getting warmer, now.

He took off his glasses again, setting them on the counter and he lifted his good hand up to rub the ache in his temple. Another headache was brewing. Another sigh passed his lips as he pushed the door open, bare feet stepping down on the rubber mats that he'd installed a few weeks ago. The space still smelled vaguely like them, like some off-brand sporting goods at Walmart. He flicked on the light and froze when he caught sight of the severed head of Priscilla Kelly's statue sitting in the middle of his weight bench. He could have sworn he'd left the damned thing in the trunk of the car, but here it was, that gross mockery shining and grinning at him.

Wait. Grinning?

He couldn't remember what the previous expression had been, but he could have sworn it wasn't full of malevolent glee.

I knew you could hear me!

Max shook his head, disbelief written all over his face as he heard that insidious voice echoing in his ears, rattling around in his head. "No. Oh hell no."

Don't look so surprised. We both knew it was only a matter of time before you opened yourself up to me. Admit it, Maxi-Pad. You can't stop thinking about me. I know what's in your head. I know-

He closed his eyes, feeling like he was stuck in some campy horror movie.

Oh no!

Priscilla's statue mocked him, her voice a sing-song falsetto.

You're losing your mind, Maxi-Pad. You poor, poor thing. What are we going to do with you?

TO BE CONTINUED...