THIRTY-SEVEN: Sixteen Tons (of Demons) [AGW]

This outing had been postponed by a day and the strain had almost been too much to bear – Bruce had been walking on eggshells for weeks as it was and the delay in Toronto with the AGW show just made it seem like he was choosing other things over her yet again. He'd finally made it home and now they were out in the wilderness. This father/daughter day had been planned in hopes of the two of them starting to patch up a lifetime of hurt.

For Sam, as she was commonly known, these feelings had been brewing for years and only recently had started to flow over. She was having trouble keeping them in check. She'd always been in control of her emotions, had learned at an early age when her family life had been torn apart, that there wasn't anyone who was going to help her process what she felt so she had to do it on her own. After her parents split up and her mother Charity was beside herself, Sam was the one who made sure things were taken care of – she'd been thirteen – it shouldn't have fallen on her shoulders then but she'd stepped in and made sure the little things were done until her mother was able to function again. She'd never said as much to anyone, but she'd been under the assumption that her feelings didn't matter. Circumstances, time and time again, had cemented that thought until she believed it with all her heart.

As she walked beside her father through some trees, she wasn't saying much. She was lost in her own thoughts, occasionally responding to Bruce's attempts to make small talk but her responses were flat and monosyllabic at best. Usually when they were together, she'd talk his ear off about the latest book she'd been reading or a podcast she'd started listening to. This time, she just nodded and forced herself to smile. A part of her wished she hadn't agreed to this, had actually let the delay be a sign that it wasn't meant to be.

Bruce had the tendency to lapse into silence when he was trying to assess a situation. He'd learned that a long time ago, through the process of his career and every failed personal relationship that he'd had along the way. Listening was the most important part of communication and he'd obviously failed in that regard where his eldest daughter was concerned. He let the girl get a little bit ahead of him, deliberately slowing his pace as he looked at the ground, seeing a little patch of clover in the shade. "We should come back here again," he finally broke the silence, the words coming out so casually, "mebbe next weekend. Bring the cameras."

"What?" Sam stopped walking, turning around to stare at him and there was something in her expression that wasn't just confusion.

"Still got the ol' Nikon, don't you?"

"Yeah," she shrugged, "probably in one of my boxes at your guys' house." Photography had been something that she'd bonded with her father over at an early age and she'd even gone to a year of college for it. However, it had been a long time since she'd picked up a camera; one of her biggest passions had gone to the wayside and him bringing it up now just felt so much like salt in those already-raw wounds. "I haven't really taken any pictures in awhile."

The news floored him and he felt a little stab of emotion in his guts, wondering just how much he'd missed in those years he'd been gone. He'd spent so much time teaching her the tricks of the trade, teaching her when it was best to go with digital and when the old school film was truly the best choice. They'd had a darkroom set up in the garage when he'd walked out of their lives – they used to go on walks like this, take photos and try to one-up each other with the presentation. She'd been far better than him in every way; her eye for depth and dimension was out of this world. "Oh." It came out like a soft exhalation as he bent and plucked a handful of greenery, looking at the bits on his palm. They all had three leaves, were nothing special at all and he let them fall and be snatched by the breeze before speaking again. "We'll have to get you a new one... that's gotta be fit for a museum by now."

"I'm sure it still works fine." The way she said it, coupled with her posture, screamed prickly defiance and he wasn't sure what he'd stepped in. She looked so much like her mother in that moment that it made his heart ache.

"Am sure it does. Never were careless-"

His daughter snorted laughter and rolled her eyes. "You're right. That was the one thing I always put the most effort into. I took some really good pictures in my freshman year of college... not that you'd know." The pictures had been good enough to be displayed in a gallery in downtown Orlando – one of the proudest moments of her life. She'd invited her father and just like always, he'd let her down. The smile she gave him was brittle. "Other things came up, I guess. Things change, right?" She shrugged as she shook her head, adding, "it wasn't the camera though." For a long time, that camera had been her most prized possession.

"Things change," Bruce nodded, cocking his head as he studied her in that silence that followed. He pulled a damp bandana from his back pocket, using it to mop the sweat from his forehead before taking a few steps closer. He stared at her defiant posture, something niggling in the back of his mind. He remembered a phone call from her, the excitement in her voice when she asked if he could come to Florida for a weekend. He'd agreed without even checking his schedule, only to find out that he was booked in a tag team championship match the same day. Just another of the series of poor choices in his life that plagued him with a 'what-if' scenario. What if he'd gone to see his daughter instead of competing, instead of chasing that elusive glory? Would he still be wrestling now, desperate to feel that spotlight rush again or would things be completely different?

"I remember," he finally said, "spring of 2017, wasn't it?"

She shut her eyes as she turned away from him. That was supposed to have been one of the greatest nights of her life and it had all fallen apart in an instant. "Que sera sera..." she laughed, but there wasn't anything amusing about it. "What about it?"

A sigh passed his lips as he pulled one of the bottles of water from the pocket of his cargo shorts, holding it out to her. "Is that why the camera's in a box of junk, forgotten? Because I didn't come tae see the work hanging on a wall – Jesus Christ, Siobahn. Tell me that's not the whole of it."

Shaking her head, she muttered, "I don't wanna talk about it."

Bruce wouldn't stop, though. He'd found that thread and he was determined to pull it now and see what unravelled. "Honey, surely you know, there's no reality where kingdoms crumble an' fall if I'm not in attendance."

"It's been over three years." Her tone was flat, "so why should it matter now?" As she stared at her father, it was becoming more obvious that she was holding something back. "You're right, it was just a picture on a wall and it's fine you didn't see it." She shrugged again; her arms were now more wrapped around her than they were folded. "Other things came up and they took priority. No big deal." It was, though; she just didn't want to talk about it.

"Three years. Aye," he nodded, opening the water and taking a drink of it himself, "Doin' my best here. Can't put the pieces together if you're gonna..." he shook his head, clearly frustrated and not really understanding why. There was something else here, something far deeper than jealousy over a fledgling wrestler who believed she was a vampyre or resentment that he'd been gone for far too long.

"If I'm gonna what?" She snapped, turning to glare at him.

"Three years, luv. We never talked about it. Never came tae me, told me about this decision tae leave school. Never knew until last year – could've been something great." The next words came out laced with disgust, "could've been much more than arm candy, some little trophy for him tae put on the shelf with all the rest of his trinkets."

Her eyes widened as she continued to stare at Bruce, the words about her husband cutting deep. "It's not like you ever came to me about any decisions you ever made." She threw the words back at him. "You got remarried and didn't even tell me." She could feel tears welling up in her eyes and she blinked them away, but her blue eyes only shimmered. "Besides, it's not like you were invested in my so-called career, couldn't even choose me over some fucking wrestling match. How many people were in the audience that night? Fifteen? Twenty?"

He winced, feeling the bite of her disdain. "Five hundred, give or take." He wasn't even sure why he felt like he needed to explain, to defend the time wasted on a team that nobody would ever remember.

"Everything else was more important than me-"

"Never told her I had a daughter, for as much as yeh wanna be pissed at me for it, may as well have the whole truth." He threw the words at her, unable to check his temper in time and the expression on her face made him feel like the worst sort of asshole.

"Reinvented yourself by pretending I never existed." Her hand came out and gave him a thumbs up. "Nice, Wrestle Da, really."

"Oh, piss off." He walked a few steps away from her, trying to pull back the anger as he let the backpack slip from his shoulders. It fell to the grass and he sat down next to it. "Want a line-by-line confession, hmm?" He looked up at her, glad that his eyes were hidden behind the sunglasses. It was easy enough to pretend the sun's glare was responsible for the sheen of tears rather than the painful situation that lay before him. "We're here. Nobody around for miles. May as well let it all out."

He threw her a bottle of water from the pack, not at all shocked when she let it fall to the ground at her feet.

"Wanna rake me over the coals for the Grace situation... for running off tae Texarkana three years ago, gotta trace it back a little further than that. Wasn't right in the head. For a few years after..." he took another gulp of water, "lost Jaxon. Lost you... yer Ma. Felt like parts of me were missing. I wasn't trying tae run from it all. Just felt easier tae patch over the holes, throw on a fresh coat of paint."

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Forget all about the family you left behind, you mean."

"No." The word came out hard. "Never once for a second. Oh aye, covered over all the baggage, all the broken bits within me – put on a smile. Be the best version of meself." He ran the back of his hand across his lips, "eleven months later, was back in Henderson... back in that little room above that bar without a penny of income. That's what you wanna hear, innit? How handily it all came crashin' down 'round my ears? Does that make you happy?"

It was nearly impossible for her to pinpoint what she was feeling, but there was a desperate need to keep the subject from shifting back to the night she didn't want to talk about. "I..."

"Goan then," Bruce muttered, shaking his head. "Tell me that it's my fault – shoulders're broad enough for the load."

"That's not..." she sighed, shaking her head. It was something she'd never actually come to terms with herself, at least fully. "It's not like you reached out and asked me how school was going. I'd have told you I dropped out. Wasn't a big secret." No, but the circumstances surrounding it were.

He stared at her for a few seconds, having to force himself not to mirror her body language because it was pushing all his buttons. He wanted to fight, to blow off the self-directed anger and loathing that was welling up from that box he'd had sealed off, deep down, so long ago. "You don't wanna call me Da anymore, that's fine. Feel like I've sullied it... wasn't ever my intention. Don't matter none, really. When all this other shit's stripped away... that's who I'll always be. Ten. Twenty. Fuckin' fifty years from now, what's gonna matter? Some dusty belt on a shelf, some timeline of greatest hits or some weird little vampyre bint runnin' off tae the homestead in Scotland? Or the fact that the McLeod name lives on... the fact that my blood... your Ma's blood... fuckin' Papa Vicky Donimari's blood... is runnin' in your veins?"

The mention of her beloved grandfather caused a tear to finally break free and slide down her cheek. After Bruce had left, Vic had moved in and done his best to be there for his granddaughter. When he died, it felt as though she had lost another father. She turned away from Bruce, not wanting him to see her lose her composure. When it had happened a few weeks back, she'd felt weak after.

"I don't talk about that weekend..."

"What..." he started to ask and then realized where she'd gone with it.

"I can't." It was clear she was struggling as her hand came up and rested over her chest. "It's gonna change everything."

Sighing, Bruce pushed up to his feet and walked closer to where she stood, holding out his arms to her. "C'mere, then."

Sam turned and with her arms wrapped around herself, she took the few steps over to where Bruce was. Her complexion had paled and there were more tears in her eyes. "It's ah, over with, yanno? I mean nothing I can do about it now."

He wrapped his arms around her wordlessly, hugging her the way he had when she was much, much smaller. "It's over," he echoed, suspecting he knew what troubled her and if that were the case, he would never ask for her to say any of it aloud. "Don't have tae tell me, Possum. The details... not gonna make a difference, either way."

There was a certain amount of strength that came from her father's arms around her. The words that had felt so stuck before, seemed to loosen enough for her to at least get some of it out. "After the gallery thing there was a party on campus. I was angry 'cause you weren't there and I let guys I didn't know give me drinks and... I woke up in a bed that I didn't recognize and my clothes were trashed...." For a moment, she buried her head in Bruce's shoulder, her arms tightening around him.

He closed his eyes against the images that popped into his head, of seeing his daughter violated like some plaything.

"I didn't... I couldn't remember anything." She bit down hard enough on her lower lip to draw blood. "A week or two later, I was developing film in my camera and... they took pictures. Gross and graphic and..." her voice came out as a raw whisper, "I burned 'em and packed the camera away. I couldn't pick it up without seeing them."

Bruce said nothing for a few moments, his heart breaking for the girl. No wonder she hated him, had harbored such resentment for so long. He'd let her down in the worst possible way and now the things she'd said at poolside made so much more sense, about how she'd needed him there to protect her from those advances. "Jesus," the word came out soft, his arms still wrapped around her even as he stepped back slightly, just enough so that he could look at her, so that she could see the emotion he was doing his best to hold back, the feelings he couldn't possibly put into words.

"You..." Sam struggled to fill the silence with something because she felt like the most broken thing in the world now that all the demons in her head had been loosed from their cage. "You were gone for so long and..." she trailed off, unsure of how to continue that sentence.

"And time isn't a commodity." He finished the thought for her, looking grim. "Stuck with me for a while yet. Not quite ready tae shuffle off this mortal coil. We've a little time still, aye? Best use it wisely."



It's after midnight and I'm sitting here in the office of the bar I own. Should have gone home hours ago but can't bring myself to move. Too damned sore, exhaustion making me feel that ripple-sensation of waves, like I've been floating in the pool until my toes're shrivelled prunes. Overdid it today with that damned tire flipping but was my best time yet. There's been progress. Steady for the last ten months and I feel better than I did when I was thirty-five. There may be enough time to recover, provided it doesn't run out for good before Monday night. If it does, then this will be the last thing you hear from me. No pressure, aye? Best to make it the best I've ever writ, then. Feeling a little too introspective today, a little too much like those sleepless nights in my twenties where I sat out under the stars, writing poetry that nobody ever read. I thought I could be profound then, could be an artist. Never really figured that out, though. How to captivate an audience, I mean.

The music is muffled – just the jukebox playing on random shuffle in the corner because there are only a few patrons now that restrictions have finally been lifted enough for the place to reopen. A few regulars, the folks who were waiting for the green light – one sits at the end of the bar, watching my tender. There's a story there, something I would dig a little deeper into if I wasn't already up to my elbows in my own bullshit. She watches him go about his business, stocking the shelves because the shipment came in late tonight. He pretends not to notice but when she's not here, he's quieter. He's more withdrawn. Maybe he just likes having a captive audience. Maybe love's blossoming under this unlikely roof, under my nose.

I can't help but feel a parallel, as if I'm projecting my own baggage.

There's a bottle of whiskey on the desk but I'm not trying to erase anything tonight. I'm not looking for an answer at the bottom of the glass – I don't want to be numb. I was drinking a toast to absent friends, to those who have passed beyond the veil. Never really get the proper amount of time to grieve, not when there's a strict schedule to adhere to. I'm sure someone is going to question what's happened since Toronto, going to wonder why my social media activity seems to have fallen off and I wonder how much of that has to do with the fact that I was treading dangerously close to becoming some sort of hobbyist dealer, handing out thrills for the masses. Was never my intention. Am not here to collect red hearts and green retweets – there's no extra payout at the end of the rainbow for that kind of gross manipulation, as much as it pains me to admit.

There's a shift in the wind and I can't tell if it's internal or external right now. Maybe it's a change in season. Maybe it's the fact that it's been almost a year since I laced up those boots and returned to the ring. The demons are loose tonight, screaming like banshees so it's best to drown them out. Water them down a little so we can get them back in their box, get that lid back on for a little while longer. It feels like I'm running out of time. It feels like I'm standing still while the world rushes by and this whole time I thought I was going at it in top gear.

There's too much damage to really address, so many secrets that need to stay buried. Some things never change, as much as I want them to.

Craving extinction, my thoughts drive me out of existence like some endangered species. The last honest man on this planet, gone in a splash of blood on pavement. Willing myself into nothing is better than letting the sands rushing through the hourglass scour me raw.

Here's the truth as I know it.

I'm almost fifty.

I've fallen short reaching for championships four times over the last year. Earned the shots. Worked my way up. And failed to get the job done. Not once. Not twice. Not even thrice. See, I could write those off as a fluke. I could say that's just someone else being better in those precious three seconds that truly matter. The last one though? I got smashed into a wall. I got up. I kept fighting because this fucked up part of me was screaming like a hungry newborn... like a goddamn junkie in need of another fix. Time ran out. Oh aye, there's the rub. There's the end of the story, foretold and foreshadowed.

But that's what this business does to us, isn't it? We're all like Pavlov's dog when confronted with a taste of glory. Ring the bell and we'll salivate.

I'm trying to lay low, to think of nothing but a yawning void, the great nothing of literary license to eclipse the poison eating up my brain. A thought so fucking overwhelming, so bleak and black that it knocks me on my arse. So it kicks me into extinction long enough for me to catch my breath, and get my bearings back. Just a second of peace. I can't go out there like this, not against her.

Bleeding internally – sharks can still smell that.

I want for a different thing now. A delivery unto a different place, a better narrative than the one I'm saddled with now – I can't let the demons win. I can't let them take my daughter from me. I can't let them strip me of my opportunity. AJ Jenkynx was silenced, fled like a scalded dog to a place where he didn't have to try as hard. Happy Face disappeared from the roster, likely committed for good to the Tranquil Falls Sanitarium. Good riddance to bad rubbish – that was something my dearly departed Ma always said. Two duckies down. One more and I get a prize. That's how the game works, isn't it?

Am not that naïve, folks. Just being a cheeky cunt, like usual.

One more win and the balance tips from fluke to streak. I need that to happen. I've given too much of myself for this pursuit not to see it through to the bitter end but all I want tonight is to crawl into another world, and beg for entry. Maybe I could lie myself into a better place.

Take a look in the mirror at this sad sucker in the straitjacket of misapprehension, and realize right here, right now is the only place I want to be. Demons or not. Wounds or not. I can't let anyone take this from me.

This reality is mine. Bought and paid for – a soul mortgaged for empty promises. Sixteen years... sixteen tonnes (of letdown). What does a fella get? Another year older and deeper in debt? Old truths are the best truths, aren't they? Oh aye. They are at that.

Can't kill me, Knightfall. Can't siphon, can't drag my spirit back to the abyss as a pet OR a plaything.

Sorry, luv.

I already owe my soul to the company store.