FIFTY: Darkness Settles In [WW#4]

"Then there's hope for us yet."

Her ex-husband's words were still echoing in her mind, leaving her so conflicted that she couldn't bring herself to get out of the car. She'd been sitting here for hours, staring up at the unassuming hotel that stretched towards the rapidly darkening sky. A storm had been slowly rolling in, brought on by the unseasonably warm temperatures but she'd been oblivious – she wanted to hate him, had all but convinced herself that the part of her heart that his memory lived in had atrophied and died off when she'd found those divorce papers on the nightstand. She could still see that seedy motel room when she closed her eyes, could still remember how that musty nicotine-stained room and their mingled sweat smelled. Resting her forehead against the steering wheel, she tried to calm down, feeling almost as though she'd just gotten off the Cyclone at Coney Island. Of course, the last time she'd been there, she had still been barely out of her teens, drunk on love and the thrill of feeling weightless and out of control. Now she felt vaguely sick, as though someone had her stomach in a vice grip.

She knew if she went up to the room, the distance that she'd created over the last two years would be shattered in an instant. They'd fall back into their toxic patterns because when it came right down to it, she was still head over heels in love with him – there was no denying it. Having him on the opposite coast was an excuse, made it easier to tiptoe around that void in her life that was still shaped like Bruce. When he'd told her where he was staying, she knew that no matter how much she tried to talk herself out of falling into old patterns that she'd be right in the spot she currently occupied. There was no use in entertaining any thoughts that she'd be leaving without going to Bruce's room, she didn't have the willpower.

Without grabbing her bag, she finally got out of her car and took a few minutes too long in trying to fix her appearance. She'd changed into an olive green off the shoulders dress with a pair of flip flops. She'd applied a touch of make-up and had let her hair air-dry after her shower, leaving it in the sort of beachy waves that were all the rage these days.

Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might burst right out of her chest.

"...there's hope for us yet." She said the words aloud, testing them out with a rueful chuckle, knowing she was hopeless. It was hard to snuff out the spark of hope that had been rekindled – she'd thought it was extinguished when he tossed her aside like yesterday's trash. All he had to do was open the door a crack and she'd go barging through with all the grace of a bull in a china shop.

She wondered if he knew he held that power, still.

The elevator ride up to his room was excruciating, feeling like an eternity and a split second at the same time and a moment later she was standing in the hall outside of the room, her arms wrapped around her middle. She felt sick now, knowing it was nerves. This was reckless endangerment of the worst kind and she hoped she didn't vomit on his shoes the moment he opened the door. She knocked and it seemed as though an eternity passed before she heard the rattle of the lock on the other side before the door started to open.

His hair was wet and he was shirtless, wearing nothing but one of those oversized white hotel towels. When he saw her standing there, that old familiar smirk crossed his lips, showing off that dimple in his cheek – she could tell by the glassy look to his eyes that he was dangerously close to drunk. "Hello, love." Looking her up and down, the smirk turned into a lascivious grin – she'd changed her hair and while she was dressed a bit more conservatively than she'd been for the graduation ceremony; she still looked incredible, though. Bruce took a step back, almost bowing slightly. "Come on in."

"Thanks." Her reply was soft as she accepted his invitation and entered his room. The moment she'd laid eyes on him, her cheeks had gone red. She turned and shut the door behind her and folded her arms against her chest. "It's a nice room." It was, with floor-to-ceiling windows and what was no doubt a spectacular view of Times Square. She wondered how he could afford to stay here but she didn't want to pry. It was easier to study her surroundings so that she didn't have to focus on him and the fact that he was in just that towel. "So... what do you wanna talk about?" The hostility she'd shown him on the phone and at the graduation ceremony was gone. It was replaced with apprehension.

He stared at her for a few seconds, trying for the life of him to remember what he'd said to her. Now that the adrenaline had faded and he no longer felt cornered with the worst parts of his life on display, the urgency had fled. When she hadn't shown up, he'd cracked the seal on a bottle of Jameson, assuming that he'd been mistaken. He'd probably seen what he wanted to in her body language – sheer desperation. "Ah, ye know..." he shrugged, realizing by the heavy silence that she was waiting for him to reply, "this an' that."

The towel suddenly seemed lewd, as though he was trying to force something to happen rather than having been trying to slice some of the whiskey sweats away when he'd heard her knocking on the door. "Lemme jus'..." he turned on his heel and walked into the bedroom.

He knew eventually he was going to have to tell her about Vegas, about the promises he'd made and the things he'd gone along with in the moment because he couldn't stand to be alone with himself these days. What would she think if she knew about the blonde Amazon with the oxymoronic name of Grace that was currently sharing his bed? Right now, he couldn't find the right words to even begin to broach that subject. The fact that she'd shown up, the fact that she seemed to have put some thought into her appearance, had him thinking things that were much less pure.

As soon as his back was to her, she couldn't stop herself from staring: he looked damn good, as fit as he'd been when he'd started wrestling professionally, back when their daughter was still a toddler. Once he was out of sight, she went to work adjusting her dress so that it hung in the right places. All the while she cursed herself for falling into more old patterns and she couldn't stop thinking about the song she'd heard on the radio before turning off the car.

And I'd give up forever to touch you...

She took a seat on the nearby couch, crossing her legs, her dress short enough to show off her legs from the thigh down.

Bruce emerged from the bedroom a moment later, clad in a pair of worn jeans and a threadbare Harley Davidson tee that she remembered all too well. He scrubbed at his wet hair with the towel, leaving it mussed in a way that was reminiscent of old times – or would have been, had it not been far more silver-shot than it used to be. With a chuckle, he threw the towel down and looked over at her. "There's beer in the fridge. Whiskey too, if you're so inclined."

"Trying to get me drunk?" She couldn't help but smile a bit as she rested her hands in her lap.

"Trying tae be civil," he quipped right back, "thought mebbe an offer of an adult bevvie'd cut the tension." As if to prove his own point, he did walk over into the kitchenette and open the fridge, pulling out a bottle of Budweiser from inside. He opened it with his palm and flicked the cap into the sink with practiced motions before walking over to the window, pretending to stare down at the impressive view. "Surprised you showed, Cherry. Late as you're."

The first drops of rain broke from the cloud cover as he watched her in the reflection on the glass. He lifted the bottle to his lips and almost choked on the swallow when she said, "was wondering what you meant when you said there's hope for us."

Sputtering, he covered the urge to cough with a rough chuckle instead, shaking his head. "Right to the point, aye? Not even a little foreplay."

She forced herself to look at her ex-husband. "I guess I was curious what you meant."

"Ah, so that's why you've come. Curiosity?" He couldn't really explain the irrational anger that bubbled up, turning his tone caustic. Maybe it was the booze. Maybe it was the pills he'd taken before he'd showed up at the ceremony. Either way, the darkness was settling in. He was feeling dangerous and he wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing where this whole shitshow of their romantic lives was concerned.

"I'd like you to tell me what you meant."  

A part of him wanted to be honest, to tell her that the last few years since they'd been apart had been rough, that he'd missed having her in his corner more than anything else. They'd been together for so long that she truly had been his best friend as long as he could remember. The void removing her from his life had felt damned enormous some days. He took a swallow of beer, watching the little dots of people moving through Times Square down below, umbrellas popping up like blobs of garish colour as the rainfall grew a little heavier. There was bitterness in that question and the sigh that followed made it clear what he felt even if he wasn't about to utter the words aloud. "Does it matter?"

His response caused her hackles to rise as she sat up poker-straight, feeling like he'd just slapped her across the face. "I guess it really doesn't." There was bitterness in her own response as she folded her arms against her chest. "Why did you invite me here, then? More of your damned head games? Make me feel like shit so I'll fall into bed with you in a moment of weakness only for you to sneak out before I wake up? Is this just because you're jealous that I've moved on? Fucking save it." The words were almost spat at him. "Same shit, different day – I have no idea why I expected any different from you now."

"Knock it off," he snapped, finally turning around to look at her. "Thought mebbe we could pretend not tae hate each other. For a moment."

She couldn't stop herself from rolling her eyes as she pushed up to her feet. "Save it." She didn't hate him and never would. She still loved him more than anything – there was no way in hell she was going to let him know that, though. She needed to protect her heart, her damned sanity. She'd just finally gotten her life back to feeling like it was on an even keel and here he was with his stormy seas of bullshit.

The look on his face reminded him of the night she'd caught him at the studio, cameras rolling as he fucked Shirlea Frost from behind – that wounded pride shining in his bloodshot eyes. "Cherry." There was something in his tone, a hint of desperation he couldn't quite hide as he called out her name. "Don't—"

"No. You don't." She turned back to look at him over her shoulder, hand white-knuckled on the handle. "This was a mistake... me coming here." She waited for him to argue, to try and twist it around into another of his bait-and-switch moments. "I can't do this. I... I'm going home."

That spark about there being hope for them was snuffed out. She knew that there was going to be nothing but pain, nothing but a freefall with nobody there to catch her at the bottom.

He felt like throwing that bottle at the back of her head, trying like hell to snuff that volatile anger that always seemed to simmer under the surface when they were in the same space. His next words were muttered, shades of that Scottish accent creeping in, unchecked. "This damned fool misses his Cherry-girl."

At hearing that old nickname, it felt as though she'd been punched in the chest. "Don't call me that." She turned to face him, so many emotions running through her at once. "I'm not your girl anymore, Bruce. Remember? You made damn sure of that with those fucking papers.

"Aye." He closed his eyes, nodding solemnly. For a moment, he just stood there in silence, staring at her as though waiting for something to happen. The other shoe had dropped years ago. "Thanks for the reminder." The words were caustic, slipping out as he took a few steps in her direction, only so that he could set that half full bottle down on the table. "Heaven forbid I go a day without reliving that particular catastrophe – well am here now, love. Why not have it all out?"

"Okay." She was feeling just fired up enough to go at it with him. "You fucking broke me and then you left." She was glaring at him as she took a few steps in his direction. "All those years together and you just tossed it all to the side, along with me."

"I... broke... you?" He stressed each word before laughing, incredulous. "Oh that's fuckin' rich. Saint Cherry, never did a damned thing wrong in her whole blessed life. Oh aye. She's so hard done by." He couldn't keep the venom from his tone, "livin' like strangers in the same house for the better part of a year. Every time I had tae look at ya, feel that distance gnawin' at my bones... of course, you're right. Was my fault. All of it. If I hadn't been on the road, workin' my arse off takin' all these damned bumps, maybe our second little accident would've come out better."

"Yanno what?" She was livid, "go fuck off right back to Vegas." She spat the words at him and had to clench her fists, so she didn't slap him.

"That's the plan." He stood his ground, staring at her. "Didn't think I'd come crawlin' back for good... did ya? Wavin' a little white flag, begging for a truce?" His eyes narrowed as he saw what she was wearing in a new light, "JesusFUCK, is that what ye thought?"

She froze, swallowing back the lump in her throat. "You said there was hope for us... what else was I supposed to think? But those were just words, right? God, I'm so fucking stupid." She refused to cry in front of him as she had so many times before.

"Want me tae prostrate myself... beg?" Bruce shook his head, lips thinning into a grim smile. "Still love ya, Cherry – just words, hmm? Aye. Just tha'."

She shook her head, turning the knob. That declaration was the last thing she'd expected, the last thing she was able to comprehend in that moment. It was just another raw wound and he was pouring salt into it like the worst sadist alive. She couldn't find the words past the lump in her throat, past the tears that were threatening to overflow – she knew if she let them, she'd shatter into a million pieces all over again. "I gotta go," she whispered the words, sounding defeated.

The sound of the door shutting behind her was the most painful thing he'd ever heard.


JNS. Johnny-boy.

Did you have glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling as a child? Did you have aspirations? Ambitions? Did you climb into a refrigerator box, imagine a flight to the moon – pretend you were an astronaut? Did you want to be something bigger, something more important than a nomad on the back of a bike, a shiftless drifter without any roots. Can't bend when the strong winds come without roots, fella. Don't you know that?

So, what was the dream?

Did you have one? Did you want to see the stars up close?

Did you want to save a life?

Swim in a vault of gold like Scrooge McDuck?

I suppose that wish has been granted, though, hasn't it? We're among the stars now – stuck in this cold void that calls itself the wrestling industry. I can't see them tonight. The sky's dark, full of foreboding here on the island and I can't help but wonder as another day comes to an end if this will be my last. In this business. On this island. Here.

There's a storm brewing. There's a whisper of change on the winds and perhaps it's just a premonition of ARCADIA, hmm? Maybe it's the desire to keep the ducks in a row, a contingency plan – in case of damnation, break the glass.

Drink a toast to absent friends and realize that the people who got me into this business are long gone. I'm too old for this navel-gazing bullshit. For portents and omens and empty words flung into the void.

The trouble is, I like you, kid. You're nothing like your shitbag old man – this is a good thing. You have potential, still. You could open a vein, let that anger bleed out and brush the chip from your shoulder. You could be a champion. You could be so much more, if you could just open your damned eyes. Ah, but maybe this is me tempting fate, hmm? Maybe I want to push the wrong buttons, provoke the bad boy into drawing down – give me a challenge I've not yet had in this company. I'm going to leap without looking and just hope there's still water in the pool to break my fall because the alternative is a bit too dark for this time of day. This is reckless, craving extinction and playing with fire – this last year has been a weird one though, hasn't it? For us both. So many opportunities wasted. So much bullshit and now here we are, on opposing sides of the ring. Here I am, in another faceless jungle, another second-rate proving ground, and I'm so fucking close to fifty that I should just hang up those scuffed boots for the last time. I know that. I reject the notion daily because I don't feel ready. That's the part that fucks me up. You'd think I'd be sick of it by now. You'd think I'd be over it, exhausted from the chase and all the fruitless reaching but the moment a carrot's dangled, these old jowls start to salivate.

They don't understand what makes fellas like us tick, though, do they? Bend. Adapt. Evolve.

Don't break.

I try to clear my head, lose myself in the view. Lose myself in the familiar motions and all I can think about is the past. I mourn it. I dwell on the mistakes, on the thought that there's infinite versions of me on other planes of existence who zigged when I zagged. What are they at now? Are they world champions a thousand times over? Are they household names? Is Bruce McLeod a legend somewhere?

Moreover, is there one who is truly happy?

Is there one who didn't experience loss? Is there one who didn't break hearts, who didn't push people into circumstances through selfishness and willful ignorance – is there one who doesn't have miles of collateral damage in his wake?

These are the twilight hours. These are the moments where a man grows introspective – or maybe it's the weed. I can't help but reconcile what I've become with what I wanted to be. I fell short. Miles fucking short. For a moment there, when I'd dragged myself back from death's door for the last, I felt safe. I felt like penance had been paid.

Stay alone. Deny myself. Take the pain, and hold it in. Keep taking the pain. Don't lose face. Don't lose consciousness. Stay with it, and ride it out. It doesn't hurt forever. Endure it. Why? Because it's better than listening to any more of the goddamn Strader denial party line – sorry, fella. Wrestling with demons? No, fuck no. This is manufactured. All of it.

You created this predicament.

Only you can end it.

I want to be frank with you, perfectly clear, because I’m afraid no matter what I do out there, the outcome will be the same. Famous last words, taken all wrong, lost in translation. Do you have the decoder ring? Good. Then let's bring this home.

My The end is coming, John. Are you ready for it? Are you ready for the fall from grace? Are you ready to be blinded by the sun, have those wax wings burned off? Ready for the biggest loss of your Dominion career? It's okay, son. The only scary part is the fall. Do you trust there will be someone to catch you at the bottom? Do you think you're worth saving? Find a reason to believe that can be true. Dig hard. Dig deep. Your father's gone. You can shirk off that shadow now, be your own man.

Don't disappoint me. Don't come at me with some cheap bullshit. You won't like me then, I can assure you.

Meet me at sunrise. I'll be there, in the thick of things, going down swinging. I've been saying the same thing for years now. Has anyone heard a single fucking word I've said? Take a good look around. This is rock bottom, the place where it all ends and begins again. I have less time, less things in my universe to convince me of the need to support and perpetuate a lie of that magnitude – you bleed just to know you're alive – everyone knows that about you. Some will tell you that love makes the world go round. Some will say that all you need is love. Some will call it a weakness, a distraction. Some will say that being kind is a detriment when we're all out to hurt each other the moment that bell rings. Is that what you want? To hurt me?

Bring it on. Leap. Fall off into oblivion and when you hit bottom, get up and see yourself for yourself. Dust off those faded blues, and get back up in time to see the sun rise. You did it. You outlasted them again.

You survived.



The shadow of night still clung to the morning, the twilight hues overhead brightening along the horizon. The silence was broken only by the scrape of worn boots on concrete, and the sound of metal on metal – a switchblade, probably. Bruce McLeod froze, the sound registering as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. His duffel bag was slung over his shoulder, filled with dirty, sweat-soaked clothes. His wallet was mostly empty. The alley was deserted, and he was far away from the bright lights of Times Square.

The knife in his boot was far enough away that it slipped his mind as he half-turned, looking and the skinny junkie blocking his exit – there was a strange feeling that washed over him in that instant, a strange sort of serenity, as if this was precisely what he'd been looking for. He saw a bulge in the pocket of the kid's hoodie, one hand hidden and the other holding what looked like the same kind of cheap-ass cholo blade that had carved him up like a Thanksgiving turkey.

"You don't wanna do this," he murmured, his voice firm, echoing off the buildings. "Don't have any money on me, fella."

Adrenaline dumped into his bloodstream as he stared into the dispassionate face of addiction – maybe it was a bit too much looking in a mirror, even though the kid had scabs all over his face and the cracked and dusty lips of a chronic user. He wasn't afraid, and briefly he wondered if it was simply because he'd already said goodbye to the world that meant anything to him.

"Will anyone miss ya?" The words came out wrong, something dark in his expression. "Am nobody special, fella. Nobody'll miss me," he said softly, searching the twitching eyes for a flicker of recognition. The kid said nothing, and he felt a prickle of dread crawl down his spine. "Am not worth this."

Silence answered him as a freezing drizzle started to fall, banishing the early morning stillness. The kid pulled out the gun, some old revolver that was just as likely to explode in his hand when he pulled the trigger rather than take down his target and the hand holding it shook slightly.

All Bruce could think about was the mistake a few hours ago, of letting Charity walk out of his life again. Maybe this was what he deserved. In that moment, he knew he did. This was poetic justice. He didn't flinch, didn't even falter as he slipped his hand into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet. The chain jingled as he unclipped it from the belt loop. "Here. Got mebbe twenty bucks. A couple credit cards. Goan. Take it. No harm, son. No foul. Jus' get on with ye."

The gun steadied, and so did those colorless eyes.

"Listen. You don't wanna push this, fella. Not with me, not right now." It sounded like Alpha male bravado of the highest order. More of that 'don't fuck with me' bullshit. The look in Bruce's eyes though, that was pure danger. Malice oozed from those red-rimmed sockets. "Take it," he felt his hand shake, heard the chain jingle. "Goan. Take it. Walk away and we'll get on with our lives."

The junkie chuckled, the sound thin and manic. He rocked from one foot to the other, his tongue coming out, flicking like a lizard's at those dry lips. Bruce shifted the grip on his wallet, letting the chain dangle. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears. It was as if he could feel the moment speeding towards him, could see it all playing out like a movie in slow motion. He saw the junkie's finger twitch on the trigger, and he dove to the side, slamming against the wall as he swung the chain, catching the kid right in the eye with the clip. The bullet went through his shoulder, white-hot through and through in a second before embedding itself in the brick wall behind him. The kid went down, screaming and clawing at his face and the hook at the end of the chain that was now embedded in his eye.

An ugly sound filled the silence when the screaming stopped, this animal growl as Bruce knelt, slamming his fingers into the man's throat to shatter his trachea.

"Fuckbag." The voice was low, dangerous and dripping with anger. He drew his fist back, slamming it into the junkie's face, shattering the nose on impact. Another well-placed hit caved in the front teeth. Another did in the kid's cheekbone. He pulled back, blood dripping from his torn knuckles into the man's mouth as he struggled for breath, lurching back to his feet. For a split second, Bruce contemplated killing him. Instead, he leveled a swift kick into the bastard's groin that might have snapped his pelvis – he didn't care. He was beyond reason, a wounded animal, survival instincts activated the moment he'd been cornered.

Darkness was creeping into the edges of his vision as he staggered out onto the sidewalk, blinded by adrenaline and shock. His arm was on fire. He staggered into the street and heard the squeal of tires on the still-damp asphalt. Heard the bleat of a horn and then everything went dark.

There were fates worse than death, after all.

There was living with the aftermath.