FIFITY-FIVE: A Picture's Worth (part two)

A picture's worth a thousand words.

That bullshit little adage had been rattling around in his head for the last seven hours, so caustic now that it felt like it was rotting a hole through his brain. His eyes felt grainy, burning and the sun was lighting the horizon when he pulled into that long and winding drive. It was remote, a few acres from the next neighbor – he was quite aware of every weapon rattling around in the crate he kept in the SUV's trunk and the fact that he was contemplating using any of them should have made him feel sick. Instead, he was letting the grisly fantasies play out, picturing Brad Jackson busted wide open, bleeding a thousand different ways. He couldn't stop seeing his daughter as she'd been a decade ago, skinned knees and Pippi Longstocking braids with that sunburn peeling on the tip of her nose – he knew Jackson wasn't a damned pedophile, that as far as the public knew he'd never preyed on anyone less than the legal age of consent but that was the picture his mind kept pushing to the forefront. That little girl bouncing on a predator's knee, sultry smile looking so out of place. The car door was opened before he realized it, that faint chime sounding because the door was open with the keys still in the ignition and he felt his knees pop in protest upon straightening before his hand closed over the top of the door for balance. He could feel the bile in the back of his throat, burning and tasting vaguely of rotten Johnny Walker.

The house was big, this ultra-modern McMansion and he looked at it now as though he was seeing it for the first time, all sharp angles and silvered glass, looming over him and reflecting the trees – it was positively claustrophobic. The crumpled cigarette pack was still on the dash, and he reached back in, grabbing it. It had been a year since he last had one but when he'd stopped to gas up outside of Indian Springs, he'd bought a pack of the old Marlboro Reds and had apparently smoked them all but one with no memory of it. There were ashes on the floor like snow, the cupholder overflowing with scorched filters because there was no ashtray in this damned thing. Seven hours had vanished in the blink of an eye, and he'd been steeping in silence the whole time, letting that righteous anger in his guts percolate into something dangerously volatile. The last cancer stick was fished out through the hole, and he dragged his fingernail over the head of a wooden match, smelling sulfur as he brought the flame to the tip.

He knew this was a mistake. He knew once he knocked on that door, once he crossed that threshold, there was no going back.

He couldn't stop seeing the look on his daughter's face, that fear and dismay as the photographic evidence rained down around her and he hated himself for the guilt and shame he felt, knowing that it all could have been avoided if he'd pulled his head out of his ass and realized that the wrestling business should have never been his top priority. He'd been stupid, fixated on chasing gold and glory at the expense of everything else. It had been about filling that empty void back then, mainlining the cheers into a vein like that was some sort of validation.

The house was dark, at least as far as he could tell. This close to dawn, everyone was probably sleeping. He'd come all this way without a plan, without anything more than an impulse and now he hesitated – just like when he was in the ring, he couldn't bring himself to go all the way, to get the job done. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as he started towards the house, that faint chime falling silent as he nudged the door shut with his heel. Smoke wafted up, stinging his already burning eyes as he pulled the fingerless leather gloves from his pocket, pulling them on as he walked. The remains of the cigarette bounced off the perfectly trimmed rosebushes by the door before he looked up into the security camera he knew was hidden under the decorative eaves. Rather than knock, he pulled out his cell phone, typing out a quick text.



Immediately, those little bubbles popped up, a reply being typed. He leaned against the door, letting the anger burning in his guts warm his skin.



A moment later, the door opened, and Jackson stood there in a pair of shapeless black workout shorts that had clearly seen better days. He was shirtless, bleary-eyed enough that it was easy to deduce that he'd probably been up with a fussy little one most of the night.

"Lyv's still sleeping," he murmured, taking a step back to let Bruce in.

Bruce nodded, silent as he stepped inside. Jackson turned to close the door and at the sight of that tattoo covering his back, the bile rose again – he remembered the worst of the pictures. The two were entwined, a play of light and shadow that he would have admired had the subject been anything else. That tattoo had been partially visible, half of that ominously leering sun and the word DESTROY. He closed his eyes, dragging in a slow, deep breath through his nose and when he opened them again, the fucker was staring at him with concern.

"You look like shit. What's going on? Something happen to Charity? To Sam or—"

A snarl came out with the exhale, and he launched himself, forearm smashing into the bridge of Jackson's nose as he shoved him back against the door. A left hook landed to the jaw, and the retired grappler looked dazed as the blood started to drip down his face from that shattered nose. Bruce caught him, forearm pressed against the bastard's throat, and he leaned in, growling, "don't you ever say her name again, you miserable sack of shit. Don't you ever even think about her."

Jackson shoved him back, eyes narrowed – he'd never backed down from a fight in his life. He wasn't about to start now. He rushed and wrapped his arms around Bruce, tackling him to the floor and they skidded across the hardwood entryway. Bruce threw another couple bombs, clearly the one in better shape for this as he flipped Jackson over, pinning him to the floor. Jackson's hands were up, locked around his neck and he didn't care as his own vision narrowed to a red tunnel. Jackson's face was pulped, already starting to swell but he kept swinging, grunting with the exertion of each swing until those hands fell away and cool air filled his lungs.

It had been maybe five minutes, but it felt like a thousand years when he finally lost steam and rocked back on his heels. His hands dripped blood, the leather on his knuckles gouged where they'd broken Jackson's teeth. He didn't say anything as he stood. Didn't even check to see if the bastard was still breathing. He just turned and walked out the door just as the sun finally broke over the horizon.

These may be his last moments of freedom and the air smelled so fresh, so wonderful and clean after the slaughterhouse reek of spilled blood. He left the front door open. He didn't care that his prints were on the knob, that he'd been caught on camera and had sent messages that pinpointed his location. It didn't matter. If he was going to go down for this, at least his daughter's honor had been defended. At least he could tell himself that he'd atoned for not being there the night she'd needed him most. Somewhere there was another timeline where he wasn't a failure, where he wasn't always Sisyphus pushing the boulder of guilt up the hill and trying not to be crushed under its weight. Somewhere out there, was a universe where his daughter had never been gang raped by a bunch of drunken frat boys, that she'd never dropped out of college and fled into the embrace of Brad Jackson, only to be tossed aside six months later like she meant nothing.  

He knew that her damaged self-worth was his fault. He'd read enough bullshit online to know that abandonment was a real thing. He knew that he'd failed her that way, just as his own grieving mother had decades prior when she'd sent a teenager off to another country to live with strangers. He was sick of history repeating itself. 

He peeled off the soiled gloves, letting them drop on the walkway and the sun's rays coming through the trees felt prophetic somehow. It was a new day. It felt promising, as though that cool breeze was the winds of change. There was no going back now. 

Nothing would ever be the same again.