FIFTY-SIX: Lose As Directed [WARPED]

Losing himself in wrestling had become more of a balm than ever intended – it was better to be the beloved "Silver Scot" than to be the broken sack of shit he'd become otherwise. He hadn't said anything to anyone in weeks. Had cut a few promos for WARPED and Pro Wrestling Valor without thinking too much about either. The anger had been easy enough to tap into, the righteous fury easily redirected to the prospect of being overlooked and undervalued rather than the sheer self-loathing he felt every time he looked in the mirror. He'd been home for two days now and had been sitting in this chair by the pool the entire time. The monotony had only been broken when the sun was at its apex and he needed to plunge under the water to cool off – drip dry, start again when it grew unbearable. Time had lost all meaning and his cell phone sat dead on the table, forgotten. There were accolades everywhere, all these wonderful opportunities awaiting him. Philly on the third. California on the fourth. He just needed to hang on a little longer and maybe it would all be worth it in the end. He'd finally have the thing he'd been chasing for so long it felt more like a nightmare than a dream.

The creak of the gate blended with the gurgle of the pool's filters and the whisper of the breeze through those alien palms that bordered the property. He paid it no mind, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back. Every muscle burned. His eyes were dry and aching, crying out for a little respite from the salt of his sweat and the pool water. He didn't notice, nor did he care. This was the part of professional wrestling that he knew the best – the build. The calm before the storm. These next two were going to take everything in him to survive. A title shot. A championship bout. Back-to-back bookings that he needed to capitalize on. Every time he closed his eyes, though, he saw Brad Jackson's face, looking like a jack-o'-lantern left out until mid-November – unrecognizable and sunken in on itself. His knuckles were still stiff, still aching in the joints almost a month later and a part of him still expected the police to show up at the door any moment to cart him away for that vile act. The longer he remained free, the longer he continued to get away with it, the more the darkness inside him grew.

"Hey, I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

The voice was familiar, a blast from the past and all the memories it brought with it were rotten to the core, tainted with greed.

Silence fell heavily as lounged there for a moment longer with his eyes closed, trying to remember how social interactions with other humans were supposed to work. Larry Gowan stood there, waiting him out, eyes shaded under the brim of the snapback hat he had on, as though he was doing his best to present himself as far younger than his silver hair would otherwise imply. When Bruce didn't acknowledge him or invite him to sit, he took the initiative and perched on the edge of the lounge chair's twin.

"Thought maybe we should talk."

Nothing at all to be gained there, he thought. It was obvious that Larry knew exactly what had happened – the man had done what he'd always been best at where Jackson was concerned. He'd swept in and made sure the world kept right on turning the way it always had and his first act as the man in charge had been to release Bruce's daughter from the company. He wanted to be happy about that, to take a certain sort of joy in the fact that his little girl wouldn't be near that bastard in the future, but he'd just put the nails into the coffin of her barely started wrestling career instead. Chaos theory.

Father knows best.

"Well maybe I'll talk, then." Larry said, leaning forward, "and you can just listen." There was no sense of judgement from the man, just a profound sadness as he looked down at his shoes against the patio tiles, dragging in a slow and measured breath. "I don't know the whole story and I'm not asking you to fill me in. Jax isn't planning to say anything, publicly or otherwise – if that's what you're worried about. He doesn't want to press charges, never even thought about calling the police despite how Alyvia felt about the whole thing. I deleted the security footage… first thing I did when I got there. Deleted everything for the whole week just to be sure and we had him treated privately. No hospital. No insurance. No messy paperwork. As far as everyone else is concerned, it never happened."

He felt the ache in his chest, the sinking in his guts. There was something in Larry's tone, a thread of icy steel that hadn't been there before. He'd always been so friendly, so cordial and chipper and such a delight to be around. Those last few words resonated, cutting deep. It wasn't hard to read between those lines. Larry was a kind and gentle soul, a veritable white knight, but he wasn't the type to forget something like this.

"Four years ago," the words slipped out through numb lips, his voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper, "Siobahn was—"

"Don't." Larry cut him off. "I told you. I don't need nor do I want an explanation. I'm not here for that. I just wanted you to know what was happening and I figured telling you face to face was—"

"I don't remember what happened," Bruce cut him off in turn, finally turning his head to look at Larry. His eyes were bloodshot, his gaze almost haunted as he stared at Gowan. "Drove from here tae Reno. Stopped midway for gas – bought a pack of Marlboros." He let out a bitter chuckle, "smoked 'em all, too. Was so fuckin' angry, couldn't see straight. Just wanted tae…" he trailed off.

"Yeah." Larry moved to his feet, reaching out to rest a hand on Bruce's shoulder for a moment. "Maybe you should see a professional about that."



Final two and then the damned fool fell flat on his face – all those clever words squandered as a NEW KING rose from the ashes of another catastrophic immolation. Humiliated. Defiled. Defeated. And this fuckstick Ryder walks out the damned thing. I could have had it all. Should have. Now I'm stick on rewind, revisiting every little yip and blip to see where I went wrong. Again. 

Seems to be a pattern now, doesn't it? The end of everything in an era that never really got started is looming on the horizon. The championship eluded me again so we kickstart all over. Another vicious cycle. Another time around the mulberry bush as this trained monkey chases the big shiny. I know better. I know this is a sign from the universe itself. I know I should just accept the truth. I am never going to hold a top championship in any company. I need you to tell me when to stop because I cannot be trusted to police myself any longer. I've proven that lately without a shadow of a doubt. I'm working for three companies now, hoping this will increase the odds. Instead, it's left me exhausted and frustrated.

I have become that which I used to despise. I'm a needy fucking narcissist junkie, mainlining the adulation of the crowd because it fills that gaping void inside me.

I break everything I touch outside of the ring.

Tell me that enough is enough, because I can't stop myself now. Over the fucking edge with this, well past the point of no return. I don't understand these feelings, but I hold them close. This ache, this pain – it's penance. It's validation.

It's fuel.

My life. My priorities... all of it is skewed because of this damned chase but I've come too far, sacrificed far too much to give up. I know the end is near and I can hear the clock ticking on those last moments. I want to go out on my terms. I want – no – fuck that. I need this.



"Why do you think you needed that?"

He snorted in derision at the question, his gaze travelling back to the framed certificates on the wall. A thousand answers flitted through his mind. The rational part said that he wanted to confront Jackson, to make him pay for everything he'd done over the years – so many things he'd let slide because it was easier than keeping the tally running into the thousands.

"To look him in the eye," he finally said, a half-truth this time. Sure, he'd wanted to look at Jackson when he'd hurled that accusation, when he'd asked him why the bastard had seduced and bedded his firstborn daughter – the words had never come out, though. He wasn't even sure that Jackson truly knew why he'd been jumped and beaten within an inch of his life.

"You fight for a living. Isn't—"

"Never fought him." It was true. In all the years, in all the companies they'd worked together, he'd never been across the ring from the legendary Jackson. He'd been too busy jerking the curtain, making peanuts for each appearance while that bastard was hogging the spotlight and the best payouts. Maybe it was jealousy. The whole thing, the desperate need to make the fucker pay for that dalliance even though his daughter was old enough to make her own choices, and by her own admission, had actually been in a relationship with the man for at least half a year before things had come to an end. "Coddled fucker would have never let me within a foot of that ever happening."

"Why, because the endings are pre-determined?"

Another rough chuckle passed his lips. He'd been seeing the man since 2013, since he'd come crawling back from the illegal fight circuit with PTSD and a severe case of survivor's guilt. He'd heard everything, from how Jackson had sold him out to the Russians in exchange for his own skin, right down to how much the scarred Scot sitting in the seat across from him had wanted very much to have died during one of those warehouse fights. "Nothing like tha', no." He shook his head, "he knew I'd go stiff – intentionally hurt him. He's known how much I hate him for years."

"Did Siobahn know that?"

The question hit him hard, blindside like a Mack truck and he felt his chest tighten as the realization dawned on him. They'd always played civil in public, passing off as old friends more than anything else. The girl probably saw him as everyone else did, as this larger-than-life superstar of the business, a man who'd gotten out on his own terms and had created himself a nice little empire in Reno over the last year. He sucked his teeth, shaking his head slowly before looking up to meet the therapist's gaze.

"No," it was barely louder than an exhale and his voice was hoarse when he elaborated, feeling worse than ever. He'd punished her, had looked down on her for something she couldn't have possibly done differently. "She doesn't."

"So, maybe that's the first thing you two need to talk about."

Bruce nodded, thinking to himself that it would be a wonder if she ever talked to him again.



Talk is cheap, isn't it?

I know this but the fucked up part is that YOU DO, TOO. You know all of this, yet for some reason we always find ourselves doing this shit. My entire world fell apart, and somewhere in there, while I was on autopilot, I won myself a championship. Granted, it's not the one I was after. Yet here we are, headed into another WARPED event with another proverbial carrot dangling. The opportunity to collect another trophy for that room I'm clearly planning to build after I steamroll Anton Chase and the vomitous Chiseltooth – oh aye, there's the grand dream.

I'm doing it wrong. Words aren't how to play this game. No, lovelies. Actions are far better. Louder. Crisper and cleaner. Ask me about my conviction, my commitment to see this through, despite the proverbial crickets since THE CALLBACK was officially booked.

No fear. I have that handled, too.

So where does that leave us? Stalemate? Nah. You're pussies. You're afraid of this rage you feel when you look at me. You're not going to do anything about it, because that's who you are. Society tells you that it's bad to leave that urge unchecked. You're all cowards. You'll look me in the eyes, speak out of both sides of your mouths and call it a day. Sleep on me. Do your best to humiliate me – even covered in that vile piece of shit's regurgitation, I still hung in far longer than the rest. Matthews? PKA? Where were they? Doesn't matter when I've got to win another one to get the shot handed to that arsehole... so sick of watching the runners-up get their shots ahead of me. Ah, but what happened last year is in the past. Passed on. Would I matter more if I'd held the Splat MultiUniversal Championship? If I'd gone the distance against that relative rookie? 

No sense in quibbling about events we cannot alter. I know all the steps to this dance and the what-if's can eat a man alive from the inside out if he lets that parasite of doubt take hold. Best to keep the eyes fixed forward. Lace up the boots. Get the war paint and the game face on. I can never express this to you clearly, let alone be understood. So, it goes. The knife is in my hand. In ten seconds, it'll be twisting in your guts while you tell me I should just "hug it out". Take one more for the team. Turn the other cheek like Jesus did – they're both scarred already.

Done enough of that to last a lifetime and I'm sick to death of letting these gobshites run roughshod. Enough's enough. Fuck you. All of you. You brought me to this place of perfect clarity, this damnable moment of sheer epiphany. I was hollowed out by avarice years ago, ready to put the bullet in my brain and call it a day. I've had a wakeup call. I know why I'm still here. On October 3rd, I will give WARPED everything I have left in the tank.

One last time.



"…I liked it."

He hadn't said anything to her in days, not proactively, anyhow. It was all monosyllables, answering her questions about basic needs with grunts or single words. Charity had left him alone, finding it easier to resist the urge to fix what was broken because she was trying to work through the things she'd learned about their only daughter's true reason for leaving college. At the sound of his voice, she looked up from folding the laundry at the foot of the bed, surprised to find Bruce sitting on the chair in the corner. Had he been there the whole time?

His eyes were focused on some distant point, perhaps something only he could see. His hand trembled slightly when he lifted it up, scrubbing his palm across his jaw and mouth – she knew what that meant and by that gesture, knew what he was talking about.

She'd thought about driving to Reno herself a few times over the past couple weeks, finishing the job that her husband had started – it didn't help that she'd sent Jackson a message. She'd hoped for an easy explanation, a vehement denial. Instead, he'd admitted it. He'd told her that he was lonely and that they'd run into each other by chance. There was no closure to be had. No apology. No mistaken identity. Just a line that had been crossed that had forever altered the course of their lives forever.

"Hurting him felt good. Wanted tae make the fucker pay. For everything." He could have been champion at least a decade ago, if not for the unfortunate circumstances of existing in the shadow of Bradley FUCKING Jackson. 

Her husband's voice was rough, it had been hoarse for weeks like this and she wondered if he was out somewhere at night when she was asleep, screaming it raw. She dropped the towel she was still holding, moving to where he sat in the shadows. She cupped his cheek, fingertips instinctively tracing over that scar that was so perfectly camouflaged under his beard. Nobody noticed it anymore but she knew he was still sensitive about it, still felt that brand of inferiority deep down to his bones. "Of course it did, because he deserved it."

"Did he?" It was rhetorical, a soft chuff on the heels of that caught somewhere between an exhale and a bitter laugh. "Ah, but the worst part of it all? I liked it, Cherry. So damned much. Felt so good, feelin' his flesh give way… feelin' the bones shatter. Seeing his blood on my hands. Gods help me. What've I become?"

She knelt in front of him, both hands on his face, forcing him to look at her and his eyes were so red, so raw. No tears fell and she realized what was wrong with his voice, why he sounded the way he did. It wasn't anger, not anymore. It was anguish. It was guilt. She could see both in his eyes, could see how much he'd broken himself over this impulsive thing he'd done. "Nothing's changed, Bruce. You're still the same. I promise you that." 

"Wasn't there… when she needed me the most."

"Shh," she whispered, "I know. Neither of us were." She felt the prickle of tears now, knowing that they'd both failed their daughter in the worst way – she hadn't been able to trust either of them with the horror of what had happened to her all those years ago. Instead, she'd run into the arms of a toxic stranger to find shelter. "Bruce, honey, listen to me. We can't…" she blinked, and tears slid down her cheeks as she shook her head, "we can't go back. We can't undo what's—"

"Think I don't know that?" He cut her off, his tone rough, "think I haven't spent the last month tellin' myself that very thing? Can't go back. What's done is done. The fucker lived… so it's all gonna be alright. Like nothin' ever happened, aye? That's what Larry said. Nobody has tae know. Except we do. I'll carry the weight of this until the end of time."

Charity looked at her husband, repeating the same thing he'd said when he'd told her why he’d kept the secret for more than a year about why Sam had dropped out of college. "Give it to me. The weight of all that sorrow… all that guilt and pain. I'll carry it so you don't have to, baby. That's how this works. That's what you do when you love someone. You bear the burden."

He bowed his head, letting her arms wrap around her neck as she crawled into his lap and pulled his head to her bosom. He let it go, whispering his confession. "I hate myself, Cherry. Hate myself so much." The tears came in silence, hard sobs that made him tremble.

She held fast, her hands stroking his hair and his back in those same motions she'd used a thousand times to soothe their children. She knew, no matter what he believed right now, that he was a good man. She believed that he'd gone to Reno with the best of intentions. It was easier to tell herself that than to accept the truth of what he'd just been trying to tell her: that he'd gone there intending to kill Brad Jackson and that, although he'd failed in the task, had enjoyed every minute of it. She hated to think what would have happened otherwise and it broke her heart to hear that self-loathing in her beloved's voice. He'd always been her true north, that moral compass. If he'd lost his way, she wasn't sure she was strong enough to get them both on track. "Shh," she murmured, "it doesn't matter now. It was a mistake. That's all. It won't happen again."

"Won't happen again." He repeated her words more firmly, lifting his head to meet her gaze and he held it for a long moment, as if he was searching for the affirmation he needed in the depths of her soul. Finally he nodded, lifting his hand to gently touch her cheek before leaning in to press his lips to her forehead. He breathed deep, filling his lungs with the scent of her and for a moment, the darkness receded just a little. Maybe, just maybe, he'd make it through without any casualties after all. Maybe they all would.