FIFTY-SEVEN: Confessions [WARPED]

"Forgive me," his voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. His throat burned, aching from the bruises around his neck and the exertions of that damned 'nail in the coffin' match. "Forgive me for I've sinned. Done some things…" he trailed off again, unable to bring himself to articulate the words. He'd gloated, waxed melodramatic about lopping off his so-called 'possessed hands' at the wrist – it was all a lie. He didn't feel remorse. He didn't feel remotely bad about the fact that he'd come within inches of ending a life. It had felt good to pound Brad Jackson's face into hamburger meat. Every blow, every crack of the bones beneath the skin had been like a glorious symphony to his ears.

The confessional was dark, shielded by a heavy curtain that blotted out the light. Moonlight bathed the floor in a silvery, almost ethereal glow. Candles flickered in their votive jars, decorating the altar below the statue of the blessed Virgin. He sat there, with his head back against the wooden wall, feeling the cold wood against his back. It smelled like furniture polish and incense, enough to tickle his sinuses and bring back that heavy feeling of nostalgia – he remembered a church like this, remembered coming to services when he was a child, barely able to understand because the mass was in Latin.

"What'm I gonna do with this?" He muttered, not bothering to open his eyes. The words fell from numb lips, filled with bitterness. He was shaking, the rosary tangled and twisted between his fingers so tightly he was sure they were going to break and scatter everywhere. The silver beads were cold, keeping him grounded as he pulled in another shallow breath. Clammy sweat covered his face, but the confessional was comforting somehow, like a coffin. Tonight, he'd let the monster off the leash again, and had revelled in the damage done to Kasey Kash – all for the sake of retaining a championship that he still wasn't sure how he'd even managed to win in the first place. It was all a blur, the whole thing surreal. He held championship gold in two of the three companies he worked for.

How the fuck had that happened?

He'd gone off the reservation, had lost track of the man he'd spent most of his lifetime becoming – a good man, a perfect role model… doting husband and father… stand-up citizen on the right side of the law.

All of it was bullshit.

His daughter feared him now, still wouldn't look him in the eye. His wife believed she was a failure, torturing herself with the 'what-ifs' now that she knew what had happened years ago. Their daughter had been violated; innocence had been torn from her too soon. He blamed himself – of course he did. If he'd not been so obsessed with his damned wrestling career at the time, if he'd been able to separate the fantasy of glory from the reality of his life outside the ring, he would have gone to see her work on display. He would have supported something that she loved, rather than letting it get tainted.

"She hates me." He sighed, "don't blame her, really." Silence answered him. There was nobody here to take his confession, none to absolve his transgressions. Maybe that was why he'd slipped in here so late. The silence spoke volumes, the darkness balanced completely within and without.

He took one deep breath after another, strangely comforted by these archaic and dismal surroundings, even though he hadn’t set foot in a church in ages. A strange paradox this was, indeed. He held his hands out before him, thankful that the darkness concealed their trembling. He was afraid, suddenly terrified of the cold monster he had become. He was terrified of how much he loved it, how much even now, those aching and swollen joints longed to smash something else. It was only a matter of time before he lost control again and he couldn't help the smile that curved his lips at the thought.



Madness is the gift that has been given to me.

Ah, what a trite little sentiment, all wrapped up in a neat little bow. It's from a song, I know. A little ditty that's been rattling around in my head for a few weeks. Get up, get down with the sickness. Aye, been doing just that. Rolling about in the muck and the mire with bloodied hands that never wash clean – Lady Macbeth would be rolling in her grave, I'm sure. The indelible stain that showcases the darkness that's taken up tenancy within. My self-righteousness had the eviction notice ready but I've put a stop to that. See, I've found that there's a sort of peace to be found in that simple act of wanton destruction. To take something that was whole, that was beautiful in its own way and tear it apart. I understand now the art in those Jackson Pollock monstrosities, colours flung across canvas. The splashes of red are so damned visceral. They ignite something deep within me.

I want more.

I hunger for it and now I realize it wasn't glory I've been after all these years. It's a true outlet.

I'll admit, I was wrong to rage and rail all these years. There shouldn't be a line that one should fear crossing. There's freedom to be had. I'll shout it from the rooftops – I was wrong and when I look back at this stinking relic of a past, my bullshit career like a putrescent bloated corpse on the floor, and realize the truth. It's there, in glaring neon letters, the denial so apparent.

I was a fool.

For all the distance I put between myself and the past, it's still here. Stinking up the place. The doubts and the fears and the certainty of inadequacy keeping me from realizing my true potential. Ah, but that's grandiose posturing, isn't it? Am nothing special, even with a few golden straps about my waist – I'm still not a household name. Still no Lebron James or Wayne Gretzky… despite the fact that I defeated Rottentreats last year.

Am well aware that nobody gives a flying fuck and the more I recite my accomplishments, the more it feels like I'm grasping at the straws of respect I know I will never get. Not here. Not in a company that glorifies carnage and gore. I need to stop being rational. I need to stop keeping myself contained, in this prison behind a wall of words. Fuck it. Fuck all of it.

Quite aware that Jayson Ryder doesn't know a goddamned thing about me or what I've given to this industry – no matter how little they know, the past still screams in my ears. It tells me that I've not done enough. I'll never be as good as Brad Jackson, with his hundreds of championship reigns. Who cares if I outlasted the miserable bastard? Not as though any of this empty bullshit does much more than build imaginary clout – maybe if I'm lucky they'll supersize my fries for free?

After all, who really gives a shit about a guy who does nothing other than beat up another sweaty, middle-aged guy under hot lights for a screaming crowd? I'm not curing cancer. Not promoting world peace. Not saving lives or doing a good deed. No, I'm just putting smiles on the faces of absolute strangers. Entertainment. I am the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world. Not so special, really.

You never escape the voice of reason,  no matter how much you drink yourself blind. Believe me. It tells me that this is surely a mistake, but I keep on writing. The morning is brighter now. Almost daybreak. I can see you clearly, lying across the bed, sleeping soundly. You think that I'm sleeping next to you, that I'm on the mend. These scabs and scars are evidence to the contrary. I'm breaking down, consuming myself from the inside out. I'm lying to you, and I hope that you'll forgive me when it's all said and done. I failed you, both of you. I can't tell you how sorry I am, for all of this.

I want you to remember me how I was. I want you to tell this story when I'm gone – tell them that I had the best of intentions. Always. Tell them that I just wanted to be the best. I needed that validation – now that I have it, I don't know what the fuck to do with it.

What have I become?

Where do we go from here?

Do I continue this path of destruction? Do I destroy another overblown arsehole simply because he's in my way? It's easy to see Jackson's face superimposed on his. The words are the same, that hubris and rhetoric I've heard a thousand times or more. I'm not angry. There's no haze of self-righteousness. Just the voice of the monster, those gnashing teeth ready to rend and tear – I want your blood on my hands. I want to tear you to pieces and rip that golden trinket from your cold, dead hands.

You're unworthy.

I need to right this wrong. Do what I should have done that first time, when I was still struggling with the damned morality of the whole thing. I've been a fool for too long. It's time to take control. Sick shit, that. Me playing God? I was never meant for that role. I don't know how to be merciful. What a pity.