One Year Down The Drain
Feb 14, 2022 3:55:57 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Feb 14, 2022 3:55:57 GMT -5
San Diego || 02-10-2013
[Off Camera]
[Off Camera]
In the wrestling business, everyone in the locker room's got at least one dark secret. Anyone who denied that truth was simply hoping their skeletons knew enough to stay in the closet under lock and key. Jackson kept his demons chained in a dark little box inside his head. On his worst days, it helped to picture them screaming in the dark.
They weren't screaming anymore.
And the box wasn't locked.
Instead it was open, lid askew, and the monsters were laughing in the dark. He could hear the phantom rats in the walls. He could feel the grave yawning at his heels, ready to swallow him the moment he stopped, the moment he lost that forward trajectory. He couldn't allow that to happen. Not now. Not when he finally had someone who had him up on a pedestal, someone who thought he was worth having around. The moment all the crumbled, he knew she'd move on. Find someone better to fuck on the side only to come crawling back when that baby-faced toxic man-child turned out to be worse than the one she'd left behind. Fucking Ryann. Everything circled back to her, to that codependent bullshit that had started with Kitty. He liked them broken because they made him feel whole.
He shivered in the void, feeling his skin crawl. The ache in his knees was back, tenfold. It never seemed to fade, just recede into that zone of 'who gives a shit' that lived somewhere outside his scope of reality. He was edging out of that place now, and it wasn't a good thing. The anger was percolating in his guts, souring into that impotent fury that always prompted something stupid. It seemed to go hand-in-hand with the nausea— he suspected it was probably a side-effect of the snake oil but it was worth it in the long run. He needed this run to end on his terms.
He'd been lying to Lyv, taking out his frustration out on her more than he cared to admit. Groaning softly, he bent forward, rummaging in the little black shaving kit that was resting on top of the toilet paper dispenser. With a ragged sigh, he withdrew the vial and the syringe as he kicked off his boot, flexing his bare toes. He crossed his ankle over his knee, flexing his foot to spread his toes apart, and his hand fumbled as he filled the syringe slowly, his arm vibrating with the effort to remain still.
He could feel the pain monster now, creeping at his nerve endings, but with his last shred of resolve, he pushed it aside, driving the needle into the vein and grimacing as the liquid coursed into his bloodstream. He closed his eyed, letting his head fall back against the graffiti -covered wall, gasping as the burning worked its way up his leg. The warmth filled his body as his hands finally stopped shaking. It was probably all in his head— placebo effect— but the pain was gone, leaving behind nothing but the anger. He flinched when the door banged, forgetting for a second that he was still inside the stall. He dropped the empty vial and the syringe into the yellow container that was screwed to the wall, turning the knob that trapped them inside with a few others. He wasn't worried about being caught with them. The vial was marked as insulin, after all— being a diabetic wasn't illegal in the business.
He slipped his boot back on and flushed the toilet, feigning some sort of normalcy before stepping out from the stall. His hands were under the spray of cold water as he looked up, meeting his own gaze in the mirror. He looked like a stranger— dark hollows under his eyes, strange shadows and contours in his face that he didn't remember before. He was a wreck, despite the designer steroids that made up a good part of his cocktail.
The pain was gutting him from the inside out.
"Fuck you," he growled, staring right through that hollow-eyed mess of a reflection. "You weak piece of shit."
"Fuck you," he growled, staring right through that hollow-eyed mess of a reflection. "You weak piece of shit."
The fires of hell raged in his gaze as he drew his left fist back, slamming it into the mirror. The glass shattered, shards clattering off the porcelain as a huge crack crawled across its surface. Blood dripped down, diluted pink by the running water before swirling down the drain.
It goes that easily, he thought. All down the drain.
Once wasn't enough so he hit it again and again, pounding until that mockery was blotted from his vision, leaving nothing but the ugly wall behind. There was a snarl, a pained keening howl coming to his ears, more like a wounded beast than a man. He wasn't aware he was making those sounds until his wife burst into the men's room, catching his arm before he could throw more punches. The damage had already been done and the anger was still there, mocking him as he let his wife pull him back, oblivious to the blood dripping from his lacerated fists.
It goes that easily, he thought. All down the drain.
Once wasn't enough so he hit it again and again, pounding until that mockery was blotted from his vision, leaving nothing but the ugly wall behind. There was a snarl, a pained keening howl coming to his ears, more like a wounded beast than a man. He wasn't aware he was making those sounds until his wife burst into the men's room, catching his arm before he could throw more punches. The damage had already been done and the anger was still there, mocking him as he let his wife pull him back, oblivious to the blood dripping from his lacerated fists.
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Reno || 02-14-2013
[Off Camera]
A whole year had gone by in what felt like the blink of an eye, at least that's how it felt to Alyvia Jackson. She was the happiest she'd ever been in all of her twenty-three years of life and most of that had to do with her husband. For her, this past year had been unbelievable— the fact that she'd already placed him up on the hero pedestal before their first date notwithstanding. She'd first met him back in 1998 at a house show in Boise. Her biological father had been a wrestler then, although he'd never been anywhere near as successful as her husband.
Resting her chin on her hand, she stared into the packed restaurant, watching other couples as her mind drifted back to that day. She'd spilled soda on her father's gear and he'd lit into her, slapping her around and verbally tearing her down in front of the whole locker room. She remembered what happened next so clearly— she dreamed about it for years. Jackson had been in the middle of taping his wrists and he'd charged across the room, spearing Tristain Mayhem into the wall before laying him out with one punch. Jackson had stood over her father, telling him that only pussies beat on little girls. That was the last time she ever spent any time with her real dad— he'd dumped her off the next day and never looked back.
He'd been her hero and her white knight in so many ways, such a blessing in her life. From the moment they'd laid eyes on each other, that had been it and they'd instantly been an item. Within a month, they were married with a bunch of critics saying they wouldn't last six months. Well, here it was a year later and they were still together, expecting their first child, and still only had eyes for each other. Sure, there had been bumps in the road, but in her mind that's what relationships were all about. The important thing was that they'd stood by one another.
For the evening of their anniversary, reservations had been made at a very luxurious restaurant. It wasn't just the anniversary of their marriage, it was also Valentine's Day— love was already in the air. They hadn't arrived at the restaurant together. Despite the stitches in his hands, Jackson had wanted to get in a light workout and Lyv wanted to arrive early to make an entrance. When they had a special date night like they were due to have, the young wife would usually come up behind her husband while he sat at the bar and whisper in his ear. It had become a little tradition of theirs and Lyv had been looking forward to it all afternoon.
She'd been at the restaurant for close to forty-five minutes now and was really starting to worry about her husband's absence. She could count on one hand the number of times he'd been late for a night like this. Even then, he'd only been maybe ten minutes late and he always let her know he was on his way. Given their recent troubles with Clay and the media harassing her husband about his ex-wife's bullshit allegations of abuse, she was really starting to get anxious at the lack of communication. She tried calling and texting him, but he hadn't answered. As the seconds ticked by, she couldn't help but imagine the worst case scenario. Getting to her feet off of the stool she'd been on, she grabbed her purse and left a ten dollar bill for the bartender who'd been attentive to her. With her phone in hand, she dialed her husband's number for a fifth time and left a third message.
"Baby, it's me. I'm heading back to the hotel to wait for you." She tried as hard as she could to keep the tension from her voice, "I'm sure you just got held up somewhere— I love you."
Ending the call, she slipped her phone back into her purse and went out to hail a cab. It didn't take long for one to stop and before she knew it, she was well on her way back to the Bellagio. The ride back took about fifteen minutes and after the driver was paid, she all but ran into the building and got herself onto an elevator. The ride to their floor didn't take any longer than usual, but to Lyv the minutes seemed like an hours. Finally when they'd made it to her floor, she got off and quickly walked down the hall to their room. Getting the keycard out, she slid it into the door slot and when the green light blinked, she burst into the room.
"Jax?" She called out, looking around the room, but not seeing him. Feeling her chest tighten with the realization that he might not be there, her eyes continued to scan the area. Settling on the bathroom door, she saw that it was almost shut and that the light was on. Breathing a semi-sigh of relief as she heard the shower running, she made her way to the bathroom and opened up the door. The mirrors in the bathroom were completely fogged up and the floor was soaked with water that had rained out onto the floor.
She saw him then, seated on the bathroom floor looking as though he was asleep. "Honey?" She said, walking into the bathroom. She would have crouched beside him, but it was a hard task to do being the she was close to seven months pregnant. "Baby?" Grabbing the side of the bathtub, she lowered herself to the floor. Placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, she tried to nudge him awake. "Jax, wake up." Her voice was somewhat louder, but she wasn't shouting.
His eyes opened, completely bloodshot and unfocused. "Hey," the smile he gave her was almost loopy— definitely something she'd never seen on his face before.
She narrowed her eyes, as if to try to read what was going on in his head. "What happened to you?" Her tone was soft as she rubbed his shoulder gently. "I waited at the restaurant for an hour and got really worried. Are you okay?"
He blinked, trying to get his vision to clear. She was blurred around the edges, which actually made her look pretty damn good. "My knees don't hurt," he still had that off-kilter half smile on his face and his eyes were still glassy. "So that's progress."
"How long have you been like this?" Reaching over him, she managed to turn the shower off and stayed knelt beside him. "Did you take something?" The answer was obvious, but she wanted to hear it directly from him. Maybe she could get him off of the floor and to bed— at least then he'd be comfortable.
"I dunno," he looked down at his wrist but his watch wasn't there. "Not sure what time it is..." the other question went unanswered, and she wondered if it was deliberate.
Lyv didn't say anything for a few moments, trying to find the right words. Exhaling deeply, "do you think I could help you to your feet? I don't think the bathroom floor is a good place for you right now," she tried to keep the words light, but her voice was shaking. "C'mon, baby. I can help you to the bed." Reaching down, she slipped off the stiletto heels she was wearing and set them off to the side.
"I'm okay here," he replied, leaning his head back against the wall. His eyes slipped closed as he fell silent again, almost as though he was about to drift off to sleep or pass out again.
"Honey, please let me help you to bed." She was getting dangerously close to freaking out, "you can lean on me, and it'll be more comfortable." Already, she was grabbing one of his arms and trying to move it around her slender shoulders.
"I can't, Lyv." His eyes were open and he was actually looking at her now, a sort of desperation on his face. "My legs... feel weird... like they're not really there. And everything looks blurry."
"Okay," she said nodding. Pushing herself up to her feet, "I'll be right back." Leaving the bathroom, she walked over to their hotel bed and stripped off the blankets and tossed them over by the bathroom doorway. Next, she grabbed the pillows and with her arms filled, came back in. She was determined to stay beside him while he came down from whatever high he was on. "Do you think you can lie down?" She placed a pillow beside him and started dragging in the blankets. "We can just sleep in here." It wasn't the most ideal place to spend the night of their first anniversary, but she'd take what she could get.
"No," he shook his head, trying to push off the wall, "no, it's supposed to be a special night for you..."
"Jackson," her voice came out sharp, "I don't care where we spend it, as long as we're together." It was a corny line, but it was the truth. She wasn't going to spend the night in that bed with him passed out on the bathroom floor, completely strung out like some junkie on TV. "We're in it together, right?" She placed her pillow beside his and spread out the blanket. "If you want, you put your head on my lap and sleep it off. I can massage you."
"I just wanted to be myself for you... tonight. I wanted it to stop hurting." His voice was hollow, sounding impossibly sad as he looked away from her. "I just wanted it to be perfect." He lifted his hand to his face, rubbing it hard and then wincing as he tugged at the stitched up cuts on his palm. "I'm sorry, baby. I...fucked up."
Shaking her head, her hands came up and rested on his cheeks. "No, you didn't. It's okay, really," she didn't have to tell him that she was disappointed— he could hear it in her voice. "I know you've had a rough time lately," leaning in, she kissed his lips softly. "Come on, let's just lay down." Inhaling and then exhaling gently, she tried really hard to keep a smile on her face, "okay?"
"Will you still love me when I'm a fuckin' disgrace?" The words came out in a hoarse whisper, "this match against Ford might have to be my last. Every day, it hurts, Lyv... hurts so bad I can't think straight. This was the only way to buy the time I need."
"Oh, Jax." It was easy to detect in her tone just how much her heart was breaking for him. "No wonder you've been in such a bad mood." Closing her eyes for a moment, her arms moved around him and she buried her face against the crook of his neck.
"I love you," he murmured, letting her pull him down so that he was actually lying beside her on the cold floor. "I'm sorry, baby... I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted to be perfect for you today."
"You don't have to apologize." She kissed his forehead as though he was a child, running her hands through his hair to calm him, "we're okay, honey. We're always," her voice quavered, "better than okay." She pulled a blanket over them and then moved one of his arms so it was around her. "This is what tonight's about— you and me, together." Bringing his hand up to her lips, she kissed each one of the knuckles and then intertwined their fingers, being careful not to touch his still-healing cuts. "Nothing else matters." Of course, there were other things that mattered. As far as Lyv was concerned, they could go straight to hell— the title shots, the drama with Matt Ford, his evil exes— all of them. For now, the only thing that was important to her was her husband's peace of mind.
