Survival Songs (Key of D) [Event #2 750 word intro]
Nov 19, 2022 20:44:36 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Nov 19, 2022 20:44:36 GMT -5
The beach is deserted, foam glistening on wet sand under the light of the near-full moon as a few waves break against the shore. A flat stone skips over the surface, bouncing three times before sinking below the water.
"Been asked this particular question before, ironically."
Lex Collins walks into view, shirtless and barefoot in a pair of knee-length board shorts. Old lines of scar tissue crisscross his back, silvery in the moonlight.
"First time, I dodged a straight answer. Where I grew up, silence meant more on the survival timeline. I know there are a lot of folks in this for the money… for the fame an' the meal-ticket. Not me, man. Oh, sure, the payday was nice. Don't get me wrong. Up 'til about 2014, my goal was just to take as much punishment as I could, on my own terms – misplaced angst and the illusion of control. If my hand was raised? Just gravy. Hell, from the time I was old enough to read an' write my own name, my entire existence revolved around that tenet: suck it up, get back up, and keep the mouth shut."
His toes dig into the wet sand; the next wave buries them up to his ankles.
"Twelve years ago, I was nobody you ever heard of. A loser, livin' hand-to-mouth. Got into a raw deal that sent me overseas to compete in this unsanctioned Fight Club bs called 'The Circuit'. None of us were meant to ever leave. I excelled there. Sixteen wins, six losses. I made it out alive, despite the odds stacked against me and that fed into that delusion I was cultivating so carefully. Answered that question truthfully the second time; they called me a liar. Told them accolades never did a thing to further my ultimate purpose. I thought it was a cool thing to say and they laughed in my face. Said that was stupid, to only care about getting up when the fight was over. I needed to show that nobody breaks me, no matter what.
I became indestructible. Fearless. Reckless."
One hand scrubs across his jaw, trying to wipe away the bitterness of that confession.
"Always more'n instinct, though. Was an integral part of my life, this twisted-up mantra I just kept repeating, trying to bolster my shattered self-esteem. Deep in my heart, I believed that was the only truth in the world. I've spent the last thirty-odd years fooling myself in ways you couldn't begin to imagine. The streaks started. The championships came and went. None of it mattered and so much of it now is just a blur, this amalgam of faces and places and the crowds getting bigger and louder beyond those bright lights. God, I remember the first time they came alive for me – those cheers. Felt so good, knowing they liked me. Pure validation. So high, never wanted a comedown."
He's absently twisting the skull ring on his middle finger now, spinning it between the thumb and index finger of his left hand.
"I became a household name, champ more often than not; everything I touched stayed gold. I poured everything into those matches, too – the tank seemed bottomless. Kept lying to myself, making it out like some noble calling. When you do the right things for the wrong reasons, it poisons you. Slowly. Surely. That's the truth.
He said I was worthless trash, unwanted – showed him, didn't I? Wrote so many survival songs in the key of dumbass."
Bowing his head, he sighs.
"Of course, it all fell apart – not indestructible, after all. Y'know the story: idiot flew too close to the sun, wax wings melted. It was a wakeup call I desperately needed, though. I got help. Took a step back from it all and spent months going over key moments of the last decade, seeing it all through a new lens. I was foolish. Desperate. Broken.
The answer isn't quick or clever. Not anymore. It's not an inspirational ditty about a zero who just wanted to make bank. Not about guts or glory. It's more visceral... a-about a man plagued by demons. A survivor through and through. He fights 'cause that's all he's ever done. All he knows.
Why do I wrestle? Why'd I come back? Why couldn't I stay away?
The answer's simple: my fight's not over. I'm not sure it'll ever be. And... I'm okay with that. I'll continue as long as I'm able. Promise you that."
"Been asked this particular question before, ironically."
Lex Collins walks into view, shirtless and barefoot in a pair of knee-length board shorts. Old lines of scar tissue crisscross his back, silvery in the moonlight.
"First time, I dodged a straight answer. Where I grew up, silence meant more on the survival timeline. I know there are a lot of folks in this for the money… for the fame an' the meal-ticket. Not me, man. Oh, sure, the payday was nice. Don't get me wrong. Up 'til about 2014, my goal was just to take as much punishment as I could, on my own terms – misplaced angst and the illusion of control. If my hand was raised? Just gravy. Hell, from the time I was old enough to read an' write my own name, my entire existence revolved around that tenet: suck it up, get back up, and keep the mouth shut."
His toes dig into the wet sand; the next wave buries them up to his ankles.
"Twelve years ago, I was nobody you ever heard of. A loser, livin' hand-to-mouth. Got into a raw deal that sent me overseas to compete in this unsanctioned Fight Club bs called 'The Circuit'. None of us were meant to ever leave. I excelled there. Sixteen wins, six losses. I made it out alive, despite the odds stacked against me and that fed into that delusion I was cultivating so carefully. Answered that question truthfully the second time; they called me a liar. Told them accolades never did a thing to further my ultimate purpose. I thought it was a cool thing to say and they laughed in my face. Said that was stupid, to only care about getting up when the fight was over. I needed to show that nobody breaks me, no matter what.
I became indestructible. Fearless. Reckless."
One hand scrubs across his jaw, trying to wipe away the bitterness of that confession.
"Always more'n instinct, though. Was an integral part of my life, this twisted-up mantra I just kept repeating, trying to bolster my shattered self-esteem. Deep in my heart, I believed that was the only truth in the world. I've spent the last thirty-odd years fooling myself in ways you couldn't begin to imagine. The streaks started. The championships came and went. None of it mattered and so much of it now is just a blur, this amalgam of faces and places and the crowds getting bigger and louder beyond those bright lights. God, I remember the first time they came alive for me – those cheers. Felt so good, knowing they liked me. Pure validation. So high, never wanted a comedown."
He's absently twisting the skull ring on his middle finger now, spinning it between the thumb and index finger of his left hand.
"I became a household name, champ more often than not; everything I touched stayed gold. I poured everything into those matches, too – the tank seemed bottomless. Kept lying to myself, making it out like some noble calling. When you do the right things for the wrong reasons, it poisons you. Slowly. Surely. That's the truth.
He said I was worthless trash, unwanted – showed him, didn't I? Wrote so many survival songs in the key of dumbass."
Bowing his head, he sighs.
"Of course, it all fell apart – not indestructible, after all. Y'know the story: idiot flew too close to the sun, wax wings melted. It was a wakeup call I desperately needed, though. I got help. Took a step back from it all and spent months going over key moments of the last decade, seeing it all through a new lens. I was foolish. Desperate. Broken.
The answer isn't quick or clever. Not anymore. It's not an inspirational ditty about a zero who just wanted to make bank. Not about guts or glory. It's more visceral... a-about a man plagued by demons. A survivor through and through. He fights 'cause that's all he's ever done. All he knows.
Why do I wrestle? Why'd I come back? Why couldn't I stay away?
The answer's simple: my fight's not over. I'm not sure it'll ever be. And... I'm okay with that. I'll continue as long as I'm able. Promise you that."
