QUESTIONS & ANSWERS (CH 9: SACRED PLACES, DEFILED) [entity]
Dec 16, 2022 5:00:11 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Dec 16, 2022 5:00:11 GMT -5
Rock Hill, NY ||| December 13, 2022
(off camera)
THE LIVING ROOM WAS COZY, the fire in the hearth having burned down to glowing embers. LJ had fallen asleep on the couch, camped out with half a dozen throw pillows, a fluffy blanket and Netflix. She hadn't wanted to go to bed alone; at least here she could pretend that she wasn't anxious about the snow that had started falling a few hours before. He'd gone to the next town over for a winter supply run, opting to take the dog with him for company.
She wasn't sure how long she'd dozed off for or what it was that had woken her up. Sitting up, the blanket falling to her lap, she looked around and saw that nothing seemed out of the ordinary. However, something was off, and she couldn't shake the anxiety that had immediately taken over in just a matter of moments. Telling herself that she was being silly, LJ stood up from the couch. She was now twelve weeks along with their baby and was starting to show. She rubbed her hand over her stomach – she'd started doing that lately, a new little habit that always seemed to bring an unconscious smile to her face. She decided to go make herself a cup of tea. Reaching for her phone, she noticed the screen was dark and unresponsive. She'd probably left something running and it had drained the battery. She scooped it up, planning to put it on the charger in the kitchen. As soon as it came back on, she'd try to get in touch with Sev to find out where he was.
She was just pulling her favourite mug from the cupboard above the sink when she heard a creak on the stairs behind her – they both knew where to step to avoid the house's quirks and did it almost subconsciously. She held her breath, heart racing as she tried to tell herself it was nothing, just the place settling because of the weather outside and then she smelled that expensive cologne her father had always worn. The mug tumbled from her hand, bouncing on the counter before crash landing in the sink. It cracked in half and for a moment she stared down at those broken pieces, hoping that she was just imagining things, that it was just a remnant of the forgotten nightmare that had probably pulled her from sleep.
"Quaint little place," Archer's voice was pitched low, almost conversational. He stood at the top of the stairs, one gloved hand resting on the rail, looking impeccable as always, even though he was wearing all black.
The look on her face was a mixture of fear and anger. It didn't surprise her, though, that he'd finally tracked her down. She'd hoped that when he'd threatened to disown her when she'd walked out over a year ago, that he would stay gone.
"What are you doing here?" The temptation to run out of the house and away from him was so strong that she forgot how bad the weather was. Slowly, she turned to face him, her gaze going to the sliding door that led onto the upper deck. She could see the fat flakes drifting past the security light there, knew she wouldn't make it far in nothing but pyjamas.
He didn't answer, instead stepping in closer to her. When she didn't look at him, his hand snapped out and gripped her face, fingers digging hard into her cheeks, forcing her head up. "Is it true?" His eyes bored into hers, his lips thinned down into an invisible line.
His fingers were dug so far into her cheeks, she suspected there might be tell-tale bruises later. "Get offa me!" She yelled at him as her hands came up and shoved him as hard as she could off her. "Is what true?" She spat the question out as her hands were gingerly rubbing her cheeks.
Looking her up and down, the disgust was written all over his face. "If this is your way of getting back at me, you've outdone it. Just the thought of that worthless commie shit planting his seed in you–"
Before Archer could finish his comment, LJ had already brought her left fist back and connected it with his cheek. "Don't you EVER talk about him like that!" Sev was her trigger and the one topic that gave her enough strength to stand up to her father. "Get the fuck out of my house!"
She hadn't noticed that her father hadn't come alone until her arms were caught behind her back. She struggled but the hands that held her were like iron. Archer's hand probed his cheek as he opened and closed his mouth. It had been a lucky shot, surprising him not just with the violence but the audacity. She'd never had a backbone before – this was a disturbing new development. "Oh, I'll leave. But you'll be coming along. We've got an appointment, Lauren-Jane. I've indulged your little rebellion long enough. Don't you think?"
"I'm not going anywhere with you. Never again." The fact that he thought her life was being lived solely to piss him off was just absurd, making her burn with rage. Violently, LJ shook her head as she tried to get out of the other person's grasp. She was on the verge of tears but would not shed them in front of him. "You don't even like me and you disowned me. Why do you care what I do? Fuck off and let me live my life!" Her wrists were starting to hurt. "Just please, let me go!"
There was a malicious gleam in Archer's eyes even as he snapped his reply, "I don't need to like you to have a vested interest. You've always been a disappointment. Weak and soft-hearted just like your mother." He lifted his gaze to the hired muscle, "knock her out if you have to. The sooner we get out of this dump, the–" His words cut off abruptly as the house plunged into darkness. Assuming it was the weather, he reached for the flashlight he had in his pocket even as his eyes were adjusting thanks to the small night light on the wall next to the sink.
They had a generator – the fact that it hadn't kicked in automatically was strange but she didn't have time to ponder that as she was still trying to get free from the other person's grasp. She continued to struggle, stomping on her assailant's instep like she'd seen her husband do inside the wrestling ring a thousand times. Of course, it wasn't very effective when she had no shoes on and he was wearing what felt like hiking boots. A yelp of pain was loud in her ears and then she saw a shadow loom against the windows – oh God no, were there three of them? If the numbers game was that stacked, she knew there was no chance, even as she stomped down again, smashing her slipper-clad heel against the man's ankle this time. The grip loosened and she pulled away, darting to the left even though she was penned in by the island and the fridge. A hand around her ankle sent her crashing to the floor and then that grip was gone.
She heard a struggle, muffled curses and heavy breathing before the sickening crack of bone against bone? Something wet splashed on her leg and she curled up into a ball, wedging herself in against the island behind the stools where they usually ate meals. She saw flashes as the light her father was holding spun away, rolling towards the stairs. Those monstrous shadows loomed large against the far wall, clashing, and colliding as pots and pans came raining down from the overhead rack. She ducked. Covered her head. Held her breath and tried not to scream and betray her hiding place.
It felt like a thousand years, but it was over quickly. She heard whimpering, laboured panting, and realised it was her own. She clapped a hand over her lips to muffle it. The silence was so sudden that she thought she'd gone deaf before the room was once again flooded in light. She heard a muffled thump against the other side of the island. When she lifted her head, she saw blood spattering the floor, staining the leg of her pyjamas. The room was in disarray, dishes scattered and two of the lower cabinets smashed inward from some impact. Shaking, she reached out and grasped the leg of the stool, using it to pull herself up into a low crouch. At first, she thought that heavy breathing was her own until she eased forward slightly, peering around the side of the island to find her husband slumped there, one of the white kitchen towels pressed against his arm, so soaked in blood it looked purple-black.
His brown eyes locked on hers, concern on his face even as she was reaching for him, the tears that she'd refused to shed in her father's presence breaking free now to stream down her cheeks. Relief made her lightheaded and she had to close her eyes for a moment until the vertigo passed.
He was out of breath, that barrel chest heaving, and it took his lips a moment to form words. "Are you–"
"You're bleeding!" Her exclamation drowned him out, panic flashing through her eyes as she finally registered what she was seeing. "Oh God, Sev, you're bleeding." Rather than think about what had almost happened, about how their safe space had been violated in the worst way, she let that surge of protective fury burn the anxiety to ash.
His hand lifted from the pressure he was applying to the wound, the towel falling to the floor between them. "Solnyshko," those thick fingers gently pressed to her cheek, his thumb leaving a smear of blood as he wiped away her tears. "Is nothing," he assured her, "I am here. You are here. Trus sbezhal."
The coward has fled.
"He'll try again." Her voice quavered, breaking on a shuddering breath that was dangerously close to a sob. "He… he wanted to…" she couldn't bring herself to even say the words aloud. Deep down, she knew that Sev would already seek vengeance – the less he knew about that planned violation, the better.
He pulled her in close, drawing her into his lap; his arms tightened around her trembling body, his lips pressing to the top of her head. His words were simple, a promise he swore to keep as surely as the blood continued to drip down his arm, following the tracks of those tattooed veins. "He will fail."
━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━
We do not travel in the same circles. I have, however, seen your social media. I know you are embarking on a retirement tour of sorts – I wish you well in this endeavor. In a business where so many things are left to chance, it is good to have the illusion of control. To dictate the day and time that it all ends? Yes, this is wonderful. A part of me feels torn, though, as I sit down to talk about this match. I want to embrace this new challenge, but a part of me is still frustrated. Angry.
This past year has been my greatest triumph and I was looking forward to closing it out by clipping a corvid's wings. I was excited to return to Japan after more than a decade, to work in one of my favourite places. Those walls at Korakuen Hall, they hold many secrets. They have seen many things: broken careers, shattered egos, splintered misconceptions. They have absorbed the screams of agony and adulation alike – I do not believe in ghosts, but you cannot deny that some places are forever changed by the things that happen within. Some become sacred, places that forever change you. Some become haunted. Violated and defiled by interlopers who know nothing of their history.
A journey between those walls will forever change you, even before you step into the ring with me.
A journey between those walls will forever change you, even before you step into the ring with me.
Hello. My name is Chelomtsev Vladislav Yurievich. My friends call me Sev. My former captor called me Slava. Translated, this means glory. He thought it was funny, an insulting play on words that came from shortening the middle name I was given by a mother I never met. There are so many things I am feeling now, all these toxic memories that have been dredged to the surface. I suppose this is normal for us, though. Closing accounts at the end of the year. Readying ourselves for the REBIRTH when the clock rolls over into a new calendar.
Let us be real with each other. Honest. I want to peel back the layers – not just to dissect you, no. To reveal myself. I would have you know me. Intimately. I will not insult you with assumptions. I know there are many in this business who are keen to overlook me. I have been deemed unworthy so many times I can recite the words along with you. I pray that you are different, Serena. I hope that you will not insult my intelligence with the same tired insults that I have heard a thousand times over. I can assure you that the blind slams on my character will do nothing to save your hide. I want to take my pound of flesh. I am owed the fight I was promised when I signed a contract here.
Let us be real with each other. Honest. I want to peel back the layers – not just to dissect you, no. To reveal myself. I would have you know me. Intimately. I will not insult you with assumptions. I know there are many in this business who are keen to overlook me. I have been deemed unworthy so many times I can recite the words along with you. I pray that you are different, Serena. I hope that you will not insult my intelligence with the same tired insults that I have heard a thousand times over. I can assure you that the blind slams on my character will do nothing to save your hide. I want to take my pound of flesh. I am owed the fight I was promised when I signed a contract here.
Your skin. Knox's wings.
I suppose in the grand scheme, one trophy of a cowardly fool who already has one foot out the door is as good as another, no? Yes. I called you that. No, I will not recant because a warrior should NEVER tire of battle. I cannot fathom doing anything else. You seem enlightened. Perhaps you will explain to me how this works. Have you lost your smile, as the saying goes? I will not fill the silence with sad postulations, and flexing. I will check my temper. I should not take this anger out on you. I apologize, though. I have misplaced my filters and I am done with being nice, with letting people waste my time. Do that, and I will enjoy every moment of your impending destruction.
Are you worthy? The silence thus far outside of a single vague and generic pebble tossed into the still waters of Twitter would make me think not. Prove me wrong.
I will save you the time in looking me up.
I am a fighter. A warrior. I was created, forged into the machine you see before you. Through relentless training, I became a monster. If you have taken any time at all to go back and review my past year, you will understand how that prepared me to take this business by storm. You will see former champions broken in my wake. You will see an impressive title reign, a proud moment cut short by a cheap shot from a Dollar General Villain. She would have you believe that David felled Goliath. History books have always been skewed, the narratives twisted by those who wield the power.
I have a plan for the future. I am in control of this narrative now. Do you understand? If not, you will see. Your eyes will be opened soon enough.
I have a plan for the future. I am in control of this narrative now. Do you understand? If not, you will see. Your eyes will be opened soon enough.
Now, I am cracking knuckles in feverish anticipation. I am so amped up that I am burning. Incandescent. You can see this desire for miles. Some in this industry, the rest of them, they never go home alone. They latch onto their fans. They cling to their allies and associates. Some care more about the bottom line, about buy rates and merchandise sales. Some care about filling their bank accounts.
I am a different breed.
They come to my door with silver-tongued torches and pitchforks, ready to banish monsters – they believe they have the right to take what is not theirs because of some ridiculous notion that they are better. High born. Entitled. These rich jetsetters with their limousines and stock quotes – I would destroy them all. Send a message. Are you on their side? Are you with me? Who are you, Serena? Show me.
I have given everything to arrive in this place. Forty years of my life in toil and turmoil. You cannot encompass all I have seen, and all I have experienced into such tiny boxes. If you come into my house uninvited, there will be consequences. This is a warning. Not just for you, Serena. For all.
I'm sure you'll scoff at that. Chalk it up to ignorance. To arrogance. As if confidence in one's own abilities is something shameful.
Here's the thing, Serena. One GIANT difference between the two of us. I did not saunter in here because I was idle and bored. I came here with a purpose. I wanted to see blood flow. I wanted to destroy someone who has earned the contempt. They don't pay me to talk pretty. They don't want to hear my words. They want to see me crush and maim. They want to see CARNAGE.
I do not need to know what they think of me to form an opinion about myself. I know who I am.
Disintegration machine, the destroyer of worlds. I know this is not the quote. I hear the things said about me, like poison dripping into my ears, seeking to devour me from within.
Rusted. Old. Damaged. Worthless. Defanged monster. Fool. Fraud. Ugly. Unworthy. Meathead.
Rusted. Old. Damaged. Worthless. Defanged monster. Fool. Fraud. Ugly. Unworthy. Meathead.
YOUR WORDS MEAN NOTHING.
I would be worried about hurting feelings if I thought it mattered. It does not. In another decade, they will all be forgotten. In a month, you will be long gone. You won't stick around, let alone appear at Kaged In. This is my prediction. You will lose. You will vanish back to Zion when their hiatus is over and you will carry on playing big fish in a mud puddle because this suits you far more than stepping out of the comfort zone.
Tell me the truth. Do you ever feel the walls coming in close? Feel the air being sucked from your lungs as panic squeezes your chest? Do you ever feel like running until you burst into flames and explode? I do. That is where I live, where I breathe. The fires of adversity have tempered me, have burned away all the lies. I am ENIGMA.
YOU WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND ME. YOU WILL NEVER KNOW ME.
I have this mechanical animal brain screaming at me, urging me on. It digs its spurs into my sides, whips me when I stop, screaming: "keep going! Faster! The sun is coming up and you have not made it yet! The end is not yet in sight!"
Drive is a funny thing. It's all I have. These days, it is all I need.
