QUESTIONS & ANSWERS (CHAPTER 11: SAVE YOURSELF)
Feb 3, 2023 2:53:49 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Feb 3, 2023 2:53:49 GMT -5
Kawasaki, Japan ||| January 21, 2023
(off camera)
Will you be the one to save us?
It was warmer than expected, even in the early hours before dawn; the residual warmth of his skin in the aftermath of the adrenaline spent enough that he didn't bother to put on that silly Ribera Steakhouse jacket he'd been wearing before the show. It rested across the duffel bag that bulged a bit more than it had when he'd arrived at the stadium more than twelve hours ago – it felt like a century. It still hadn't really registered. He'd captured a championship. He'd bled. He'd been photographed with it while there was still red smeared on his forehead, dried flecks flaking off and the soot around his eyes only half there. The photographer had been skilled, made use of the shadows that he preferred to lurk in. Made him look menacing and fearsome.
Impostor Syndrome was rearing its ugly head again. The voices of condemnation swirling through his thoughts so that he just wanted to take something sharp and jab it in through his ear. Go one further and scoop out his eyes. Bad enough that they were burning, the deserted parking lot taking on that ethereal glow that usually meant he was dangerously close to passing out. He let his head loll back against the bench seat, closing his eyes as he pulled the air into his lungs. He held his breath. Counted it like a good boy. Exhaled through his mouth.
His wife sat next to him. Nobody was in the front seat. The keys dangled from the ignition.
He hated the lengths he'd gone to, the toll it had taken on his body. Everything hurt. He had been careful. It helped that Shane Donovan was a consummate professional, another veteran with a passion for the business. With a sigh, he settled back against the cool leather seat, rolling his neck to stare out the window at the darkened stadium.
"I overheard them talking backstage while you were getting cleaned up," LJ said quietly, hoping to pull her husband back from the brink of the abyss. "Over twenty-seven thousand in attendance."
The number was staggering. He'd never worked in front of a crowd that large. Two huge upsets in a row. First, he'd beaten Joe Montuori at Magnificence II. Now he'd bested Donovan, and quite possibly ended the professional career of Vinny Blades. As if she knew where his mind was at, LJ gently touched his hand.
"Blades will be okay."
Sev nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Everything was blurry, even his sense of self. A part of him wondered if her family was still watching, keeping tabs on their movements. He wondered what her piece of shit father would think of the destruction his hands had wrought tonight and if seeing him blood-soaked and battered had brought satisfaction to the sadistic fuck.
"Sev? Hey." Her fingers were like ice in his, bringing him back from the precipice of that spiral. "Do we need to go to the hospital? Get you checked out?"
"Everything feels hazy," he finally broke the silence, his voice hoarse from exertions. "It feels like waking from a bad dream – heart racing, sweating all over. Trying to remember all the pieces before they flee." He moved, pulling his hand from her grasp as he jostled the bag between them. It slid forward and his hand snapped out to catch it before it tumbled down. No thought. Just instinct.
It did feel like a dream, all of it. Surreal, like a night terror that lingers long after waking.
Beyond the windows were nothing but a deserted lot. Night sky. Anonymous buildings. None of it was ringing any bells and he felt a prickle of unease. He kicked off his boots, and opened the door, swinging his bare feet out into the cold. Uneven asphalt under his toes. Sharp little bits of ice, and they did nothing for him. The night was an empty void. Abyss gazing, he slumped forward in silence, waiting for his head to stop spinning.
His wife's hands were on his back, gently tracing patterns that were like mystical runes, instantly conjuring a state of calm. What a time to come unglued, and for what? Because some fool had dared to question his worth? Because he'd done nothing to avenge the trespass on their home, like a damned coward?
Every minute spent in silence was another damning progression towards the wrong direction. He put his head in his hands, breathing in huge gasping mouthfuls of the cool night air. Felt like puking. Probably would have if he'd eaten in the last twenty-some hours. He hadn't.
"It's okay," her voice was soft, comforting. "It's over, honey."
He didn't correct her. He knew this was the calm before the storm. They were on borrowed time now and every moment was more precious than the last. He could feel that truth right down to his marrow and it sickened him; the thought of what he might have to do before it was all over was too much to bear.
Will you be the one to save us? May I suggest something, Enigma? Save yourself.
That mockery drifted through his mind again, bringing a flare of anger that snapped him back into the moment. A soft groan passed his lips as he sat back, letting his hands fall away from his face. He forced himself to focus on the here and now. Japan. A parking lot. A new championship won. The rest of it was irrelevant. Inconsequential.
"I…" he turned his head to meet his wife's concerned gaze, "it is okay." He repeated the lie, the words like ashes on his tongue and he settled back into the car, letting her fuss over him before she left him alone back there, slipping behind the wheel. The GPS was already programmed with their hotel – no confusion there.
He tilted his head to the side, cheek against the cool leather, back to staring out the window again as the car began to move. This time when the scenery blurred it wasn't from motion. It was from the tears that flooded his eyes, spilling silently down his cheeks.
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Violence's Archetype, The Godslaying Beast. Former Excellence Champion. His partner, a God Slayer, too. Former Impulse Champion. Lost the championship to JMont – a man I conquered in the two falls that mattered.
Damian Ayla. Tara Ayla. Joe Montuori.
I could make a leap, could say that I am better than two thirds of the opposition. I still find it difficult to do this, to sit down and speak on these things. For many years, I was told that my voice did not matter. I was told that my fists were important. My strikes were necessary. My presence in those thousands of tag team matches was required but never appreciated, never requested. Cannot help but feel like the odd one out here. No previous glory, no championships here to speak of, despite the defeat of several champions. Oh, but I have gold. I went to Japan. I wrestled in front of nearly thirty-thousand appreciative fans. I participated in a tradition. I soaked my aching bones in a natural hot spring for hours afterwards, hoping to wash off the stench of mediocrity but it feels ingrained.
The rational part of me knows this is false, it is nothing more than conditioning. The whipping boy is never supposed to ascend. The universe was wrong. The narrative was false. You cannot tell me this whipping boy cannot become something more. The championship belt in my bag would say otherwise. I do not fear these slayers. I have never claimed to be a God. I have never held such high aspirations. I do not understand those who feel they need to say such awful things, to debase and denigrate the opposition as if that makes them better? I know the Aylas are good. I can go back and watch the footage; I can witness the birth of champions and fast forward to the inevitable downfall. Ah, but I am allowed to wax philosophical now. I have wrestled in Japan. I have been in sold-out historical buildings. I have been to Disney and been in the Haunted Mansion. I have done things. Seen things.
I have a Ribera jacket. I have a roll of tape that dates back to 1999 – I ordered crates of it when I learned the company was going out of business and now it serves as a benchmark for me. I tell myself that when it is finally gone, I will be too. It is easier when you put an end date to it, I find. And there are so many things still on the list. So many things left undone. Piddly little things, unimportant to others. I want to see the northern lights again, to stand there unfettered and free and watch the colours dance in the sky. I want to hear a silent space filled with the laughter of my child. I want to hear feet running when the door opens, to be greeted with open arms and unrestrained joy. I know these things do not matter in the context of this business. I also know that the other three in this match have children, have experienced that miracle. I covet that so much, fear that it will be snatched from me before the moment comes.
The world has never been kind to me.
Now, every moment feels loaded. Every choice feels like a path that branches further away from my dream. I do not know how much longer my body can do this and I am fixated on the most mundane things. Respect eludes me, even in my moments of triumph. I still feel like an outsider, as though I have no purpose between these ropes but to take up space – old habits die hard. That is what they say, no? Conditioning is hard to break. Some things never change, and it has taken me days to write these simple thoughts because I cannot stop staring down at my fingers on the keyboard. These are the hands of a fighter, of someone who has worked very hard. Calloused. Stained. Misshapen. Never soft. Oh, the stories they could tell.
They look like such good, strong hands...
Broken thoughts, skipping around in the darkness but it always circles back to a common theme: failure. I know I should be explaining to my opponents the logic of how I will overcome, and how I will climb the mountain one more time. I can see the sky beckoning, but my fears tell me there is a sheet of glass that will slam me back down to earth – I am not meant to soar.
One of these things is not like the others.
I know this thing is me.
I have no reason to lie. To hide behind a wall of words. What you get is what you see. These labels are not my own. I do not wish to be a MONSTER. I was made one by circumstance, because the mould fit better than any other. I have wrestled all over the world. I have largely forgotten many of these places over the years because they were not special. They were not exceptional.
They were not teeming with talent, the best this business has to offer.
The truth here is immutable. A mountain unscalable and insurmountable and I am no revisionist historian. I am sorry if this is disappointing, but I have nothing to draw from here. No experience that measures up. My championships were won in small, shallow ponds. Not to say that Shane Donovan is not a force to be reckoned with. It is just not the same. I set my sights on Excellence as a test, one that I was sure I was going to fail. And to see that I have won so many times when the odds were against me does not bring a smile to my face. It makes me wary. It makes me more keenly aware of the ticking of that clock and the deadline looming.
It pains me to see nothing but silence – I internalise that. It is my fault, I know. There is no reason to crow from the rooftops about my inadequacies. All have been catalogued and dissected at length. I have heard it all a thousand times: I am not fast enough. Not smart enough. Not tenacious enough. A win in this match could mean that my wait for glory is over. It could mean everything.
I am afraid, though. Full of doubt.
I cannot save them.
I can't even save myself.
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FLASHBACK
Manhattan, NY ||| November 26, 2021
(off camera)
She could see condensation clouding the outside of the vodka bottle that Sev had unearthed from the freezer the moment they'd walked into the apartment. She wondered now, how many secrets he had been holding back from her? The way he'd held her hand in the car, the way he'd listened as though he was actually hearing rather than waiting for his turn to interject gave her pause, though. She thought she'd seen anguish and agony in his gaze as he'd taken that drink of the chilled liquor. She wanted to ask him the worst thing that had happened, as if it were a quid pro quo situation. Pain for pain.
The bottle had been new. He'd cracked the seal and chugged half of it without flinching, not even bothering with a glass – she'd never seen him drink like that, hadn't even known the bottle was there until he'd produced it. Her eyes drifted to it and then back towards the bathroom door. She could see the steam coming out through the crack. Could hear the white noise hiss of the water. The silence otherwise cut deep. They'd only been living together officially for a few months and Sev usually sang in the shower. Just little snippets of songs and jingles, the earworms that had caught in his head over the past 24 hours. She loved that about him, those simple things that always seemed to bring him so much unrestrained joy.
The last few miles of their drive had been spent in silence and every one closer to home sent her anxiety a notch higher until she felt like the walls were threatening to close in and if Sev hadn't been holding her hand still, she might have asked for him to pull over, to let her out of the car. The instinct was still there now, to spare him the humiliation of being with someone so worthless that her parents would toss her aside like old trash. The leatherbound book she kept as a journal was open on the table in front of her, the blank page in front of her speaking volumes.
She picked up the pen, her hand shaking, and she wrote a few words before the thought threatened to split her head clean open.
It's only a matter of time before he leaves.
Violently, she scribbled that out, the tip of the pen tearing through the page. She stared at the destruction for a moment, feeling the ache of those words inside, even as she closed her eyes. They were burned into her brain. She felt the truth with every beat of her heart.
She crumpled the page in her fist, squeezing it until her hand ached.
She kept her eyes closed until the burning of impending tears stopped. Pen to page again and she dated it properly. Perfect structure. Clean and precise.
Archer and Catherine disowned me tonight. I thought it was a threat but I got a notice on the way home that my Amex card has been cancelled, not that I ever really used it. Just one more thing for them to hold over me. They were furious about the engagement, about the fact that we hadn't told them. I always suspected that he had some backdoor into my social media; there were never any secrets in that house. Ever.
The pen skipped and she let it fall from her hand. Running a hand through her hair, she chewed on her bottom lip softly. She felt frozen, trapped in her misery – finally she stood up. The chair scooted back. Clashed against the fridge. She wasn't sure where she was going until she slipped into the bathroom, feeling the warm embrace of the steam. For a moment, she hesitated, one hand gripping the doorjamb, watching his silhouette through the opaque curtain. A part of her felt relief. She'd almost expected to find the bedroom window open, to find that he'd fled down the fire escape and had only left the shower on for cover noise. As irrational as the thought was, she couldn't shake it and the thought of waking up alone chilled her to the bone.
Her thumb moved over the ring on her left hand, and she looked down to it in thought. The weight was comfortable; it signified so much. It wasn't the same as what Rick Ravenswood had offered her – an escape route via contract, a way to get out from under her father's thumb. Sev had promised her devotion. Had called her "little sunshine" since they had started dating. He'd made her feel special. He'd made her feel as though he actually saw her, treasured her. Even the way he hadn't pushed for intimacy, preferring to take things slow, spoke of a tenderness she'd never experienced before, one that made her hurt to think about sometimes. Her fingers moved over the stone as she took in a deep breath.
A split-second thought of taking it off – she didn't. Instead, she took off the cardigan she had on, letting it fall to the floor. Her dress followed so that now she was just standing there in a mismatched bra and panties. She didn't think about it, didn't even stop to consider what she was doing before she grasped the edge of the shower curtain, pulling it away from the wall slightly. She stepped into the shower, his name coming softly from her lips, "Sev…."
He turned around, saw her standing there with tears in her eyes, raw anguish in their depths. It wasn't the lack of clothes that showcased her vulnerability. It was the way she looked at him, everything there on her face, every feeling exposed. He didn't think about covering his shame, hiding himself for modesty's sake. He stepped forward, gathering her into his embrace. His arms were warm, his chest slick with soap as he held her close. "Shhhh," he murmured, feeling his heart ache for her, for how horribly those poor excuses for parents had treated her. "There is no reason to cry – is a joyous time. We have our—"
He heard the muffled sob, felt her arms wrap tight around his waist. He stayed silent, listening to her breathing and the fall of water. She was still shivering so he turned them, putting her back to the warm water and he just held her there, his cheek pressed against the top of her head until the trembling stopped.
"Sev?"
Her voice was small, so timid and plaintive that it broke his heart. He closed his eyes against the tears that burned for her sake.
"Mmm?" He pressed his lips to her crown, smelling the sweetness of her damp hair.
"Please don't go. Please. I—" she wanted to make all sorts of insane promises, throw herself at his feet and offer the moon and stars.
A rough chuckle passed his lips as he pulled back, looking down at her. "I am not going anywhere. Ever. I promise you this."
The sobs broke loose, horrible and ugly – for the first time in years, she let the pain overflow, rode it out instead of swallowing it back and he held her the whole time. Eventually, the water grew cold, and he turned it off. Helped her out and peeled the wet underthings from her body. He dried her gently and helped her into her favourite pyjamas. Her anguish broke his heart but he kept the anger from boiling up, despite the urge he had to burn the world to cinders for harming her so horribly. He carried her to bed, settling her in amidst all the pillows and pulled the warmest blanket over her. He crawled in next to her after putting on his own boxers and she immediately nestled into his arms.
He drew patterns on her back. Mostly Cyrillic letters, ones she could probably decipher if she were so inclined to. He knew that words were not what she needed right now. She needed to feel the reassurance. To know that she was safe. That someone was willing to take a bullet for her, to rescue her – she was no damsel in distress. She was his queen, and he vowed then to be her knight in shining armor, to protect her no matter what.
Eventually she fell asleep, her breathing changing. He continued to draw those patterns, finding a strange sort of comfort in the motion even as he allowed himself to finally feel, to process her pain. The tears came, running over the sides of his face to pool in his ears. All he had ever wanted was a family, to have someone to call his own – all this time, he hadn't known she wanted the same thing. He hadn't known why they had clicked so well from the start. Now he understood and the knowledge shattered him inside. He would never let her feel unwanted again. He would save her.
