Q & A (Chapter 20: DARKNESS SETTLES IN) [entity]

The house felt like a mausoleum now, silent and deserted. It smelled stale and the keys falling from his hand clattered against the hardwood, loud and startling. He flinched, involuntarily, closing his eyes and counting to ten while the alarm system re-armed itself. He’d fled the city, suddenly claustrophobic after time spent in the gym. He’d switched his phone to silent mode but had left it on. If Sam and Jude wanted to find him, they could still track his location. Sev took a few shaky steps further into the living room. Eleven days had passed in the blink of an eye, not even two weeks since his universe had been turned upside down, his wife snatched by her psychopath father with nothing more than a taunting photo of her wedding rings as evidence of the crime.

In the morning he would be on another international flight, headed back to Japan to wrestle a quasi-rookie named Kenny Pryce.

The place was frozen in time, her favourite coffee mug still sitting on the coffee table, filled with a few inches of scummy water that was once that ginger tea that she had grown to love so much while pregnant.

A thousand shades of déjà vu crashed over him in varying waves and he sank down on the couch, immediately putting his throbbing head in his hands. He could hear his wife’s laughter, distant and playfully echoing, as if the walls had absorbed all the joy this place had contained and wished to play it back for him now. He had no memory of getting up, of making his way up that winding staircase to the kitchen but when the ice-cold glass of the vodka bottle met his hand, he came back to himself. The lid was already off, the thin metal crushed in his fist and jaggedly biting into his palm but the pain was galvanising. The white noise of the abyss was in his ears, drowning out the howling demons and he lifted the bottle to his lips, swallowing greedily as if it was the nectar of life rather than the cheapest escape imaginable. The darkness felt like it was closing in, settling around him and he welcomed that embrace because it was better than feeling weak, than feeling as though the world was spinning out of control and he was powerless to do a goddamned thing but watch it all burn.

He remembered another night like this, in that old apartment, exhausted from a long drive to the Hamptons and back. In the silence, he could still hear the cleverly disguised insults and scorn, picking apart everything that he treasured. Perhaps that had been the first trespass, daring to look that bastard in the eye and call him out on his bullshit. They had walked out, a united front against the toxic WASPs, ready to celebrate his future wife’s liberation. He should have fought then, should have buried his fist in that asshole’s face. Should have torn their expensive things to shreds and doused it all in gasoline. Instead he had fallen back into those docile patterns, being the bigger man. The supposed better man, rising above the gutter. He remembered the way she’d looked at him, the surprise when he’d downed half the bottle. He remembered her coming to join him in the shower, the way she’d sobbed and begged him to never leave. He’d made a promise, a vow that was now etched deep into his core, a raw and gaping wound that was slowly bleeding poison into his veins.

"I am not going anywhere. Ever. I promise you this."

He’d been pathetic, foolish to believe that he was untouchable and unstoppable simply because he had only lost a handful of matches since October. He had believed that the future was bright, that karma was going to repay those years of servitude by granting every one of his wishes. Instead, The Entity had crumbled in on itself – he felt a small measure of blame for that, for the personal choice that had led him to back out of the Midnight Massacre event. He had put all the eggs in the Excellence basket, approaching each match with the same level of focus. He had bested Joe Montuori, two of three falls at one of their biggest shows. He had gone toe-to-toe with the Aylas and not been pinned. He had seen a vacancy in IIW that had called to him, one that had felt like a bright neon SIGN from the universe. This was where he was meant to be, a place that embraced and celebrated him without stifling, without censorship. He had entered that tournament hoping for a championship. HJe had wanted that more than anything but the universe had other plans. He failed in the semi-finals against Mac Bane, against the man who would soon be facing Chris Page at the revival show in Vegas. He had expected to be kicked down to the bottom, to be shuffled with the scraps and third-string losers like he had been in PWE, despite beating almost every former champion from their first season. Instead the new card was announced and along with it a brand new championship.

LEGACY.

Another sign. Another moment to shine and this time he threw himself at it wholly, without an ounce of reservation. It was his biggest night of triumph in his entire career and there wasn't any joy in victory because the hatred was still there. Self-loathing still whispered treachery every night when he lay down to sleep. He had gone to Worlds Collide thinking it would kill him, that he would fail spectacularly. Instead he had been embraced, he had been welcomed to THE MECCA, embraced as an equal by legends in the business.

The bottle in his hand was empty now, dripping ice water down his arm to trace those tattooed veins. With a snarl, he hurled it into the corner and watched the damned thing explode, glass showering over everything. He was breathing hard now, heard a sound like a wounded animal and then realised it was coming from his own mouth. He clapped one hand over his mouth, pressing tight against his lips until he could feel his teeth cutting into his lips from the other side.

The silence still needed filling, lest he hear another echo.

Glass crunched underfoot like snow.

His palm was warm against the glass of the curio cabinet that held the replicas of his biggest victories. The dented nameplate from the 5BW Liberty Championship was there in front of the faux belt – it had been pried off the real one and discarded like trash after Diana Tremblay had kicked him in the dick to undermine that 183-day reign. He'd taken it on his way out the doors that night, knowing he'd never go back. It wasn't the loss of the first championship. It wasn't the fact that she had said he was “too ugly” to be taken seriously, to be any sort of locker room leader. It wasn’t that her words had echoed the things that PYRO had told him for years in an effort to keep him compliant.

No.

It was the silence again, the echo and the sickness and the loathing that was still there, still deep to his core.

Through every match in PWE, right up until he had lost to Mac Bane in IIW, it had been in his pocket. Nearly a year carted around as a good luck talisman – he'd forgotten all about it until his fingers closed over the cool metal. The edges were worn smooth, the surface scuffed from all the things that it had come into contact with since. He ran the edge of his nail over the engraved letters, comfort in that tactile reassurance.

He had told LJ that he wasn’t chasing fame or fortune, that he wasn’t looking for more golden glory.

He repeated the words now, as if he needed that reminder when he was spiralling so hard. “I want to leave something tangible behind. A legacy."

The only legacy he had now was violence, was pain and loss and anguish and he was screaming as he beat his fists against the cabinet, smashing the glass, tearing the room apart like a hurricane as the mementoes and accolades were scattered and smashed, spattered with blood. When it was done, when his voice was gone and the wracking sobs were nothing more than great shuddering and silent breaths, he fell to his knees amidst the chaos. He let the blood flow down his arms as he held his hands to the sky, opening himself up and letting the darkness come crashing in.

He couldn’t stand the silence any longer.

He couldn’t bear to be alone.