QUESTIONS & ANSWERS (Chapter 23: THE FOOL) [iiw finale]

QUESTIONS & ANSWERS (Chapter 23: THE FOOL) [iiw finale] Aug 10, 2023 23:47:57 GMT -5

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Post by Admin on Aug 10, 2023 23:47:57 GMT -5

I have watched you since the moment you arrived. THE FOOL, the loudest JESTER in a court of disappointment and mediocrity. Your two hand-picked opponents phoned it in, their names slipping my mind even before the match had begun. The writing was on the wall weeks ago, a foregone conclusion. I’m sure you will bitch and moan, questioning why I threw down my headset and walked away from the table in disgust before your hand was raised.

YOU KNOW WHY.

–quite sure the masses know, too. My distaste, my overwhelming DISGUST in the level of competition lately hasn’t been a secret. I am at the pinnacle of my career. This last year has been the culmination of years of hard work, the fabled oyster finally opening to reveal a precious gem. There’s a passage in the Bible that reads: “do not give dogs what is sacred; do not throw your pearls to pigs. If you do, they may trample them under their feet, and turn and tear you to pieces.” You do not understand the value. You want the spotlight. You CRAVE the attention with this immense PIGGY appetite but you wouldn’t know the first thing to do with it. You ruin things. You take and take, leaving things worse in your wake – you are UNWORTHY. My time is valuable. This is not recess, no fun and games.

MY LEGACY IS NOT A PLAYTHING.

This is no laughing matter, Johnny. And I know that you don’t care. You have no vested interest here. You never did. It was all a joke to you. This business. My life. My livelihood. You’ve made a mockery of everything I hold dear.

I AM NOT AMUSED.

I was hoping you would understand, that I wouldn’t have to bludgeon you until the simplest thought can be parked in that vacant lot inside your skull. Ah, who am I kidding? I am no liar. I WANT this. I want to break you because this is the culmination of months of frustration boiling over. I invested everything. Heart. Soul. Mind. Body. And for what? To wrestle whispers and ghosts? To face one worthless meat sack after another in a dizzying blur of broken bones and bloodied faces? Poor Kenny Pryce. Poor Matt Shepard. Poor Jay Vaughn. Will anyone mourn their passing? Better yet, will anyone mourn yours?

HERE YOU ARE WITH YOUR PLASTIC SWORD,
THINKING YOU ARE EQUIPPED TO SLAY THE BEAST?
IS THAT WHAT THEY TOLD YOU?

You are trash, the lowest common denominator. You haven’t earned a goddamned thing, the winner of this OPPORTUNITY simply by default because there wasn’t anybody left.

I hate to think of it in such fatalistic terms, but YOU are the reason this championship is MEANINGLESS. You were the final nail in the coffin. You, Johnny. You illiterate, miserable little WORM. This business would be better off without you in it.

THIS WORLD WOULD BE BETTER OFF.

━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━

Rock Hill, NY ||| July 23, 2023
(off camera)

Three weeks and three days had passed in the blink of an eye. Even now, her memories of the last month and a half were fragmented, weird and disjointed. A part of her knew that some things had been blocked out, her reality altered by whatever poisons her father had been pumping into her bloodstream during her captivity but she couldn’t help the guilt and shame that washed over her every time she felt her husband’s gaze on her.

LJ couldn’t bring herself to make eye contact with him and the longer the silence between them grew, the harder she found it to breach. He’d taken to sleeping in short shifts, either on the couch in their living room or in the chair that she had given him for a Christmas gift the year before that had become a cornerstone in their bedroom décor. Usually, it was piled with clothes, things that hadn’t quite made it home in the dresser drawers after laundry day.

She could hear his breathing change, deepening to almost snoring and she knew that if she made any sound, he’d wake in an instant and rush to her side. The vigil he’d been keeping must have been exhausting, taking a toll on his body even though he hadn’t uttered a single complaint. The chair was this oversized monstrosity, covered in aged brass buttons, almost a medieval throne for its size. She’d bought it on a whim because it reminded her of the boots and cloak he wore to the ring. It had cost a pretty penny but it was as comfortable as an upholstered brick. She hated it now, hated how foolish and childish she’d been to waste their hard-earned money on something so frivolous. Sev had never complained, had understood her inspiration and told her that he loved it more than once. He had always been full of those assurances and now that she looked back on it, she saw it in a whole other light. Was he just being nice because he felt obligated to? Had she trapped a good and loyal man because she’d been stupid enough to get pregnant? Was this just another toxic relationship just like what she’d had growing up, where she was desperate to win affection and favour no matter the cost?

He doesn’t love you. How could he?

That voice in her head sometimes sounded like Archer’s. Sometimes it sounded like her stepmother’s. These last few weeks, though, it had sounded suspiciously like her own.

LJ hadn’t said more than a handful of words since she’d been plucked from the basement that she’d accepted as her new reality, the place she’d been certain would be both prison and final resting place. Archer had convinced her that Sev wasn’t coming, had outright told her that the only man she’d ever loved had been happy to wash his hands of her. Archer had made sure she knew all about the bookings that he continued taking for IIW, as if that damned championship was everything. She knew how much it meant to him, to finally have a place where he felt celebrated, a place where he felt he truly belonged but Archer kept showing her clips, kept forcing her to read the tweets her husband usually made to hype up his appearances. At first she was looking for hidden messages, looking for something beyond the usual ominous declarations he was so wildly popular for. Maybe it was the drugs. Maybe it was the poison Archer kept pouring in her ears. Maybe it was nothing more than paranoia, but it felt like he was continuing on as though nothing in his life were out of place.

Now that she was home, she wanted to broach the subject – she wanted to ask him if he’d simply been trying to hide the truth from his fans while he was running around the world, revelling in bloodshed and violence or if she was truly that insignificant? That voice in the back of her head was relentless, telling her that SHE had made him weak, had done more of a disservice to him than PYRO ever had. Treading that lawful course had kept him from rising above the rest of the rabble. The proof was there, glaringly obvious. He’d beaten everyone who had crossed his path, growing more and more dominant with each match and she couldn’t help but see the truth: she’d been holding him back. When she was gone, he had been relentless and driven. He had been unhinged and unstoppable and she had felt such a surge of pride watching him in action, even as her father used the footage to twist the knife in deeper. The old anxieties bled out, filling her up inside and she started to question everything that had happened since they'd met, seeing it all in a different light. She knew all about the monster that lurked inside him, understood completely that when he spoke of chains and the freedom he’d found when they had been broken, he wasn’t waxing metaphorically. It was literal.

In the silence, she buried her face in the pillow and let the tears come again. They were hot, burning her already-raw cheeks. The urge to get a knife from the kitchen, to drag it across skin or plunge it deep was almost overwhelming but the fear of going too far kept that drawer closed, kept her wallowing in the dirty sheets.

They should be changed. You’re disgusting. Absolutely disgraceful. No wonder he can’t stand to be in the same room as you.

She hadn’t been able to keep anything down and every time she woke up from these blackout naps, she felt disoriented, soaked in sweat – the rational part of her mind knew that she was still going through withdrawals to whatever in the hell her father had been dosing her with. The cracks in her self-esteem and her psyche had been turned into sinkholes, though. Everything was falling in and that urge kept building. Picturing the line of red welling was so visceral that she could taste the copper in her mouth. She’d never been one of those emo kids, had always been too fearful to take those kinds of measures even though the urge wasn’t new. Being in that room had undone all the healing in an instant, had made her realize that what she thought was progress was nothing more than denial and delusion.

She’d developed other toxic habits over the years. Picking scabs. Pulling out hair. Picking apart the sleeves of sweatshirts and the hems of her jeans. Anything to pry off the lid and let the poisons out. Now the lids were off; the poison was the only thing left inside her and she was choking on it.

The chair her husband dozed in now was positioned outside the bedroom door – she had no idea when he’d moved it and wondered if that was for his sake or hers. Every one of the demons in her head were telling her that he was only doing what was expected because he was a good man, a soul far too kind for the world they found themselves in now.

The honeymoon’s over. The moment you’re truly on the mend, he’ll be out that door. You’re weak. Pathetic. Why would he want anything more to do with you?

Rejection was there in every action, in the fact that he’d stopped trying to engage her in conversation days ago. The silence was overwhelming, crushing her until she felt so small, so worthless and insignificant. She curled up into a ball, fingers grasping for the soft fur of the Jellycat fox that she’d taken from her daughter’s collection. It was usually propped between their pillows, a little beacon of hope that she’d latched onto even before their precious Lenore had entered the world. Tears soaked into the silky plush as she pressed her face into its belly, the crushing wave of self-loathing cresting overhead as those tears turned to silent sobs. Ugly, wracking ones that stole her breath, had her doubling over as her stomach cramped – she’d barely eaten in weeks. Her appetite was gone. Her desire to do anything was gone. Even her breast milk had dried up already and the urge to hold her daughter was non-existent.

She dozed for a while. Woke up from another nightmare that left her uneasy and her heart pounding. It was darker now. Probably after midnight. She had no idea because she’d unplugged the clock, sick of watching the numbers change.

She had no memory of getting out of bed but now she felt the cooler air in the kitchen on her clammy skin. She heard the soft hum of the fridge. The drawer opened, utterly silent and she ran the tip of her finger over the contents, shivering.

It wasn't silverware. In her disoriented state, she’d opened the other drawer, the one full of odds and ends. The steak knife found its way into her hand, as if it was drawn there by a powerful magnet and it was small enough for her to pull it out without entangling with the spatulas and oversized spoons, its serrated edge catching the ambient light from the clock on the stove. The wooden handle was chipped – it was one of the mismatched ones that had come from her husband’s bachelor pad, discarded along with the measuring spoons and other random utensils that rarely saw the light of day. She felt a strange kinship, felt like she understood the reason it was still here as she ran the pad of her thumb across the ridges. They didn’t break the skin, didn’t even leave a mark. The damned thing was too dull, just as worthless as she felt. The despair was a heavy weight on her shoulders, making her grip the knife tighter until the splintered wood of the handle bit into her palm. She might have done something irreversible then, but then she heard the floor creak behind her. Her breath caught in a startled gasp and she froze, guiltily opening her hand as shame washed over her. The knife fell, point-down, just missing her bare foot to lodge into the hardwood floor.

━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━

I was going to write something more, something earth-shakingly clever to completely eviscerate you. A part of me still wants to. A part of me wants to cave in your skull just to see if it's actually as empty as it seems. The other part, the rational part, knows it will be a waste of time. Congratulations, Johnny. You are the best of the worst. In two months, nobody will remember that you were the last body broken, the last miserable carcass laid across the altar, sacrificed to MY LEGACY.

With mere days left until IIW closes its doors for good, it feels to much like I'm beating my head against a brick wall. And for what? To prove to myself that I earned the championship that I had no idea even existed until the match for Worlds Collide was announced? To prove that I'm one of the best in this business right now, even though there are still thousands of wrestling fans out there who have never ever heard my name? Why should I care about any of this?

Why should I waste more of my valuable time? I have proven my worth. Everyone in this company knows my name and the roaches scatter when I enter the ring. You believe you are CLEVER. You think you hold all the cards because you watched a Vanilla Ice music video in 1997 and decided to make it your entire personality? You're just the idiot holding the fabled dead man's hand, hoping if you rub them hard enough, you can turn those eights into another pair of aces at MY EXPENSE. Maybe that works in those defunct dives you used to call home, but it doesn't work here. Not against someone like me.

You are not a CONTENDER. You're a mogwai being fed after midnight. You're not dangerous. You're just annoying. Loud. Messy.

CRINGEWORTHY.

MY LEGACY is not a cute little label you can slap on a bootleg shirt to peddle to your handful of fans. What began with my LIBERTY was strengthened with CRIMSON. I became MERCILESS.

UNSTOPPABLE. IMMOVABLE.
A LEGACY TO BE PROUD OF.

I do not need this belt to hold DOMINION over this business. The truth is apparent to me now that my eyes are open. I never needed any of this. No. IIW would have died the moment that World Championship landed around Montuori's waist if it wasn't for me putting asses in the seats week after week. To hell with MONDAY NIGHT MECCA.

MONSTER MACHINE MONDAY.

You know nothing about my journey. You know nothing about who I truly am. Oh, but I know you, Johnny. You are as deep as a mud puddle. Being weak, being worthless, being loud and obnoxious to cover those glaring flaws... this is who you are at the root of your being. It's as hard-wired as your blood type or your fucking eye colour.

You're a fraud, Johnny.

UTTERLY PATHETIC.

Or maybe I am just a worthless liar. I am just an imbecile — you know the song, don't you? Sure you do. All the cool kids know TOOL. And I quote it now because it's true. It's up to you to determine how much of this is true and how much is fiction. It's up to you to write the story YOU want to read in between these lines. I am done with spoon-feeding the truth to the masses who prefer ignorance.

TRUST ME.

—the only thing that makes me human is that I bleed. Other than that, we have NOTHING in common, you and I.

This is who I am.

And this is who you will NEVER be.

DO YOU SEE NOW?

After August 15, none of it really matters anymore. It's just leather and metal. The true definition, the SPIRIT and ESSENCE of MY LEGACY will live on beyond these walls. When the vermin scurries back into the shadows, I will still be here, lighting my path of destruction. The only thing that remains now is the dance. Dried blood. Broken bones. Shallow breaths. Pain and stars and black.

Infinity, Johnny. Are you ready for it all to end? Are you ready to meet your maker?

The sound of silence when I'm through with you will be glorious. Fucking MAGICAL.

BET THEY'LL THANK ME FOR THAT.

━E

━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━

Rock Hill, NY ||| July 24, 2023
(off camera)

His head was pounding, a double-bass metal breakdown in his brain that throbbed behind his eyes, radiating around to the back of his head with each beat of his heart. Pure exhaustion, most likely, but the intensity of the pain kept him grounded in reality. He hadn’t slept worth a shit in what felt like months – since December, really. The days had bled together, speeding worse once he’d returned from Japan on June 6 to find his world completely torn apart. The blows kept coming, as if the universe was playing karmic catch-up for some terrible thing that he hadn’t remembered doing. IIW had become that safety blanket, that stable thing he thought he could cling to with the bottom dropping out on everything else and now the curtain had been yanked aside. He could see reality, could see how he’d been manipulated from the first second he’d stepped through those doors. Montuori hadn’t wanted to surround himself with the best in the business. The praise felt false now, flat and insincere and the more he thought about it now, the more Sev was convinced that JMont had been trying to ensure his own longevity by keeping any potential challengers busy. It certainly made sense where Mac Bane was considered. And maybe Stone had been right, maybe that LEGACY CHAMPIONSHIP had actually been a gimmie created especially for him, a token to keep him preoccupied and away from the burning desire to up that record over JMont to 2-0.

Fucking hindsight.

Of course it was too good to be true, dummy. You think you’re ever going to hold a World Championship in this lifetime? Why would anyone waste the spotlight on you?

“Shut up,” he muttered, lifting his hands to rub his face. He dug his fingers into his forehead and temples, trying to massage the headache away. IIW was closing its doors and he couldn’t help but feel as though the blame rested solely on his shoulders. If he hadn’t run two outsiders out during the tournament, if he hadn’t run roughshod over everyone else they put in his path after Mac Bane. The sigh that passed his lips was bitter, to say the least. When his hands fell away, he realized they were still covered in dried blood. It had dripped down his arms, staining those tattooed veins darker – most of it wasn’t his although his knuckles were torn after tonight’s exertions. Anger tightened his jaw, making a muscle twitch there as he stared across the room. The heavy bag hanging from the ceiling still trembled slightly, the movement making those visceral smears on the bag catch the light. Sweat. Blood. Probably a mixture of both.

The soiled wraps were on the floor at his feet, the sloughed-off dead skin of the MONSTER. He rolled his shoulders, tilting his head from side to side, working the tension from his neck before pushing up to his feet. He snatched the bottle of water that was sitting on the table beside the weight bench, uncapping and pouring it over his face, letting some slip into his open mouth as he tilted his head back. His stomach gurgled in protest at the addition. His schedule was so far beyond fucked up at this point. He’d stopped preparing meals because he was sick of wasting food. The anger, the frustration, the worry for his wife’s mental health – they’d all robbed him of that usually healthy appetite.

He climbed the stairs slowly, hitting the rocker switch with his elbow on the way up before stepping into the kitchen. The crushed plastic bottle was in his fist, dribbling the last drops of water as he crossed the kitchen to drop it in the recycle bin. The bloody wrap was in his other hand and he tossed that in the kindling box with the past week’s junk mail and flyers. He’d burn it later, dispose of the evidence even though it wasn’t all that incriminating. Turning on the faucet, he cranked it as cold as it would go and picked up the bar of artisanal soap that his wife had bought online – it smelled like fizzy cherry soda, the fragrance quickly blotting out the coppery tang of the blood as he scrubbed it from his hands. His fingertips were already numb and he wasn’t sure if there was going to be any lasting damage or if it was just the exhaustion coupled with what he’d been up to for the past few hours. He knew eventually he was going to have to tell her the truth but even the thought of having that conversation right now just made him want to curl up and die.

What would she truly think if she knew what he’d been doing for the last few weeks? His desire for violence, that so-called LEGACY that he’d been happily shouting about online for months was all-consuming now. He was struggling to hide it, to keep her from seeing the true darkness that he’d lost the ability to cage. The chair was still in the hallway, angled so that he could see the bed reflected in the mirror. She hadn’t moved, still huddled up under the sheets and for a moment he paused in the doorway, overcome with the urge to go and shake her awake, if only to assure himself that she wasn’t a hallucination. As if she was aware of his presence, she shifted slightly, burrowing deeper into the cave of her pillows and duvet. He took that as a sign and turned away, feeling that old familiar ache back in his chest. The moment he sat down, his head lolled back against the oversized chair, exhaustion overcoming him.

He couldn’t have been out for more than fifteen minutes, twenty tops when he heard a rattle in the kitchen. Sev shot to his feet, adrenaline dumping into his bloodstream and he checked the bedroom reflexively even as he was starting towards the stairs – the bed was rumpled and empty, her duvet on the floor. He took the steps three at a time, surprisingly agile even though he felt halfway hungover. One step into the kitchen and he saw the knife in her hand. Heard her gasp when the floor creaked and he saw it fall in slow motion, holding his breath. In his mind, he saw it lodge itself in the top of her foot. Saw blood spurting and saw himself ministering to the wound, stitching it up himself the same way he’d done to his own war wounds over the years. The flash was quick, disorienting and then he saw the falling knife had missed and was sticking out of the hardwood floor, still quivering from the impact.

“Elle,” it was a rough whisper as he stepped in close to her, seeing the way she tensed involuntarily. He bent down, pulling the knife free and almost bashing his head on the open drawer when he straightened up. The frustration boiled over and he shoved it closed with a crash and a clatter, turning towards her with the knife still in his hand. “What…” he couldn’t make the words come out, struggling to make sense of what he’d just walked in on, “what is this?”

She was pale, her eyes wide and red-rimmed, the dark circles beneath so prominent they looked bruised. Her gaze locked on him but she said nothing and he could see everything in her eyes before they were averted. Pain. Sorrow. Shame. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering and shaking her head.

Realization hit him like a freight train, driving the wind from his lungs and he had to take a moment to steady himself. The knife almost fell from his numb fingers but he fumbled, caught it by the dull blade and curled his fist around it without thinking. He could see the tears rolling down her cheeks, could almost smell the fear coming off her and it broke his heart.

“You’re safe,” he said, knowing he’d assured her of this so many times that it was like the boy crying wolf – impossible to believe. “I have done what’s necessary. He will never bother–”

“Sev, your hand.” She cut him off, stepping closer to him, “it’s bleeding.”

He looked down, saw the blood dripping from his clenched fist where the knife had dug deep into the meat of his palm, spattering down on the floor and he realized he hadn’t felt a thing. She took his hand in hers, forcing his fingers open. The knife clattered in the sink and now he had déjà vu, watching more blood mingling with the water, swirling down the drain as she helped him wash the wound before wrapping one of the clean dish towels from the drawer around it.

“It’s deep,” she said, her fingers lightly dancing over his wrist now that she’d tied the towel into place. “We’ll need to stitch it up.”

“I’m fine,” Sev said, feeling the last of the barrier between them give way. He didn’t care about the blood or the wound or what it might mean if there was nerve damage because he couldn’t feel a goddamned thing. He lifted his good hand up, gently cupping her cheek as he stared into her eyes, feeling his own well with the tears that he’d refused to shed for weeks. “We will be okay.” It came out softly at first, tentative, as though he was still unsure. “We will be okay.” He said it again, with more conviction. “I am here, Elle,” the fact that he used her name carried weight, made it more of a vow, “no matter what. For better. For worse. Until death do we part.”

Her eyes closed and she took in a shuddering breath, biting her lip. When she didn’t pull away, he stepped in closer, wrapping both arms around her. The hug started gently but then she was pressed to his chest, her hands fisted in his shirt and he felt the warmth of her tears against his skin. They sank to the floor together and he pulled her into his lap, her tiny frame still enveloped in his embrace and they both wept, finding solace for the first time since her return. After a while, the tears abated but neither of them moved. They stayed like that, locked together until the sun came creeping over the horizon, flooding the room with the promise of a new day.

Sev opened his eyes then, pressing his lips to her forehead. There were a thousand things he wanted to say, to tell her. Instead he whispered one last promise, “we will fix this. You and I. Together.”